Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > But No One Sees the Gnashing Teeth of My Heart [Frerard]
By a quarter after six everyone is ready and leaving the house. I slide into the back seat and wait for the quarreling between my parents to start the evening off right. Of course I don't have to wait too long; before our car has even left the driveway the two of them are bickering about why no one checked the mail today while simultaneously fighting over why my mother didn't bring my dad a water bottle for choir.
The drive to Church is boring without my iPod; instead of my usual Metal-to-sooth-the-soul, I was privileged with the sound of fanatical Christian music blasting out of the speakers just as loud and intrusive as it could go. Every singer and instrument glorifying God and all of his majesty; making a spectacle of their worship and trying to save souls. The movement of my parents in the front seat is definitely unnerving to say the least. In their seats, they're moving around, lifting hands; pretty much busting any dance move one could be capable of while sitting down.
I turn my head in disgust and watch the world flying by outside of the window. I observe the gentle scenery and take in how the area is changing with the hint of Winter just around the corner. Thankfully, this distraction has kept me from going insane and within seemingly seconds, we arrive at the Church doors, waiting to walk in along with the rest of the congregation.
"Good evening." rings throughout the rafters. Everyone's attention is immediately placed on the announcer standing at the pulpit. He opens his evening bulletin and begins listing off about five different Church events. None of which are much paid attention to by the majority of the audience. A few minutes pass by as Brother Jordan finishes his speech on World Ministries Donations and conducts the offering. The ushers all stand by and the grey-headed man on the far right calls out a loud prayer, wishing God's blessing on the offering the Church is about to receive.
With the tithe and offering comes the first song. My father's voice is the male lead and accompanies our Pastor's wife. Her screech carries through the sanctuary, letting everyone know of God's grace and plan for our lives. They try to out-sing one another while the piano competes for the spotlight. Nothing is in sync for they haven't practiced this time around, and everyone's ears are suffering for it.
Of course, their difficulties definitely don't stop them from proceeding. Ten minutes and three songs later and every last person on stage is lifting their hands, screaming "Jesus!" at the top of their lungs. I hear a couple behind me chanting a mantra of praise and three middle-aged men on the right singing in tongues. Group prayer starts to commence; people are forming small clusters and sharing testimonies.
Admittedly, the entire affair is enough to scare even the strongest of outsiders, but the progression of tonight's service is still mesmerizing to many. I watch the veins on our Minister's head pop to the surface and pulse as he makes the altar call and waits for his sheep to come to him. Within moments, his hands are plastered to the forehead of a newcomer; his skin slathered with oil crosses and their body shaking from the power our Pastor possesses.
"Now Anthony, when I finish this prayer, you'll be touched with the Holy Spirit. You won't have to understand what's going on, all I ask is that you let go and allow God to control your life." Pastor Thompson speaks, loud enough to grab the attention of many. Anthony looks to only be about five years older than I am, but his expression resembles that of a scared child. He slowly nods and braces himself for what he knows will come, and everyone who isn't stuck inside of a trance of their own is watching in anticipation for Anthony's spiritual baptism.
After the yelling and ordering of the enemy to leave such a holy place, Brother Thompson lifts is head and hands and shouts for God to bring his anointing. Immediately, Anthony falls backwards to the ground like his bones have been injected with putty. Three men standing by are well-prepared to catch him and bring him down to the floor with ease, covering him with prayer cloths and waiting for the Lord to be done with him. The same goes for about five or six others, and all the while I notice I've hardly blinked. That's why, when Sister Lisa sits down next to me on the otherwise vacant pew, I'm a bit surprised and at a loss for words.
"Hello Frank." she says over the noise. I quickly search her face and realize she's here on a mission. I visibly submit and whisper a friendly "Hi" back.
"I'd like to pray for you, if you don't mind. I just know God's got his hands on your life, and he needs you to be willing to follow him." she states, her voice thick with tears. I simply nod and wait for her to begin, only so I can count down the seconds until she's finished.
"Father God, I ask that you bring Frank a peace he's never known. Wash him clean with your blood and fill him up with such potential. Jesus, just let this young man know how very much you love him, and how special he is. I pray you feed his spirit and keep him off the path of unrighteousness. In Jesus' name, Amen." Ms. Lisa says. Slowly her hands retract from my shoulders and her eyes open and widen. She knows I haven't closed my eyes throughout her generous prayer, and I see the respect she once held for me start to disappear.
I quickly thank her for her time, only to receive a small nod in return. Just as she rises to leave, I think she's going to change her mind and start to talk with me, but am proven wrong when her legs begin to take her away. "You're welcome." she speaks, dignified in her faith and pompous once again. I grow disgusted and dismayed by how suddenly she's changed her views, and decide I'm better off without her and her prayer.
Quickly, the babbling and singing of praise starts to sound throughout the room again. I'm no longer side-tracked with Ms. Lisa and subjected to the room's noise level again. Quietly, I wait. Wait for them to just stop. Wait for a healthy dose of reality to come crashing their way. Every ounce of will inside of me urges my body to get up and leave. I can hardly take it inside of this room. The harsh lighting and odor of olive oil take over my senses. The sanctuary seems half its size and I squirm in my seat. Finally, when I feel the service is coming to a close, I'm able to take my first deep breath of the night. Ironically, I find myself thanking God for putting a temporary stop to the chaos. People settle down and families begin to leave. I know my family and I won't be going home for a while longer when my mother takes a seat next to a group of women in her weekly exercise group.
Waiting for my mother to finish talking is like waiting for the afternoon when you've woken up too early and can't go back to sleep. It's a seemingly never-ending process of sitting, getting up to check if she's ready to go, only to be shot down and forced to go back to your seat. I've learned it's best to just let her finish, though it's yet to become any less of an annoyance.
"Dad?" I whisper when I see he's not caught up in a conversation of his own. An expression of grief flashes across his face and I wait for him to acknowledge my existence.
"Yes, son?" he says, full of self-righteousness and seniority.
"Do you think you could get mom to come on?" I ask, knowing already what his answer will be.
"Franklin, your mother has a mind of her own. She'll come when she's ready to, and there's nothing I can say to change her mind." my dad says, raising his voice slightly and embarrassing me with the way he feels compelled to talk down to me like I'm a five year old with little brain capacity. All of this bullshit he feeds our family about him holding the rightful place as High Priest of the house is seriously a massive lie on his part. In truth, my mother always makes the decisions, and he's not alert enough to pass judgement or say otherwise.
"Fine." I whisper, taking my seat three rows back. Noticing how most everyone but the Pastor himself has left, I roll my eyes and simply wait. Nearly half an hour later, my mother's been ushered to the door and practically pushed the rest of the way. We file into the car once again, almost as if it's a sense of both deja vu and a glimpse into tomorrow night.
"So, what did you learn tonight, honey?" my mother asks, directing her gaze at me for the first time since we arrived tonight.
"I don't know." I say, shrugging and hoping she won't persist.
"Oh come on, you're bound to have been enlightened some how. Why don't you just think about it. I'll ask again when we get home. I think you, your father and I are going to start having nightly devotions like we did when you were a little boy." her stupid grin making the statement only that much more detestable. I fight the urge to vomit and clench my fists quite tightly; feeling my trimmed nails sink lightly into the pad of skin that makes up my palm.
If only they knew how painful it is to watch every last member of this church receive a message or promise from the Lord. If only I could still believe that such a possibility even existed. I try so desperately to hear what the Preacher has to say, but all I can think about is my music and the fast drumming of my heart when he mentions the end of the world. I've not taken away a single moral from his stories, nor have I developed a nice relationship with God through his teachings. Maybe one day, some of this will change. Maybe a day will come when the appeal of this kind of lifestyle shows itself. Maybe there'll be a time when I'm not made to feel like such a disrespectful sinner every time I walk down the aisle.
The drive to Church is boring without my iPod; instead of my usual Metal-to-sooth-the-soul, I was privileged with the sound of fanatical Christian music blasting out of the speakers just as loud and intrusive as it could go. Every singer and instrument glorifying God and all of his majesty; making a spectacle of their worship and trying to save souls. The movement of my parents in the front seat is definitely unnerving to say the least. In their seats, they're moving around, lifting hands; pretty much busting any dance move one could be capable of while sitting down.
I turn my head in disgust and watch the world flying by outside of the window. I observe the gentle scenery and take in how the area is changing with the hint of Winter just around the corner. Thankfully, this distraction has kept me from going insane and within seemingly seconds, we arrive at the Church doors, waiting to walk in along with the rest of the congregation.
"Good evening." rings throughout the rafters. Everyone's attention is immediately placed on the announcer standing at the pulpit. He opens his evening bulletin and begins listing off about five different Church events. None of which are much paid attention to by the majority of the audience. A few minutes pass by as Brother Jordan finishes his speech on World Ministries Donations and conducts the offering. The ushers all stand by and the grey-headed man on the far right calls out a loud prayer, wishing God's blessing on the offering the Church is about to receive.
With the tithe and offering comes the first song. My father's voice is the male lead and accompanies our Pastor's wife. Her screech carries through the sanctuary, letting everyone know of God's grace and plan for our lives. They try to out-sing one another while the piano competes for the spotlight. Nothing is in sync for they haven't practiced this time around, and everyone's ears are suffering for it.
Of course, their difficulties definitely don't stop them from proceeding. Ten minutes and three songs later and every last person on stage is lifting their hands, screaming "Jesus!" at the top of their lungs. I hear a couple behind me chanting a mantra of praise and three middle-aged men on the right singing in tongues. Group prayer starts to commence; people are forming small clusters and sharing testimonies.
Admittedly, the entire affair is enough to scare even the strongest of outsiders, but the progression of tonight's service is still mesmerizing to many. I watch the veins on our Minister's head pop to the surface and pulse as he makes the altar call and waits for his sheep to come to him. Within moments, his hands are plastered to the forehead of a newcomer; his skin slathered with oil crosses and their body shaking from the power our Pastor possesses.
"Now Anthony, when I finish this prayer, you'll be touched with the Holy Spirit. You won't have to understand what's going on, all I ask is that you let go and allow God to control your life." Pastor Thompson speaks, loud enough to grab the attention of many. Anthony looks to only be about five years older than I am, but his expression resembles that of a scared child. He slowly nods and braces himself for what he knows will come, and everyone who isn't stuck inside of a trance of their own is watching in anticipation for Anthony's spiritual baptism.
After the yelling and ordering of the enemy to leave such a holy place, Brother Thompson lifts is head and hands and shouts for God to bring his anointing. Immediately, Anthony falls backwards to the ground like his bones have been injected with putty. Three men standing by are well-prepared to catch him and bring him down to the floor with ease, covering him with prayer cloths and waiting for the Lord to be done with him. The same goes for about five or six others, and all the while I notice I've hardly blinked. That's why, when Sister Lisa sits down next to me on the otherwise vacant pew, I'm a bit surprised and at a loss for words.
"Hello Frank." she says over the noise. I quickly search her face and realize she's here on a mission. I visibly submit and whisper a friendly "Hi" back.
"I'd like to pray for you, if you don't mind. I just know God's got his hands on your life, and he needs you to be willing to follow him." she states, her voice thick with tears. I simply nod and wait for her to begin, only so I can count down the seconds until she's finished.
"Father God, I ask that you bring Frank a peace he's never known. Wash him clean with your blood and fill him up with such potential. Jesus, just let this young man know how very much you love him, and how special he is. I pray you feed his spirit and keep him off the path of unrighteousness. In Jesus' name, Amen." Ms. Lisa says. Slowly her hands retract from my shoulders and her eyes open and widen. She knows I haven't closed my eyes throughout her generous prayer, and I see the respect she once held for me start to disappear.
I quickly thank her for her time, only to receive a small nod in return. Just as she rises to leave, I think she's going to change her mind and start to talk with me, but am proven wrong when her legs begin to take her away. "You're welcome." she speaks, dignified in her faith and pompous once again. I grow disgusted and dismayed by how suddenly she's changed her views, and decide I'm better off without her and her prayer.
Quickly, the babbling and singing of praise starts to sound throughout the room again. I'm no longer side-tracked with Ms. Lisa and subjected to the room's noise level again. Quietly, I wait. Wait for them to just stop. Wait for a healthy dose of reality to come crashing their way. Every ounce of will inside of me urges my body to get up and leave. I can hardly take it inside of this room. The harsh lighting and odor of olive oil take over my senses. The sanctuary seems half its size and I squirm in my seat. Finally, when I feel the service is coming to a close, I'm able to take my first deep breath of the night. Ironically, I find myself thanking God for putting a temporary stop to the chaos. People settle down and families begin to leave. I know my family and I won't be going home for a while longer when my mother takes a seat next to a group of women in her weekly exercise group.
Waiting for my mother to finish talking is like waiting for the afternoon when you've woken up too early and can't go back to sleep. It's a seemingly never-ending process of sitting, getting up to check if she's ready to go, only to be shot down and forced to go back to your seat. I've learned it's best to just let her finish, though it's yet to become any less of an annoyance.
"Dad?" I whisper when I see he's not caught up in a conversation of his own. An expression of grief flashes across his face and I wait for him to acknowledge my existence.
"Yes, son?" he says, full of self-righteousness and seniority.
"Do you think you could get mom to come on?" I ask, knowing already what his answer will be.
"Franklin, your mother has a mind of her own. She'll come when she's ready to, and there's nothing I can say to change her mind." my dad says, raising his voice slightly and embarrassing me with the way he feels compelled to talk down to me like I'm a five year old with little brain capacity. All of this bullshit he feeds our family about him holding the rightful place as High Priest of the house is seriously a massive lie on his part. In truth, my mother always makes the decisions, and he's not alert enough to pass judgement or say otherwise.
"Fine." I whisper, taking my seat three rows back. Noticing how most everyone but the Pastor himself has left, I roll my eyes and simply wait. Nearly half an hour later, my mother's been ushered to the door and practically pushed the rest of the way. We file into the car once again, almost as if it's a sense of both deja vu and a glimpse into tomorrow night.
"So, what did you learn tonight, honey?" my mother asks, directing her gaze at me for the first time since we arrived tonight.
"I don't know." I say, shrugging and hoping she won't persist.
"Oh come on, you're bound to have been enlightened some how. Why don't you just think about it. I'll ask again when we get home. I think you, your father and I are going to start having nightly devotions like we did when you were a little boy." her stupid grin making the statement only that much more detestable. I fight the urge to vomit and clench my fists quite tightly; feeling my trimmed nails sink lightly into the pad of skin that makes up my palm.
If only they knew how painful it is to watch every last member of this church receive a message or promise from the Lord. If only I could still believe that such a possibility even existed. I try so desperately to hear what the Preacher has to say, but all I can think about is my music and the fast drumming of my heart when he mentions the end of the world. I've not taken away a single moral from his stories, nor have I developed a nice relationship with God through his teachings. Maybe one day, some of this will change. Maybe a day will come when the appeal of this kind of lifestyle shows itself. Maybe there'll be a time when I'm not made to feel like such a disrespectful sinner every time I walk down the aisle.
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