Darcey Steinke - Jesus Saves

“Same is true of the generic God. A few years ago I saw an interview with a famous movie star just before he died of cancer. When asked if he believed in God he answered, ‘Why yes I do. I believe someone is in charge of all this, he and or she or whatever rules over all things, I do believe there is a God.’ People all over the country were thinking at least he believes in God, at least he's going to heaven. But my dear friends, there's nothing further from the truth. People today are being deceived by this generic God. By saying I believe in God and thinking they are on their way to heaven, and that is an Absolute Lie.

“You've seen those commercials on television where some famous athlete gives an endorsement for a product. Now can you imagine if I did a commercial like that? ‘Hi, my name is Joe Shmoe, running back for the Virginia Vanguards. What do I eat before I go out on the field before the big game? I eat this.’” The man held the black-and-white box up and turned as if to speak with someone off-camera. ‘''What is this stuff? Does it have a name? No name? Oh.’” Then back to the congregation. ‘''I eat this cereal. It is cereal. And cereal's gotta be good for you so go out and buy some today.’

“Now would that make you go out and buy this product? Obviously I didn't even know anything about this product — it wasn't a part of me.

“The same holds true for a generic God. Ninety-seven percent of all Americans, according to a Gallup poll, say they believe in God. The Bible tells us God wrote into the heart of every person that he exists. Everybody knows there is a God. You see evidence of it all over the world. You can go into the darkest corner of the Amazon, where no man has ever gone, and you'll see something that represents God: a totem pole or a sacred rock. Climb the Himalayas, you'll see people falling down in front of a bronze, hand-crafted object, giving tribute to God. Everybody knows there's a God. The problem is not everyone knows the Real God. They know everything about God but they don't Know God. How about you, my friends? Do you know the real brand-name God? I know you sense his presence but do you know him ? There is a heaven- and-earth difference, my dear friends, between having knowledge of God and knowing God. And the consequences are exactly opposite.

“You know, earlier I tried to do a commercial for this generic cereal and failed. Why? Because I didn't know what it tasted like or anything about it. But if I were to do a commercial for this one" — he held up a box of Kellogg's Rice Krispies—"I grew up with this stuff. I've heard commercials about this ever since I was a little boy. I eat this stuff, not very often anymore, but I used to as a kid. Now, if I were to do a commercial on this, I think I could come across more convincing. And I'd be more prone to buy this cereal, because I know the product. It's a part of me.” The man bowed his head.

“Let us brand God's name into our hearts. God grant this for Jesus’ sake. May the peace of God that passes all understanding keep your hearts and minds in faith in Christ and Jesus. Let us stand before the altar and profess our faith. I believe in the living God, creator of all human kind, that creates the universe by power and love. I believe in Jesus Christ. . ”

Mrs. Mulhoffer turned to look at her husband and Ginger saw that her cheek was flushed, her eyes bright with enthusiasm. Mr. Mulhoffer nodded slightly to affirm her, but he disapproved of such shows of emotion and he straightened his shoulders and sat up taller against the pew. Tiny hairs stood up on the necks of all the middle-management men. And in the cry room their wives gazed dreamily at the Deerpath Creek pastor walking in long victorious strides back to his seat. He looked like the sensitive guy on their afternoon soap and he'd spoken their language, TV commercials, cereal, sports. The word pandering came to Ginger's mind.

Her father's eyes were closed, his shoulders hunched forward as if he were trying to protect himself from the words of the sermon. The organist started up with an unfamiliar tune, more like a pop song than a brooding Germanic ballad. The guest pastor smiled to himself and her father, turned his body, and glanced out the window at the blurry cars speeding away on the highway, her father's face set in a superior expression that even Ginger sometimes hated, the one he wore when he tried to explain that TV was bad for you, that reading was better than video games, and that Disneyland was purely for pagans.

The hunchbacked troll staggered in wearing a paisley shirt and a brown suede vest, smelling of crabgrass and wet fur. Nervously, he jiggled the cat's-eye marbles in his pocket as he leaned against the back wall and rooted around in the stack of dirty magazines. From a brown paper bag he pulled a tiny orange and peeled it with great reverence, lifting every last stringy ligament off the fruit. He offered her a wedge, pressed it between her chapped lips; his fingertips tasted of salt and smoke, and the orange so much like happiness that she started to cry. Anything could set her off now, birds tittering behind the boarded window or the sound of water rushing through the pipes in the wall. He stood over her and said he hated to see her so sad and would she like to hear his silly song, the one to the tune of “Twinkle Twinkle.” She nodded her head and the troll began to sing.

Swim Swim Sad little fish / How I hoped to make a wish.

That this girl will spit up gold / Into a dish or into a bowl.

Swim Swim Sad little fish / How I hoped to make a wish.

He used an outstretched pointer finger to conduct himself and giggled so hard afterward that his lips spread up and his weedy teeth showed. From the bottom of the bag, he pulled a pomegranate, broke the red leather skin, gobbled up a handful of crimson jewels, and spit the seeds into the carpet. He offered her a few of the bloody kernels, but she shook her head and lifted the afghan up to her nose; static like crazed punctuation flew out of the blanket's wool weave.

She'd shown her brother how to make sparks between the blanket and the sheet, told him she was a witch, that she could do other tricks, make a tiger appear on the living-room couch or a dolphin leap out of the bathtub. She could fly out the window if she wanted, all the way to China. One day, when their mother was gone, she promised to show him how to levitate his cereal bowl, how to get a ghost to make his bed.

The bear claimed to be a warlock. If you had a headache, you could call him and he'd put a clove of garlic into a silver bowl of olive oil and say a prayer to Saint Teresa of the Little Flowers. He didn't want any payment, only a little respect, and he did this for her daily because she always had a headache and a sore throat and a runny nose. But the bear wouldn't listen, just shook his head and explained about the pink room upstairs where lavender clouds moved lazily along, and the unicorn waited, watching over the little girl who French kissed her pillow every single night. There, he said, a thousand butterflies sang a song about angels and rosebud bedspreads as they swayed in unison over a rippling lake, and a white pony with a pink mane and eyelashes long and black as a movie star's drank, and the blue unicorn, its horn made of crystal, ran through the shallows, sending up sprays that sparkled like diamonds.

“Your old dad is going to teach you about the birds and the bees,” the troll said, tapping his forefinger against her knuckles, trying to get her to hold his fingers like a baby, his mouth fixed into a stiff smile, as if he'd only seen the facial expressions of people on TV. “Hey dolly. Hey cutie pie,” he said as he stroked the skin of her cheek, told her she smelled like butter, that her skin drove him insane. Tears glazed his gray eyes and he looked up into the ceiling and whispered, “Little baby girl.”