Rapture Practice

by Aaron Hartzler

  I can’t stop thinking about that guy in the baseball cap. Something about it sticks in my head. The way he laughed with his friend reminds me of the way I laugh with Bradley. The kiss he gave his boyfriend on the cheek didn’t look like anything evil. I kiss my dad on the cheek like that. And I’ve seen him kiss his brothers on the cheek the same way.

  How are those guys an abomination?

  The televangelist keeps saying the words homosexual and gay, hurling them away from his lips like slurs, as if he is in a hurry to get the syllables off his lips; as if simply saying these words might somehow infect him. I think about Chad Paddle asking me if I am a girl, and Mary Alice asking me if I am gay at the ice rink. Somehow, I knew these things were connected, but this is the first time I’ve really thought about what these words mean. Before, I’ve been able to pretend these words refer to something abstract—to people who live far away and do vague, terrible things. People who are not like me.

  Today, they are used in reference to those two young men laughing together. Guys who look a lot like me. What did these guys do that was terrible? Standing there holding hands? Was it the kiss on the cheek? Nothing looked so awful about them to me. It looked like they were nice guys who were nice to each other.

  I glance around the room, suddenly afraid someone might have heard this thought in my head. They must be able to tell.

  Megan is sitting next to me. She glances up at Mr. Kroger, then slides a scrap of notebook paper onto my desk. My heart is pounding.

  The note reads: What are you doing tonight? You should come over.

  I smile at her, relieved. She’s right.

  I should.

  “How was the ice rink party?”

  Bradley and I are walking toward our lockers. We have different class schedules and it’s the first time I’ve gotten to see him all day. I’ve been dying to tell him about my first beer, but I haven’t had a chance. My smile is cautious as I glance both ways over my shoulder.

  His eyes narrow and a smirk creeps across his face. “What?” he asks.

  “I had a beer,” I whisper.

  “No way!” Bradley laughs and holds his hand up for a high five. “That’s awesome, man!”

  “What’s awesome?” It’s Erica at my locker, smiling. We’re going to be rehearsing after school for a scene we’re performing in chapel next week.

  “Nothing,” I say quickly. “We’re planning the weekend.”

  “What’s going on this weekend?” she asks.

  It’s one of those awkward moments when I don’t understand why Erica can’t read social cues. If we wanted you to know, we would tell you.

  Bradley seems immune to moments like these. It’s one of the reasons I like him. He grabs his gym bag and closes his locker.

  “This weekend, Erica, the party is on.” He grins at me and says, “Call me later, man,” then disappears down the hall toward the gym.

  Erica is quiet as I grab my script and walk back toward the church auditorium where we’re rehearsing. I head up onto the stairs that stretch across the front of the sanctuary leading up to the platform and choir loft. The scene we are rehearsing is staged with me on one side and Erica on the other. We are talking to each other but facing out toward the audience.

  Instead of heading to her side, Erica follows me slowly up the stairs. “So, there’s a big party this weekend?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Downplay. Change the subject. The last thing I need is another lecture from Erica about Bradley.

  Erica looks at me almost curiously, and opens her mouth to say something, then thinks better of it. She heads over to her side of the stairs at the stage.

  “Should we run it from the top?” she asks.

  Relieved, I begin the scene. It’s a conversation between a guy and a girl, teenagers, who have been on a date. They talk back and forth about the evening and how it was going: the party, how handsome he looked, how beautiful she was, and then on the way home—a car wreck.

  As the scene progresses, you realize that the characters can’t see each other now, because they were killed in the accident and are now in the afterlife. She’s on her way to heaven, and he is on his way to hell. The final minutes of the scene are the guy tearfully asking the girl why she didn’t tell him about Jesus so that he could have gone to heaven. The last line is her explaining why:

  “Because I didn’t want to lose you… as a friend.”

  The irony implied is that the girl lost her friend for all of eternity because he died without trusting in Jesus as his savior. My dad had signed us out of classes last week to come to the chapel service at the Bible college and perform the scene for his students. We’re doing it in our chapel service here at school tomorrow.

  Erica is a great actor. It’s one of the reasons I love performing with her. When we’re done running the scene, she wipes tears from her cheeks.

  “That went pretty well,” she says, and smiles, her bright eyes rimmed with red.

  I smile at her and nod. “You’re terrific.”

  “Thanks.”

  We sit on the front pew for a second in silence.

  “It’s such an important scene,” she says. “I love doing it because of the message.”

  I quietly begin gathering my books. I feel like I’m tiptoeing through a minefield. I love this scene because it’s dramatic and it moves people. I can feel Erica’s eyes on me now. I know she wants me to say something.

  “Don’t you think it’s important, Aaron?”

  I look up at her, and smile. “Yeah. Of course.”

  “I worry about you,” she says.

  “Worry about me?”

  “Yeah. Your dad was so proud of you last week when we did this scene at the college. Does he know that you’re going to these parties at Bradley’s house?”

  I want to yell at Erica: This is none of your business!

  But I don’t. This isn’t her fault. She’s just doing what her character failed to do in the scene we’re rehearsing. It’s the thing we’re all told to do: exert positive peer pressure. Encourage your friends to stand up for what is capital R Right.

  “Erica, nothing bad is going on at these parties.”

  “You have such an opportunity to win souls for Christ doing scenes like this,” she says. “I don’t want to see you ruin your Christian testimony by hanging out with the wrong crowd.”

  All I can hear is my dad’s voice when I was a little boy: Reaching lost souls with quality biblical drama. Sometimes it feels like all the people I know are trying to hold me against a wall with everything they’ve got; afraid if they let go for a single second, I’ll float away forever like a balloon in an updraft, soaring past the three-cross steeple four stories over our heads.

  Erica is right about one thing: If it gets out that I drink, I’ll be kicked out of school. No one will give me special privileges like performing in front of the student body or the Bible college if that happens. Still, even though I know it’s risky, all I want to do this weekend is hang out at Bradley’s house.

  As I stand here looking at Erica, I realize my friendship with Bradley has become more important to me than anything else. It’s more important than performing a scene in chapel or winning souls with the Good News. Bradley and I share so much more than just our faith. We share more than a place we hope to go when we die. For the first time, I have a connection with a friend in the here and now that feeds my soul in a way I’ve never felt before—in a way my beliefs never have.

  I take a deep breath to steady my voice. “Erica, I think the scene is great. I think the message is very important. I’m not doing anything that is going to ruin my Christian testimony.”

  Erica doesn’t buy it. She shouldn’t. I’m lying. My friendship with Bradley may very well ruin my Christian testimony, but I don’t care. She gathers her books and heads toward the doors of the church auditorium. Something stops her, and she turns around.

  “Aaron, you’re so good at this. You’re the best actor I’ve ever seen. I’m r
ealizing you’re so good at it you never stop. You’re acting all the time—onstage and off.”

  I feel my face flush. How dare you? I open my mouth to retort, but I know my anger could blister the paint on the walls, and catch myself just in time.

  Erica smiles at me sadly. “When we do this scene… do you even believe what we’re saying anymore?”

  I am silent. I can’t answer her. Erica shakes her head, then turns around and pushes through the double doors. I throw my backpack onto the floor. Hard. Tears cloud my eyes. Suddenly I’m crying, and I’m not sure why.

  Why is this so important? Who cares if I go have a beer with Bradley? Or make out with Megan? Or think there’s nothing wrong with those guys in the video holding hands?

  When I told the story of Speckles two summers ago, scaring those kids about hell made me feel so guilty. It’s exactly the same feeling I have when I perform this scene. Shouldn’t I be making people feel better, not worse? Doesn’t God want us to feel good?

  I sit down on the front pew and stare up at the cross hanging over the choir loft. It’s empty, just like the one at my church. My eyes wander up to the peak of the ceiling that stretches high above the balcony. I think of the excitement I felt as a little boy to blast off through the roof, and wonder where it went.

  “Jesus, if you’re really coming back, help me believe it.” I whisper these words up at the towering ceiling above the empty cross. I wait for some feeling to come over me, some sense of peace or wonder—the excitement of my eight-year-old self.

  It doesn’t.

  As I sling my backpack onto my shoulders, I glance back at the cross. Where is the Jesus I used to be excited about? I feel my chest tighten around all of the things I can’t say out loud, the ones I’m too afraid to pray about.

  CHAPTER 21

  “I’m in.”

  Bradley is grinning ear to ear and shoves a piece of paper in my direction. The University of Iowa’s logo stretches across the top.

  We are pleased to inform you…

  I pause and take a deep breath. I know how badly he wanted this.

  “That’s awesome!” I am smiling on the outside, but on the inside I want this year to slow down. How will I make it through my senior year without you?

  We are walking toward the building from our cars. There is one month of school left. Jacob gets back from Stanford in three weeks, and we’re already planning a big graduation bash at Bradley’s place.

  “Did you hear back about your PSAT scores yet?” Bradley asks.

  “Yeah. I’m a National Merit semifinalist.”

  “That’s great. You should be able to score a scholarship to a good school with that. Where are you applying?”

  I blink at him. College seems so far away, and Bradley has been way more focused on the application process than any of the teachers or my parents are. I’ve started getting catalogs from colleges all over the place—beautiful, glossy brochures in thick envelopes with applications and pamphlets about financial aid.

  “I don’t really have a lot of choices,” I say. “I have to start with a year of Bible college first.”

  Bradley stops short. “You’re kidding me.”

  I shake my head. “Nope. Dad’s rule: One year of Bible college first, then I can transfer anywhere I want to.”

  “Yeah, but that’s suicide. All the scholarships go to freshmen.” Bradley sounds truly dismayed, but I can’t even get worried about it. When I think about what happens next, I feel overwhelmed and exhausted. I want to go to college somewhere that has a great acting program, but Dad and Mom don’t have enough money to help me with college because Dad has always taught for Christian schools.

  “I get free tuition at the Bible college where Dad teaches,” I say.

  Bradley rolls his eyes. “Don’t they have curfews and crazy rules like this place? You have to get out of the house. Go live a little.”

  I shrug. I feel trapped. It doesn’t matter that I’ve gotten straight As or that I score well on tests. There’s really no money to go anyplace else. “It’s sort of a money thing,” I say.

  “But you’ve gone to a Christian school since you were in kindergarten.” Bradley is adamant. “You know everything about the Bible there is to know by now, don’t you?”

  I smile. “Yeah, the Bible doesn’t change much after fourth grade.”

  Bradley keeps talking about an application for federal student aid, and getting a loan, and how I have to start thinking about it now; but all I can think about right now is how my best friend is leaving for Iowa.

  This place will be hell without you.

  “Hell is real, young people—an actual place created by the One True God, and I’m here on his behalf today to ask if you are sure about where you will spend eternity after you die.”

  It’s the last week of classes, and an evangelist named Todd is preaching in today’s chapel service. He is a short man with a tall pompadour and a practiced, rhythmic cadence that you can tell he really enjoys hearing. He’s preached this sermon hundreds of times; his memory is perfect, his pauses placed with surgical precision. He’s wearing a polyester blazer, and the louder he gets, the redder his face becomes.

  “Young men and women of God, make no mistake that hell exists, but each of you has a choice to make. I warn you now that if you slip into a Christ-less afterlife, you will find your nostrils filled with the putrid stench of eternal death, where the sulfurous fumes of damnation turn the very tears you shed into streams of acid that burn rivulets into your cheeks as you cry out for a drop of water to quench your eternal thirst. But there will be no reply, young man. There will be no relief, young woman. This is what will happen if you go to hell.”

  “If You Go to Hell” is the name of this sermon, and every so often Tom says these words as a frightening form of punctuation. It already has several of the teachers shouting out “amen.”

  I hate sermons like these.

  I’ve grown up with my dad preaching in churches, and his dad before him, but their sermons are different; thoughtful and passionate without being brash and showy.

  Grandpa Hartzler was a cabinetmaker who’d only gone to school until eighth grade. Years later, when Dad was a little kid, Grandpa had taken night classes at the same Bible college where Dad now teaches and become the pastor of a tiny Mennonite church. I don’t remember Grandpa ever yelling when he preached, but I do remember the way he prayed—standing in the pulpit, talking to God with his arms stretched out and his head raised to heaven, asking for healing and goodness and love, tears slipping down his rough-hewn cheeks.

  During the summer before my fifth-grade year, Grandpa asked the whole family to come to the church he pastored for a special healing service. He’d been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, and he humbly explained to the congregation that he was asking for healing, but he only wanted God’s will for him. If the Lord had chosen this as his time to pass on, then he was ready to meet Jesus.

  “It is appointed unto man once to die,” he quoted, “but after this the judgment.”

  My dad and his brothers joined the other men from the church and walked up the aisle to meet Grandpa in front of the pulpit. Grandpa pulled a small bottle of Orville Redenbacher popcorn oil out of his suit jacket pocket and handed it to my dad. There was nothing special about the oil. I knew it wasn’t blessed or considered holy or anything; it was just used as a symbol of what the apostles used to do in biblical times.

  Grandpa knelt on the floor, and the men gathered around to anoint him. His skin had already turned a toxic yellow-green from jaundice, the same color as the oil Dad dribbled into his hair. Each man in the circle laid a hand on Grandpa’s head, or his shoulder, or the shoulder of the man they were standing next to, and many payers were said for his healing.

  As I watched, I couldn’t help thinking this seemed like a long shot. Other healing attempts were under way as well. One of my uncles had filled Grandma’s meat-and-potatoes kitchen with macrobiotic foods like seaweed and kept talking passiona
tely about how God would heal Grandpa to prove his wonder-working power.

  Six months later when Grandpa died, the people he had helped over the years packed the funeral home for his visitation. People our family had never met or heard of spoke about how he’d changed their lives with a tiny act of kindness; fixing their tractor or the leak in their roof, or visiting their sick mother. No one mentioned how enthusiastic or polished or well rehearsed his sermons were, but person after person talked about his prayers. “Every time he prayed, I felt like I was in the presence of God.”

  I know Grandpa Hartzler believed hell was a real place, but I don’t ever remember him trying to scare anyone with it. By contrast, Evangelist Todd is marching back and forth across the stage in chapelwaving his arms and shouting. He will not be ignored.

  This is good, old-fashioned fire-and-brimstone preaching, and it’s working. No matter how often I question whether our theology makes sense, sermons like this scare me senseless. Any logical question as to whether Jesus is really coming back, or whether it makes sense that oil could be an agent of symbolic healing fly right out the window. I feel guilty for having ever asked such questions in the first place. My stomach is quaking, my heart is pounding, and a single question drums in my brain:

  What if I’m not really saved?

  I remember asking Jesus into my heart, but it was the week before my third birthday, so it’s mainly snapshots, most a little hazy. I remember setting Josh up in his carrier and playing with the flannelgraph board, teaching him about Jesus using Mom’s figures—pictures of Jesus, crucified and bleeding, flocked on the back, fuzzy under my fingers, pressing them against the soft felt on the board so Josh could see them, telling him the words Mom had said to me so many times: sin, heaven, Jesus, wash away, born again, heart, saved….