The service at my family’s current church didn’t stray far from that usual template at all last Sunday. Within the first 5 minutes upon entering the sanctuary, I was reminded 86 times that “He is Risen.” The usage of that phrase increased exponentially through out the rest of the service, and it wasn’t long before I started thinking whether the whole dying for my sins thing was really worth it.
After story time and a rousing chant of “He Lives!” it was time for the most aggravating, perplexing, and nauseating Christian ritual of all: Holy Communion. The origins of this ritual obviously stem from events at the Last Supper in which Jesus and his disciples got so wasted, that they started daring one another to eat the most disgusting combinations of food they could think of. Luke dared Peter to eat molded cheese with uncooked goat meat, Judas dared Matthew to eat a raw egg, and when Jesus’ turn came, he dared everyone to eat stale bread that was dipped in their wine glasses until it got all soggy and crumbly. Of course no one wanted to participate in this repulsive act, so Jesus guilt tripped everyone into doing it by reminding them that he was going to be crucified the next day, and they should all do it to remember what a crazy party animal he was.
Alright… that isn’t exactly how the story went in the Bible, but at least my version explains why such an important tradition has to be so gross. Regardless of what actually happened, the bottom line is Jesus really blew it when it came to devising this symbolic gesture. Just look at all the food on that God damn table:
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Of all the creative recipes that could have been drawn up, Jesus, the son of God, ruler of Heaven and Earth, the man who walked on water, gave sight to the blind, and rose from the dead, selects the revolting combination of Wonder Bread soaked in Sutter Home to represent himself for consumption. His followers at the time never questioned him, and his followers 2000 years later don’t either. So now every year on Easter, Christians reluctantly line up like patients in a mental institute to receive their bitter pills, as they replay in their heads a recent conversation with the Rosenberg’s about their delicious Passover Seder.
Protestants have made the ceremony even worse by replacing the wine with unfermented purple Cool-Aid. This mysterious liquid doesn’t have a hint of grape flavoring; it tastes like melted rubber and cancer cells. Soaking month-old Shop Rite brand pita bread in this vomit-inducing elixir creates a taste that cannot be described using an English dictionary. The soggy snack doesn’t have a formal name, but I believe it’s where the phrase “Holy Shit” comes from.
It’s really unfortunate for Jesus that he made such an awful gaffe in this pivotal moment. Had he chosen a more appetizing sacramental treat, the kind of following Christianity would have today could be off the charts. If Jesus made a three course meal out of the Eucharist, I’d be in church everyday. Think about it, if he would’ve just went all out and had the Last Supper catered, preachers could be saying “this shrimp is the body of Christ and this cocktail sauce is his blood” followed by, “this prime rib is body of Christ and this Au jus is his blood” and on your way out of church, you get Oreos and a glass of milk. With a service like that, I would feel the presence of God in every bite.
After ingesting the Holy Shit, I sat back down in my seat and started licking prayer request envelopes to try and get the awful taste out of my mouth. The rest of the congregation finished up and the minister took his portion. His cheek twitched a bit and I noticed he was trying to fight back a few tears as he started his sermon. The predictable monologue was centered around the idea of tangible and intangible things being alive. It was clearly a carbon-copy of the 24 previous Easter sermons I had attended, so I was safe in knowing that it would just be him talking and I could doze off for the next 20 minutes.
Not long into the speech however, the minister threw in a monkey wrench and asked all of the wonderful children in the congregation to draw pictures of things that were alive. A few ideas that popped into my head were Socialism, meat from Taco Bell, and the brownish-green build up in my shower. Once the drawings were finished, he told the little tykes to give their drawings to someone in the crowd who looked like they needed it. I immediately realized that I would have to look interested, alert and joyful in order to avoid getting a scarlet letter from one of these hellions. I tried my best to look happy, but with the taste of the Holy Shit residue still in my mouth, I was about as convincing as Ricky Martin was in the closet. Noticing my eternal misery, one of the little imps quickly ran over to me and handed me a folded piece of paper. I slowly unfolded the gift, expecting to see a bunny rabbit or maybe a friendly koala bear. What I got was this:
This morning when I looked at the picture though, something told me to flip it upside-down to see if it would explain anything. To my horror, I discovered that the drawing is riddled with subliminal demonic pentagrams and 3 sixes.
