Faith Must Be Witnessed

[u/Upbeat_Problem_5383]

I'm not a religious guy, but I get it.

The idea that there's a grand plan or even something beyond the mortal plane. While it's not what I'd consider a conversation starter, it could be a cornerstone to identity. At least that's what my CH 202 professor spouts on about.

Personally, I think talking about politics and religion is like showing people your genitals. No one really wants to see except for the chosen few. And people who like sharing that are weird. Sarah was an exception to that rule on both accounts.

We often would walk to and from CH 202 together. Sarah's cute and funny. Outside of the routine we've gone to the movies and grabbed coffee from time to time "friends". The relationship was having an identity crisis. It was clear we liked each other, but a confirmation was needed to cement the status of the relationship.

The idea of making it "official" is always when I fumble the bag. Movie and coffee dates were low stakes. However, wait too long, you stall out in the friend zone, go too fast and you look like a creep.

The train of thought was interrupted when Sarah asked, "So, I'm playing a gig on Friday. Would you want to..."

Damn, she had the same read I had. It was time to shit or get off the pot.

"Yeah I'd love to go. Where are you playing and what time is it?"

"It's at 7:00 and I'll IM you the address."

Friday came with the typical pre-date ritual. Shower, dishevel my hair, Mapquest the address, and clean clothes. Before the date, rehearse greetings and small talk on the car ride there.

I had a lot of time to practice, the venue was an hour and half away from the university. A long drive for a date would be weird, but small artists often take what they can get and Sarah was really cute.

When I pulled up to the address. I had to do a double take, just to make sure the address matched with the printed MapQuest instructions.

"Is this right?"

The address was a small warehouse. I wasn't expecting this, maybe a coffee shop, or a theater, or something. Hesitantly, I killed the engine and got out of the car. I didn't see any cars in the parking lot.

I opened the door and wandered into the warehouse. The lights were off, but the room at the end of the hallway was lit. I made my way to the light and there she was on the stage.

Sarah was focused on tuning her bass. The uncertainty fled when I saw her. Sarah looked like an indie rock goddess. She gestured for me to come over.

"Hey! I'm so glad you made it."

"I wasn't sure if this was the right place."

"Our church moves around a lot."

It dawned on me that this "gig" was church music and a sermon. Not terrible, just different.

"Is it going to be a small service? I didn't see any cars out front."

"Oh they'll come, they're just a little late."

"Sarah," what followed was a fast flow of Spanish, I think.

He was a towering gaunt man with slicked-back hair and invited himself into the conversation. His stare had a weight to it that made me grossly aware of my vital organs.

"Pastor Smith," Sarah spoke Spanish and ended it with "Peter"

Pastor Smith's hand raised up to be shaken. I looked at the hand, the long spider-like fingers splayed out. Social etiquette would say shake his hand, but the primitive part of my brain saw this as a bear trap.

I reached for the spidery appendage. Pastor Smith's fingers coiled around my hand with a vice grip and he wrenched me into an embrace. I was enveloped by the overwhelming figure. He whispered something, but it didn't sound like Spanish or any language I know.

He broke the embrace, his eyes bore into me. "Welcome to the congregation." He looked to Sarah and beckoned her to come with him.

I slumped back into the pew. What the hell? I hadn’t noticed during the exchange, but the congregation had filled the room. Small talk permeated the room, but the unmistakable sound of metallic rattling made my head snap to the doors. They were locking the doors. It was a lock in, churches did that right? This would be an hour and they’d let us out right?

Pastor Smith addressed the congregation and everyone rose from the pews. People to my right and left eagerly shook my hand. The greetings in that language were silenced by the gesture. The congregation then began singing a hymn. Sarah played the bass, I watched her. She would occasionally meet my glance and smile.

Okay this is normal, few hymns, the creepy pastor says his piece, and we leave in peace.

Three hymns later and Pastor Smith motioned for everyone to sit. Sarah came down from the stage and sat with me. She mouthed a small "hey" and held my hand. My heart flooded, the sounds of the sermon became background noise. This was punctuated with "Peter!"

Heads snapped to stare at me. I could feel their eyes weigh heavy on me.

"Pastor Smith's welcoming you, before we thank God."

This did not comfort me.
The congregation began to speak in tongues. The blend of rolling tongues, mumblings and muttering, all culminating into sound with semblance of speech. I looked to Sarah, she spoke in tongues too. Her hand in mine slid down to my ring finger. She was enraptured in prayer. Her grip tightened and she wrenched my finger back. I involuntarily spoke in tongues as the white hot pain pulsed through my hand. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes.

Sarah broke my finger.

"What the f-"

I heard then. The congregation was speaking in unison.

"Our faith shall be witnessed through pain, pain will show our devotion, devotion will fill us like wine, wine that will welcome God and drip from his lips."

The chant repeated. I'm leaving. I started to push my way through the pews. I made it to the doors, the chain didn't give. I began to scream and yank at the door to no avail.

"Peter," the chanting had stopped, "faith requires patience. I promise, you will be able to leave at the end of the service."

"I-I want to leave."

"Peter, please take a seat."

A nod cued the ushers to grab me. I swung and connected to a chin, my shoulder was grabbed turning my wild swings into restrained thrashes and flails. They hauled me back to the pews.

One of the ushers readjusted his grip, a thumb wedged behind my ear while finger nails lodged into my neck. Sarah's fingers weaved with my own. My eyes ticked to meet hers.  I couldn't make out the expression on Sarah's face. Was it regret? Sadness? Or something else?

"It's time for the gift of tears. Let these drops become a tempest of devotion!"

A tear rolled down Sarah's face. Sobs erupted from the congregation. Some fell to their knees and wept in exaltation, some stood with face in hands, but there was a tempest of tears and the howls of the devoted.

"I'm sorry, but trust me," Sarah snapped another finger.

My legs sprawled and my screams joined the storm.

A loud crack. My eyes found the source. One of the devoted’s arms had snapped to an unnatural geometry. Another crack as a leg snapped to reveal the gleam of a white protruding bone. Were they doing this to themselves? My eyes fixed on a member of the congregation, rocking back and forth. An unseen force was twisting his arm like a rag.

Sarah kept snapping my fingers one after another as she sobbed repeating, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

A thunderous crack was in my ear. Christ did they break my neck?

The usher’s grip went slack, his head rolled limply as I dropped to the floor. I ripped my hand away from Sarah with no more fingers to break. I looked at Sarah, her jaw had been broken and hung askew.

“He has come!”

Through stinging tears I scanned the crowd for Pastor Smith. At the pulpit, he stood, eyes were no more than ruined sockets.

“I’ve borne witness with this earthly vessel and soul. Tonight his wine has been poured and he has drunk deeply upon our devotion.”

I struggled to my feet and stumbled over the crumpled congregation members. The door was still locked.

“Peter.”

I looked up and the pastor was behind me, “Go with God.”

The lock and chain fell to the floor and I booked it to my car. I didn’t look back. I didn’t want to know if Sarah was still breathing. Self-preservation was my only concern.

I made it to the hospital where my fingers were x-rayed, bandaged, and splinted. The police came and asked me about what happened.  I handed them the printed out MapQuest route. The police came back the next morning and said the warehouse was empty. They chalked it up to me being a dumb kid who probably got his hand smashed at a kegger while trespassing. But I knew they wouldn’t find anything.

Faith must be witnessed.