The Great Derangement - Matt Taibbi [70]
The whispering thing had originally been a big stumbling block for me. During preachers’ prayers and after the singing of hymns, during any solemn silence in any service, you’ll suddenly hear people in the crowd whispering aloud praise to the Lord—loud enough that folks can hear it a few pews in any direction. My first few times in church, I had a real problem with this, just as I had with the hand thing. At first, in church, I’d just whispered ever so faintly, so that only I could hear:
“Uh…thanks, Jesus…um…you rule…”
But now I was light-years past that time. My inhibitions in this area were almost completely gone. In fact, now, at Bible study, I found myself having a bit of a whisper-off with Laurie, who was of course a champion whisperer, not to be outdone by anyone. Laurie scored terrific marks at all external verbal demonstrations of the Christian faith; it was the actual behavioral tenets of the religion she had a problem with. But she had no equal in whispering. When Laurie whispered praise to Jesus, dogs would start barking blocks away.
“We THANK you, Jesus!” she whispered. “Lord, I thank you!”
I peered at her, irritated.
“In the blood of Jesus!” I whispered. “I do RECEIVE you, Lord!”
“Thank you, Jesus!” she whispered. “Thank YOU, Jesus! THANK YOU, JESUS!”
Fuck! I thought, wincing and glancing sideways at her.
“Protect me, Lord!” I said. “Rom-balakashaka!”
Laurie didn’t flinch. “Cooo-karakashakakakakakakakaaaaaa!” she whispered. “Shom-balakorososhaka!”
This went on for minutes. Finally, mercifully, Richard asked the group, “Does anyone have a word they’d like to share, someone or something to pray for?”
A long-faced, sad-looking woman off to my right, seated on a couch, stood up.
“I have something,” she said.
“Okay,” Richard said.
She nodded.
“I’d like to pray,” she said, “dear Lord, to ask you to bring me a letter tomorrow, dear Father, from the state of Texas, saying that it’s okay for me to drive a car again.”
I thought about that one for a moment. I wanted to hear why the state had revoked her license in the first place before I prayed for her to be allowed back on the road. Maybe she’d run over a crowd of blind children or something. The crowd, however, exploded in prayer:
“Lift her up, Lord.”
“Help her drive again.”
“Hear her prayers, Lord.”
“Embrace her, dear Jesus.”
We went around the room. Most everyone had a prayer request:
“I’d like to ask you, dear Father, to lift up my son, who is going through a difficult time.”
“Lord, lift up my mother and father, who are ill.”
“Lord, please protect me on my trip upstate tomorrow, make sure that I arrive safely, without any problems on the highway.”
There were a good dozen or so requests along those lines—and then we got to Richard and Cassie.
Richard cleared his throat.
“Lord,” he said, “we pray today for President Bush.”
It is a testament, I think, to the virginal purity of my atheism—my deep, unwavering faith in the nonexistence of this particular Christian god—that I did not even hesitate to spit out the asked-for prayers.
“Lord, protect the president!” I whispered. “Lift him up, dear Lord, and guide his every action! Protect him from slanderers and malcontents!”
“Guide him, Lord,” whispered Laurie.
“Smite his enemies with disease!” I continued.
The crowd prayed enthusiastically. As if as one we all chanted in support of the former governor, and then also for the troops in Iraq, and we continued, right up until Cassie took her turn.
“Lord,” she began, “I’d like to say a prayer for Israel, dear Father.”
She looked up for a moment, then hung her head solemnly, looking deeply moved for Israel’s plight all of a sudden. Cassie was all business, a good soldier who seemed to be doing what the church leaders asked her to do.
“I’d like you to guide her and to protect her,” she went on, “not only from