I was subbing at the high school
called Success, on my lunch break
when the teacher happened in,
black, forty, not bad looking. We spoke,
she put some notes on the board.
I had noticed
the Bible opened on her desk,
not what you’d expect to find
in a public school classroom,
in lieu of, say,
a dictionary or encyclopedia. As I ate my
ham on rye, a circling, buzzing fly
chanced to light, one furry forefoot
touching the words of God:
Now go strike Amalek
and devote to destruction
all that they have. Do not
spare them, but kill both man
and woman, child and infant,
ox and sheep.
“Do you have plans for Easter?”
The fly zipped off when her cheerful
voice chimed in. “Come again?”
“For Easter—Sunday—
are you going to be in church?”
“Um, I hadn’t planned on it.” (Hell,
I didn’t even know it was Easter.)
She penned a post-it, shoved it at me.
“If you have no other plans.”
CALVARY CHAPEL
said the note. “Thanks, I’ll think about it.”
I figured that was it, but wrong again.
“And what faith are you?”
“Uh—kind of a lapsed Unitarian.”
She smiled tolerantly. “I don’t know what that is.”
“Well, it’s a—“ “Do they accept Christ as the
Savior in your church?”
“Um, I’m sure some of them do.”
“And what about yourself?”
“Well, um . .”
I hesitated, looked at my cards. I had
nothing. Glancing down, I noticed she was
back again, the little hairy hag wringing her
furry fingers over the words of doom.
I looked up.
“Before I answer, can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“How does your church feel about all the killing in Gaza?”
“In where?”
“In Gaza? The Palestinians--?”
“Oh, well, if you’re asking do we support Israel,
the answer is yes, always, according to Scripture.”
“Are you saying that mass murder is acceptable,
so long as it’s in Scripture? Genocide is okay with God?”
“Well, no, but they—those—what do you call it—?”
“Hamas?”
“Yes, Hamas!—they brutally attacked Israel!
A brutal and unprovoked attack!”
“Not exactly unprovoked.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know Gaza’s been under occupation
since 1967, right? You know it’s a prison camp?
This is admitted even by the Israelis themselves.
The largest open-air prison camp in the world.”
“Well, that’s not—that’s uh--”
“So, it wasn’t just an attack, you see, it was a
legitimate breakout from a prison camp.
Legitimate and justified. And, let’s not forget,
for decades, long before the Hamas attack,
Israel has carried out repeated air strikes in Gaza,
often killing thousands at a time,
men, women and children,
which they call
MOWING THE LAWN
“Well, that’s—I’ve never heard that.”
“So it appears. I’m surprised you don’t know
this history. You’re an educated woman.”
“I don’t know where you get your information.”
“It’s available to anyone who can read.”
“Well, that’s—“
“But you do know there are now
well over fifty-thousand dead, you know that,
at least? Most of the dead are women and
children; probably as many buried under tons of
rubble who will never be found. None of it possible
without U.S. support,
our money and our weapons. They’ve bombed
all the hospitals, leveled most of the schools,
all the universities are gone. Israeli soldiers
think nothing of shooting children and babies
point blank through the head or body.”
“That’s not true!”
“Don’t take my word for it. We have
the word of the Red Cross and medical
personnel who report large numbers of
children gunned at point-blank range. Many
are maimed in the legs or arms. Some are
cut in half. Since Israel has cut off all medical
supplies, as well as food and water, doctors
are forced to do amputations on children
and other wounded without anesthesia.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“You don’t believe the Red Cross?”
“Well. . .”
“So, my question again: is mass murder
included in your church’s catalog of sins?”
She hesitated, scooped up her books.
“Well, I just think that’s false information.”
“Not false. Every human rights group
in the world, including the UN and the ICC agree.”
“What is the ICC?”
“International Criminal Court.”
I paused, looked at her.
“It’s all in the history. . .Just look at it. . .
You just have to read a little. . .It’s not hard.”
“Well—” she glanced at her watch,
“—none of that is true, of course.”
“Okay. But—with respect—you’re simply
Dead Wrong.”
This said as she blew out the door.
Too bad. I meant to ask her if, come Sunday,
her church planned to hide Easter eggs.
Crossroad Vertigo is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
