The Subtle Art of Wasting Faith

*actual title is: The Head That Once Was Crowned With Thorns

CONTENT WARNING: religion, atheism, church, mental illness, suicide/death, psych ward, hospitalization etc.

if you're sensitive to these topics you ought to skip this one.

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The cold is prickling at my skin and I'm running away, because if I don't think about it it doesn't exist right?

Just like that, the words pop into my head again and I'm pushing them so far away, locking them in a deep dark box and packing it up with all the other boxes in the dusty, cobwebbed attic. See, I have these chests, whenever I don't want to think about something, I put it in the box and keep it far away.

I think about the snow. It was snowing yesterday and I hated it because JJ hates the snow and she always complains about it all day and now everytime I see the clouds gathering I get annoyed because I just know that I'll come home to her incessant ramblings.

I'm running past the church now and the stained glass windows are flickering. Probably from the lit candles they use. I always liked the flicker of candles.

I slow down a bit, just cause the glass is kind of nice to look at.

But stained glass is wasted on churches.

Ha. Now you're probably thinking about how that's kind of offensive, blasphemous, if you wanna talk in the language of his savior, lord of all holiness. You know, that kind of bullshit. I'll tell you now, I couldn't care less about Jesus and God and their glorified myths.

Anyway though, I was looking at this beautiful, wasted display of color, the nativity scene, I think, and I stepped closer to it, cause I figured why not, you know? It is someone's art and they deserve the praise, cause they probably worked damn hard on it.

The detail is remarkable and the cold is still beating down on me so I figure there's no harm in warming myself up for a minute or two.

The doors are heavy--like the church across the country that my dad used to insist on taking me to.

But that was before he killed himself.

I laugh even though it's not funny.

I am a horrible person.

That stupid laugh echoes back at me from the empty cathedral ceiling.

The pews are set up as they are in all the churches. I'm distracting myself because if I don't think about it it doesn't exist.

I used to read Harry Potter in church.

God, did Dad hate that. My sisters tried doing it too but when he asked them to stop they did.

I didn't. Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. That's the one I remember most vividly. The cover was brilliant green and I rested my knees on the little pocket they kept the bibles in and sat next to the aisle and my Dad hated it because everyone could see.

This is how I figure it. The bible is just another story right? So why not read something I'm actually interested in? Wouldn't want to waste any time doing something I don't want to do.

I found this a very reasonable outlook. He did not agree.

Well. Let everyone else drown in the sermon and the monotonous absurdity of J-Dawg and his big promotion. Have fun losers. I'm going to swim in those stories, in the deep absurdity of a world full of magic and adventure.

Still, I always went to sleep that Sunday night contemplating the existence of God; another myth that everyone seems to believe.

Should I be thinking this? Probably not.

I decide I don't care. If someone smites me into oblivion, I won't be all that upset. And, hey, I figure, if Hell exists, I'll be going there already, why not earn it?

I laugh because I am a horrible person.

I wonder if my father is in heaven.

He's not. I know that. Any given idea of the afterlife is a fairytale to comfort the dying.

We came from nothing, and if you ask me, that's where we're all going. I still believe in ghosts, though, if you were wondering. It's all about the energy, how it's never destroyed or lost or whatever scientists say. I never was a science wizz.

If the afterlife exists, though, would Dad get into Heaven? I mean, he repented his sins, prayed every day. But I guess suicide is a sin too so he wouldn't be allowed afterall.

Wow. He would hate that.

Would've hated it.

I'll have to correct myself a lot, I think.

Well. By now I've taken in enough of the windows and the feeling has returned to my hands, so I turn around and head back to those massive doors.

There's a guy behind me who wasn't there before.

"Welcome to the House of Our Savior, son."

He bows to me. Ridiculous.

He dresses like a priest, if slightly dirty robes, but something about him screams that non-religious type, you know?

I give him a dumb ass wave like a fucking idiot.

"I was just leaving, Father." I add that end bit. I mean, I'm an atheist and a notorious pessimist, not a brat. People can believe what they want for all I care. The least I can do is respect it.

He smiles serenely. "You look like someone who has something they want to say."

I don't know what the look on my face is, but my mouth is open like I actually have an answer to a statement like that.

Words that live in my head are ones I can never actually speak.

My therapist always calls me quiet. But I think saying the words would make them real. I think saying them would make me cry and I can't risk that kind of vulnerability, not with anyone.

You're probably thinking about how unhealthy that is. I decided a long time ago that I don't care; if you don't think about it, it doesn't exist.

Besides, I doubt I could get the words out even if I tried. Even if I wanted to try.

I am suddenly so mad and I can't stop it.

"Yeah? Tell me about your so-called Savior. Why is he such a jackass? Enlighten me."

The words bring out a smirk that I can't hide and they're rough and rude and angry.

Who's the jackass now?

I think it but I don't say it and he tilts his head in a bow--again--and it's still ridiculous.

"The Lord works in mysterious ways, child. He has a plan for all of us."

I laugh in my head. Destiny is a scam. Fate is bullshit. Nothing happens for a reason; everything just fucking happens and you can't change anything or do anything about it.

I am still so angry.

The priest looks at me with hidden pity and open worry and I look away because I can't meet his eyes; I fix my own on the rumbled clothes that are almost too big for him and keep dragging on the floor.

I guess he can recognize the faithless, though--maybe something about being a man of the exact opposite or some shit like that.

"The world is a miserable place, I will give you that. But faith is the key. Faith that things can get better. Faith that someone is watching over you, even in the smallest ways."

I blurt the words without thinking about them first. Even the barrier doesn't catch the slip.

"Yeah? So where does the Lord get off in taking my father? What right does he have to decide who lives and dies?"

The priest dips his head in solemn understanding.

"The Lord will care for him, son, he is in a better place."

I roll my eyes as subtly as I can. I'm trying not to let the tears fall.

"How would you know that? Heaven is a scam. A comfort to the dying."

I can't believe those words left my mouth, but he just gives me this look of soft pity.

"The Lord and I are very close, son."

I try not to glare at him and fail miserably.

He doesn't seem to notice.

"Faith favors those who have it."

And then he grabs my hand and his is dirty and deathly pale, but it's warm and I don't pull away immediately.

He meets my eyes.

"Have faith, son."

He turns to the altar, walking down the aisle leisurely, with a lightness I have never seen.

Faith. I wonder what that would be like.

I turn back to him; words about faith echoing faintly in my head.

"Tell your boss to make sure my father is in heaven, would you?"

He doesn't turn around and it's not long before I'm slipping through the door, cold hitting me in needles and snowflakes.

I keep my memory chest closed. Instead I think about how it would feel to truly believe in something.

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When I pass the church on my way back the idea of faith is still confusing me. But the chest of thoughts is stowed away in the attic of my mind and that brings relief because if I don't think about them they don't exist.

The ludacris prospect of faith drains away as I catch sight of him again.

And it's not funny but I still laugh.

I am still a horrible person.

The priest is singing to the sky, his eyes closed; snow sticks to his clothes and his hair and as I move toward him, the song gets louder and louder.

“To whom He manifests His love and grants His name to know.” I watch him scramble to turn around, his hand seems beyond the cold when he draws a long line in the snow before turning his back again and returning to his song.

“To the cross with all its shame.”

I watch him draw a short line over the long one, then turn back to the sky. “The cross He bore is life and health.”

A deeply buried chest stashed in the back of my mental attic bears its ugly teeth, memories playing through on every surface.

I know damn well what it's like when your brain fucks you over.

I almost laugh because now I'm thinking about the psych ward and how they never let us close our doors all the way because a girl once tried to strangle herself with the Subway bag her visiting parents had brought her food in.

I almost laugh because I'm thinking about how they wouldn't let us have pens or pencils unsupervised because we might stab ourselves.

I'm thinking about the day Sarah came into the community room with her wrists wrapped in gauze. About how she slashed them with a pottery tool stolen from our sorry excuse of an art room.

I shake my head but my head doesn't move. I am just as lost as he is.

“Though shame and death to Him.” He crosses himself with a hand and bows his head, expectant.

Thunder doesn't strike the ground.

No mystic voice appears in the sky.

The snow falls the same as it did moments before.

He turns to me with glittering eyes, far away, tears spill down his cheeks; he looks away just as quickly. I am unseen to him.

His eyes are fixed on the cross as it fills again with snow; he addresses it as he had me—as he would the faithless.

"His people's Hope, His people's Wealth, their everlasting Theme!"

Nothing happens.

His singing drowns out the further I get.

God, with his Heaven and Hell. And Jesus, the almighty son.

Yeah. Their holy myths and bullshit legends can fuck right off.