Grieving a God

When we practice generosity and forgiveness, we reflect the image of God.

–Mac Canoza

I was sitting on the toilet when I got the call from Ginny, my little sister.

“Dad’s gone,” she said as soon as I answered.

I put her on speaker phone while I finished my business.

“Gone where?” I asked.

“Gone, gone.”

I flushed, then washed my hands.

“Like dead, gone?”

“Yeah,” she whimpered.

“Why didn’t you just say, ‘Dad’s dead?’”

“Really, Tyler?” Ginny said. I could feel the daggers in her eyes through the phone.

“Sorry.”

“I know you and Dad were estranged, but I thought you’d want to know he’s gone, dead, and there will be a funeral service next Saturday at Christ the Redeemer.”

My body tensed at the mention of the church. It had been over twenty years since I’d been to my dad’s old parish.

“You still there?” Ginny asked.

“Yeah, thanks for letting me know. I’ll think about going,” I lied.

“Alright, love you, brother.”

“Yeah, love you too, Ginny.”

I hung up the phone and got back in bed.

“Who was that?” my wife Sasha asked.

“My sister. My father’s dead.” I rolled over to my side.

Sasha sat straight up. “Your dad died?! I’m so sorry, Ty! Are you going to the funeral?”

“Probably not.”

“You have to go. You’ll regret it if you don’t.”

I sat up, realizing I wasn’t going to get any more sleep.

“Why should I go pay homage to a man who made my childhood a living hell? I don’t think I can stomach hearing all the old church ladies gush about what a godly man Pastor Mark Jennings was. I heard that my whole life. Little did they know their precious pastor had a violent temper when he was done being ‘godly.’”

“No human is perfect.”

“I know, but most humans admit that. They don’t stand up in front of a congregation every week and pretend to be righteous.”

“People put religious leaders on pedestals.”

“Well, maybe religious leaders should step down from time to time and let their congregations know how human they really are, instead of letting people treat them like gods.”

“I still think you should go. It’ll be good closure.”

“Maybe.”

I thought about the word “closure” the rest of the day. There was only one way I could truly get closure. That’s when I had the idea. I would go to the funeral and tell the congregation what kind of man Pastor Mark Jennings really was.

________

I spent the week writing down everything I wanted and needed to say.

“You all knew Pastor Mark, the godly man; my family and I knew the deeply flawed man, Mark Jennings. You all praised him, which is why he loved spending time at the church; we lived in terror of him and his unpredictable mood swings.”

I made up my mind I would pull no punches.

“You all got to choose whether to believe in God, but it was forced on me and my siblings.”

I stayed up the whole night writing and reliving my childhood moments. Like the time we returned from a church service where my father preached on patience, only to hear him berate my mother as soon as we were home. Or the time he terrified my adopted brother Mateo so bad he peed his pants. Or the everyday criticisms that tore us down, the guilt trips, the manipulations that made us keep striving to be worthy of God.

The congregation knew none of this because we didn’t speak a word. We were afraid to. We didn’t want to impact the family business. We didn’t want to let God down. After years of therapy and distancing myself, I was done with God and I was done covering up my father’s hypocritical actions. It was time to set the record straight. It was time to tell the whole truth.

________

Sasha and I woke up early on Saturday to make the four hour trip from Baltimore to Richmond, where my parents had been ministers for nearly four decades. Besides a new education wing, Christ the Redeemer Church looked the same. The church, set up on a hill, looked down on the town literally and metaphorically. We were an hour early and the parking lot was already completely full. A few church members were directing traffic. We parked in the grass on the edge of the church property, next to a wooded area I used to hide in when I skipped Sunday school. Despite my covert tricks, I’d always get caught when the teacher told my father I had been missing. My punishment was usually a couple licks from a belt, or worse, folding five hundred bulletins for the church service the following week.

“You ready?” Sasha asked.

I stared off ahead, finding myself wanting to hide one more time in the sanctuary of trees.

“Yes, grab the umbrella.”

The sky was cloudy and gray, which matched my mood. I was glad it wasn’t sunny, knowing that one of the church people would inevitably say it was a sign of God’s favor or blessing.

As we walked across the parking lot to the church, I told my wife about a memory that came into my mind.

“He used to preach about death. He’d say, ‘Don’t grieve me when I’m gone. Don’t be sad, I’ll be in a better place. Don’t talk about the things I’ve done, talk about what God’s done through me. And after you’ve done that a little while, go into the fellowship hall and eat some potato salad for me.’”

“That’s funny, that man did like to eat.”

“Gluttony is a deadly sin,” I joked. “I guess it’s more socially acceptable than the others.”

“Tyler?” said a white-haired man exiting his car. “It’s Gene.”

Gene Donahue was one of my father’s past choir directors. From all signs, he was gay, but that was one of those things the church didn’t accept back then.

“Hi Gene,” I said, extending my hand before he had a chance to go in for a hug.

“I haven’t seen you since you left for college. How long has it been? Twenty years?”

“Something like that.”

“I was so sad to hear the news about Pastor Mark. He was a good man. His work on earth must have been complete.”

“Looks like we might get rain,” I said, changing the subject.

“Must be the angels in heaven grieving such a godly man.”

I cursed in my head.

“We’re gonna go inside,” I said.

“Sure, it’s really good to see you. Sorry for your loss.”

“He seemed nice,” Sasha said, after we walked away.

“He was nice, unfortunately he had to stay ‘in the closet’ because my father feared taking an affirming stance.”

“He didn’t seem bitter.”

“Internalized oppression.”

“Maybe Gene had a private life no one at church knew about.”

“My father did, so, it’s possible.”

We walked along the cracked sidewalk past the playground where I spent many hours waiting for my parents to finish talking to church members after services. I had my first kiss behind the slide with Tammy Henson. Tammy was very experienced. She learned about french kissing before anyone else did. Sadly, the Hensons were exiled from the church shortly after our makeout session. Not for Tammy kissing me, but because Mr. Henson exposed himself to a boy during Vacation Bible School.

“Are you actually here?” said a familiar voice. I turned to see Mateo with his thick black hair slicked back. He smiled, putting his adult braces and contagious smile on full display.

“Hey bro,” I said, returning his smile.

“Ginny said you weren’t coming,” he said.

“Miracles happen.”

“I didn’t think you believed in miracles anymore.”

“I don’t. My psychology profs in grad school helped me undo our father’s indoctrination, thankfully. Of all people, don’t tell me you still believe that stuff.”

“I do, actually. Hello, Sasha, good to see you again,” he said, giving her a side hug. “It’s been a long time since the wedding.”

“It’s good to see you, too. I wish we would have had more time to talk then. You’ll have to come visit us in Maryland some time.”

“I’d like that,” he said, turning back to me. “It’s going to mean a lot to Mom to see you here.”

Not after I get done saying my piece, I think.

“She’s not handling Dad’s passing very well.”

“She needs to have a little more faith,” I said, sarcastically.

Sasha squeezed my arm.

“Sorry, after years of having God stuffed down our throats, I think I have the right to be a little snarky. I don’t know how you do it, Mateo. You had it the worst. How were you able to give them a pass?”

“Perspective. However bad it was growing up here, and it was bad at times between the kids’ incessant teasing about my crooked teeth and Dad’s volatile behavior, it was still better than trying to survive a bloody civil war in Guatemala. They saved my life, and I’ll never be able to repay them for that.”

“I did some research on the adoption agency you came from. They reportedly preyed on poor families, paying them a pittance for their babies, then turning around and selling them to rich Americans for tens of thousands of dollars. It was quite the scam.”

“I’m aware of the claims. Mom says that happened in the early days before they adopted me. Things changed after dad started serving on their board.”

“Too bad they raised you to despise your own culture. They could at least have tried learning some Spanish words like Ginny and I did when you first arrived, instead of insisting you speak English at all times.”

“That helped me in the long run.”

“Come on, Mateo, why do you keep defending them?”

He looked down at his feet, then back up. “Because they defended me.”

“How did they defend you?”

Mateo’s shoulders hunched up, and his lips quivered. The happy, confident young man we had just been talking to transformed into the lost boy that my parents brought home from a country at war.

“What is it, Mateo?” I asked, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“They sent Mr. Henson away.”

Sasha put the pieces together before I did. Mateo had been the victim of Mr. Henson’s perversion.

“I’m so sorry, Mateo,” Sasha said. “That’s horrible what happened. Do you need to talk or do you just want to walk together a little bit?”

Even though I was the psychologist and Sasha was the financial planner, she was providing my brother more comfort than I was. She waved me off when Mateo chose to walk. I decided to go find Ginny.

________

Knowing my sister, I figured she was helping behind the scenes. After looking in the nursery and the narthex, I finally found her in the kitchen, scooping mayonnaise out of a jar with a spatula.

“Ty?” She dropped the spatula when she saw me. “I didn’t think—”

“I’m here to get some things off my chest. What are you doing?”

“I’m making potato salad. Dad used to say, after celebrating his life—”

“To go have some potato salad for me.”

“You remember?”

“Yes, I remember a lot from our childhood, unfortunately.”

The happy expression faded from Ginny’s face.

“What do you mean by ‘get things off your chest’?”

“You’ll see.”

“Whatever you are planning, don’t. It will break Mom’s heart.”

“I’m not the bad guy here. Father was.”

“Why does there have to be a bad guy?”

“There’s always a bad guy. Doesn’t the Bible teach that? There’s always a devil, a villain in every story sowing seeds of destruction. Father was the villain in my story.”

“Don’t be selfish. Mom and Dad sacrificed to build their legacy.”

“I know they did, they sacrificed us.”

“Is that what this is about? Is that why you’ve been estranged? You’re mad at Dad and Mom for paying more attention to church members than you?”

“I’m mad at a lot of things. I’m mad that Father acted so self-righteous when we knew who he really was. I’m mad that we were shrouded in silence for years. I’m mad that Mateo was raised to hate his own culture, and that he was taken from a war zone into a mind fuck. I’m mad that I still feel guilty for sleeping in on Sundays, like going to a middle class social club is supposed to somehow make us better people. I’m mad that Mateo still believes the indoctrination and you’re still serving church people who never gave a damn about us or what was going on at home.”

An older woman with a bad makeup job interrupted my rant.

“Oh, excuse me, I was looking for Ginny Jennings.”

“That’s me.”

“I just wanted to give my condolences for your loss. Pastor Mark was there for our family in our time of need. He was a true servant of God. You’re so lucky to have a father like him.”

The woman gave Ginny a hug. Ginny held her mayonnaise covered hands in the air until the woman was done squeezing. After the woman left, Ginny caught my eyes and said,

“Don’t say a word. I know what you’re thinking.”

“I know, because you’re thinking the same thing, you just won’t say it out loud.”

“What do you want me to say? That I’m bitter? That I have no right to be angry because church people think Dad was God incarnate?”

“Yes!”

“What good is that going to do? I know the truth, God knows the truth. That’s all that matters.”

“Don’t bring God into this. We were gaslighted by God our whole lives, taught to believe that we should be lucky to suffer, to take up our cross like good boys and girls, to serve church people no matter how awful they were. Our father cared more about what they thought of him than what his family thought of him. We were sacrifices on the altar of ministry, turned into martyrs in service of Pastor Mark’s ego.”

“That’s a pessimistic way to say it. We learned to serve humankind. Helping people is a good thing. That’s why you became a therapist and I went into teaching elementary kids and Mateo went into social work.”

She stirred a big bowl of potato salad, then placed it in the industrial-sized refrigerator full of more bowls of potato salad.

“Geez, how much potato salad did you make?”

“Enough to feed the multitudes.” Ginny looked at her watch. “It’s quarter til. We need to go.”

Before she left the kitchen, she turned suddenly, “Tyler, I don’t help people because Mom and Dad forced me to, or God demands it, or church people deserve it. I help because I like to help. For all his flaws, and there were many, I loved Dad. He helped a lot of people. I know you had a complex relationship with him, and I respect your choice to leave and take your own path. But you missed a lot. You didn’t see how he changed in later years. He was softer, more gentle. When he got sick, mom was overwhelmed so I went to all the doctor appointments, I coordinated the in-home care, and I was there when he said his last goodbyes. He apologized for how he treated us. He said his biggest regret in life was not spending more time with us when we were young. I know you don’t believe in God, or approve of their ministry, but there are hundreds, maybe thousands of people, who do.”

“We better go. We don’t want to be late,” I said.

Ginny rolled her eyes, then headed with me to the sanctuary for the funeral service. Sasha and Mateo were sitting in the front row next to my mom. When she saw me, she burst into tears. I knew she was probably thinking that the prodigal son had returned.

“Thank you for being here,” she whispered in my ear as she held me. I felt the eyes of the congregation on us, making me feel self-conscious, like I had felt every Sunday as a kid. We were always being watched, lauded as the perfect family. No wonder I had performance anxiety and a lifelong struggle with pleasing people. The scrutiny on pastor’s kids either made them rebel against the faith, like I did, or embrace the role, like Ginny.

“It would have made him so happy knowing you were here.”

“I didn’t come for him, I came for you and Ginny and Mateo.”

“I’m just glad you’re here.”

The organist began playing a hymn, so we took our seats. The closed casket sat in front of the altar. Large pictures of my father in his robe were setup on both sides.

Sasha grabbed my hand.

A choir sang “Amazing Grace,” one of my father’s favorites, and the young new pastor of Christ the Redeemer gave an enthusiastic eulogy, saying my father was “a spiritual giant,” “a pillar of the church,” and “a man after God’s own heart.”

I peered over to the other front row, where the pastor’s wife and two young kids were sitting. His son was playing with a toy car, driving it along his leg. His mother either didn’t see him or chose to ignore him. Another memory flashed in my mind. I was six, sitting in church, bored as usual, so I took a pencil and started drawing a vampire with blood dripping from his teeth. When my parents found the drawing, they were horrified, acting like I had become possessed by Satan. My mom took me to a child counselor. My parents thought the problem was with me, but the counselor didn’t treat me like the problem. They gave me space to express my feelings about being a pastor’s kid. While I wasn’t able to say everything that was going on in the house, it was the one safe space where I could give some voice to my experience. That’s why I became a therapist, I suppose. It’s why I work primarily with children and individuals who have experienced religious trauma.

“Are there any family members who would like to say a few words?” the pastor asked.

Mom and Ginny were crying, so they shook their heads. Mateo was too shy and insecure about his accent. I stood up, feeling the eyes on me once more. I walked up the steps onto the platform, feeling the warmth of the overhead spotlights on the top of my head. I sidestepped the casket, and the enlarged photo, then stood behind the pulpit, as I had done on several occasions when I was in high school. I ignored the anxiety rumbling in my chest just like I had done many times before. Pulling the notes out of my jacket pocket, I laid them down in front of me.

I took a deep breath, then glanced up onto the standing-room-only crowd gathered to grieve someone they believed had possessed godlike qualities. The majority of church people were crying. The ones that weren’t were staring up at me like hungry children in need of bread. My sister comforted my mom, and Sasha gently patted Mateo’s hand.

In all my visualizations of this moment, nothing prepared me for what I would actually feel. The anger, which burned like an eternal flame inside my soul, simmered, allowing another emotion to rise from the depths. The sadness caught me off guard. It wasn’t the same sadness of the crowd, or even of my family, it was a sadness for myself, a grief only a God could hold, if such a God existed. There was a cross on the opposite wall, underneath the Christ the Redeemer banner. I wondered how I had sat there so many Sundays without really grasping the profound depths of the suffering Christ.

“My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me.”

On the cross, a son lamented, grieving a God who had abandoned him, a father who gave him over to the untamed crowds. What kind of father would do that to their son?

A tear formed in the corner of my eye. I thought of my wife Sasha, only a couple of weeks pregnant, and the child in her womb. I wouldn’t do to him what was done to me, I wouldn’t subject him to the same pain I had endured, I wouldn’t crucify him for my own glory.

I adjusted the microphone and cleared my throat. The church people leaned forward, looking for some meaning in the tragedy, some hope in the face of death.

“I just came up here to tell you,” I said. “There will be potato salad in the fellowship hall.”

Shawn Casselberry sees the world through stories. He's written fiction and nonfiction books, including a sci-fi novel "The Hemingway Bible," a poetry chapbook called "Wound Man," and "Strange Fire," a collection of dark fiction stories. This story is from his most recent short story collection called "The Image of God: Short Stories on Being Human." Additionally, he's the co-founder/editor for Story Sanctum and lives in the Chicagoland area dreaming up new worlds. You can check out more of his writing at: www.shawncasselberry.com.

Photo credit: Kelly Wright via Ideogram and Canva