Angry Conversations with God (17 page)

Then a man stood up and screamed, “My tooth filling, my tooth filling! The Lord turned my silver tooth filling into
gold
!” The warehouse went nuts. People came forward claiming that their silver fillings had turned into gold too. Everyone was
buying it. Everyone except me.

Once again I had the opportunity to leave. Instead I went to speak to the steroid pastor. He kept one eye on the crowd as
we spoke. I’d seen this kind of pastor before—always in front of a crowd, they never quite grasp the concept of a one-on-one
conversation.

“Pastor, I know God can do whatever he wants,” I began. “I came here because I believe that, and I want whatever God wants
to give me. But the laughing and the gold teeth—” How to say it gracefully? “They don’t feel authentic to me.”

He sneered and glanced out at the crowd as if his mic were still on. “Well, how do you explain the silver fillings turning
into gold? Unless it was
the Lord
?”

“If it was the Lord, why didn’t he turn the silver fillings into
tooth
?”

“Can I pray for you, sister?” Now I
did
want to leave, but Roidhead put his pork-loin hand on my shoulder and started in. “Lord, we just come before you. And, Lord,
I just pray for my sister. I just pray, Lord, that you would convict her of her sin of pride and of arrogance; convict her
of her Jezebel spirit. Silence the demon of unbelief in her, Lord.…”

There it was again, that paralyzing dread that kept me from leaving. I thought of the guy at the high school dance who grabbed
me and French-kissed me. Only now it was some jerk with his fist on my rotator cuff. When he finished, I yanked away, scurried
out of the warehouse to the parking lot, got into my car, got onto the freeway, rolled up my windows, turned the radio to
K-ROCK full blast, and screamed. “GET AWAY FROM ME, GOD! DON’T TOUCH ME!” I was trembling. “I HATE YOU, GOD. YOU AND ALL OF
YOUR RAPIST SIDESHOW FREAK FRIENDS. GET YOUR HANDS OFF OF ME! GET OUT OF MY LIFE!”

I don’t know how I made it back those ninety miles on the return trip. It was like driving home after a date rape. And I had
been violated; not merely by the people of God, but by the
God of those people.
It was God to whom I had prayed, God to whom I had offered my vulnerable heart. It was God who led me into that dark, evil
place.

Mark was distraught. “Oh, Susan, it’s damaged people who hurt you, not God.”

“But God keeps leading me to them! Why are God’s people such freaks?”

“Honey, I worked in a gay bar for six years. All the world’s a freak show.”

“If the church isn’t any healthier than the world, why bother?”

“Our church is healthy,” Mark offered. “Considering we’re all emotionally tortured artists.”

Maybe there were healthy churches out there. My sister went to a Presbyterian church of mostly married accountants and teachers
and soccer moms. They weren’t artists. Was it because I was a creative artist that I ended up at bizarre churches? No, the
Roidheads and mullet girls weren’t artists…unless there was some kind of artistry involved in making up that crap and believing
it.

Maybe I had Stockholm syndrome. I’d been held hostage too long by wimpy Lutherans, parroting Pentecostals, fascist counselors,
and Rock ’n’ Roll Slackers. I blew off David’s friendship and Pedro’s love; I turned down movies and abandoned a career-making
comedy troupe. For what? To wait on God? To honor the Lord with wild animal noises and gold teeth and Roidheads? Well, not
anymore. I’d had enough. Yes, Jesus loved me. That just made the betrayal all the worse. If this was a marriage between God
and me, this was the moment I walked out.

A month later, three of my cast mates from the Groundlings were hired onto
Saturday Night Live.

Rudy put down his note pad and rubbed his eyes.

Rudy: You know I was a pastor? I was in that denomination. I was at that conference.

Susan: With the gold fillings and the animal noises?

Rudy: (Nodding) So many well-meaning people got caught up in it. I screamed as loud as you did, Susan. All I lost was my job.
A lot of those people lost their faith.

Susan: How do these wackos end up speaking in God’s name? Why does God allow it?

Rudy: The real question is, why do
we
allow it? I think we allow it because we’re so hungry for God, we’re willing to do anything to experience him. It’s not just
fringe Christians. Islam has the whirling dervishes; Hindus chant mantras trying to reach nirvana.

Susan: At least Hindus get the groovy yoga pants. We’ve got the permed mullets.

Rudy: Hunger for God is part of the human condition.

Susan: Is insanity part of the religious condition?

Rudy: Tell me why you chose those wacky churches.

Susan: I went to the Pentecostal church because I didn’t want to vomit myself into a coffin. I went to the Rock ’n’ Roll church
because I had a hole in my donut. Call me an opportunist, but when you’re terrified and depressed with your head in a toilet,
healing is a big draw.

Rudy: Fair enough.

Susan: Look, what happened to me is nothing compared to a real rape or murder or the Holocaust.

Rudy: Is that what you think God would say to you? “It’s not the Holocaust’?

Susan: Maybe. I was so traumatized, I blocked him out. I don’t know if I want to hear what he’d say now either.

Rudy: But you need to. Why don’t you wait a moment and listen?

I sat for a while, but I could hear no words. No answer. No nothing. I picked up Rudy’s Bible and skimmed through the Eighteenth
Psalm.

Susan: “In my distress I called to the
L
ORD
; I cried to my God for help.…My cry came before him, into his ears. The earth trembled and quaked…because he was angry. Smoke
rose from his nostrils.” You see, Rudy, I told you he had a nose. “He reached down from on high and took hold of me.…He brought
me out into a spacious place; he rescued me because he delighted in me.”

I closed the Bible.

Susan: Only he didn’t rescue me, Rudy. So I rescued myself.

We sat a while longer in the silence. Finally I thought I heard something. It was the sound of God weeping.

I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;

I fled Him, down the arches of the years;

I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways

Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears

I hid from Him, and under running laughter.

Up vistaed hopes I sped;

And shot, precipitated,

Adown Titanic glooms of chasmed fears,

From those strong Feet that followed, followed after.

—“The Hound of Heaven,”
BY
F
RANCIS
T
HOMPSON

FEW BREAKUPS HAPPEN INSTANTANEOUSLY. LET’S SAY A MAN IS
caught in adultery: he might plead for forgiveness; he might (rightly) blame his wife for driving him away. Even if she hightails
it to Vegas for a quickie divorce, she’s still left with the aftermath: the horror of betrayal, the memories of good times,
the gnawing suspicion that she was at fault. She doesn’t walk away clean. Nobody walks away clean.

I could not walk away from God clean. For one thing, I knew I could never “divorce” him. He would always exist, whether I
liked him or not. When Mark pressed me, I blamed God for what had happened; but I knew deep down it wasn’t God—it was his
church. But how can you live with someone if all his friends are psychos? Well, okay, not all of them were. I had Cheryl and
Mark. But Cheryl was too enmeshed with the Slacker church. And Mark decided to move back to his native New York to pursue
theater.

I gave God another chance. I tried a few “normal” churches that summer: mainline denominations with some theological stability.
I ended up at a popular yuppie church because they had a ministry for people in the entertainment business. A group of us
headed out to a Labor Day film festival. Once we got there, the leaders fanned out to meet filmmakers and invite them to our
condo for a party. That’s when the excrement hit the ventilation system. They started crowbarring the Four Spiritual Laws
into whatever conversation they could. I heard one guy say, “Jesus is the master editor because he edits the sin out of our
lives.” That was it. I was done with this fundamentalist funhouse.

Still, I couldn’t drown out the Bible verses in my head: “I will never leave you nor forsake you” (Heb. 13:5
NKJV
). “I have written your name on the palms of my hands” (Isa. 49:16
NLT
). “When you are all alone, when you are walking on the beach and see only one set of footprints, it was I.…” Wait, that wasn’t
in the Bible. Anyway. I still believed in the Trinity. I could never “divorce” God and stop believing, but I couldn’t live
with him anymore either. Yeah, I loved Jesus, but I just couldn’t stand his friends.

I had spent my adulthood hiding from life by going to church. Now I was going to do what the “pagans” did: run after life
instead of waiting on my spiritual ass. I was going to fulfill my longings for purpose and love. All right, that was too lofty.
I was going to pursue vocation and romance. Okay, I admit it: I wanted a career and a sex life.

First, career. Here I was in a prestigious graduate screenwriting program, studying with respected teachers and an elite crop
of aspiring writers. Here I would apply my long-neglected talent. Here I would focus diligently on the craft of writ—hey,
who’s that guy? And that one. And…

There were lots of cute guys in my class: Dominic, an atheist genius; Kurt, a former hockey pro; Danny, a painfully shy stand-up
comic; and Butler, a rakish Harvard boy with Guy Pearce cheekbones. They were all cute, cool, likable guys. Well, except for
Butler. He bragged about his studio connections and his Harvard buddies who were writing for Conan. He wrote scripts about
anorexic astrophysicists in bikinis. And then he had the gall to do something chivalrous, like walk me to my car. Butler was
the worst combination of talent, debauchery, and manners. And I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Fortunately I was intelligent and therapized enough to back away and recognize what I was attracted to, what notes he was
playing. One: testosterone. Apart from Pedro, I hadn’t been around much of that. Two: focus and discipline. When other students
went out partying, Butler went home to write. Three: Butler was a brilliant writer. Even through the neoprene bikinis, I could
see it. Well, then, perhaps Butler was strumming the creative chord that I was only beginning to learn. Very admirable of
him, glad I figured it out, moving on.

Except I couldn’t move on. Butler sat near me in class, he teased me, he made suggestive comments, and then he’d compliment
my work or buy me a latte. And he never, ever missed a chance to pinch up those Guy Pearce cheekbones into a smirk that I’m
sure he practiced in the mirror. Jackass.

I started to feel the familiar, paralyzing dread that something awful was approaching and I could do nothing to stop it. I
was in that boat headed for Niagara Falls, and all I could do was watch the riverbank glide by on the way to the drop. But
wait! I knew what was happening. I had a hand free and an oar! I could grab that oar and steer the boat to safety.

Then again…I kind of wanted to feel the rush as I went over the Falls.

I ended the semester on an academic high: I pulled straight A’s and managed to book acting gigs on
Lois & Clark,
Married with Children,
and even
Seinfeld
! Maybe that’s why Butler was flirting with me at the Christmas party. I brought my friend Gwen for protection, but she got
distracted in a conversation with Danny the stand-up. Butler, the Rake of Harvard, sashayed over with a martini and a cigarette.

That’s another thing I began in grad school: drinking and smoking. Alcohol loosened me up; smoking calmed my slow-burn resentment
toward the Still, Small Voice that was maintaining squatter’s rights in my head.