The Day That Jesus Came to Church

Jesus came to church that Sunday, though most would never admit it. Even now, years later, the stories slither through this town like smoke, coiling into shapes that suit the teller. Some say he was a drifter, others a lunatic, but I knew—knew then and know now—exactly who He was. I think, deep down, we all did. We were just too terrified to say it.

The day started like any other at Grace Assembly of God. The sanctuary smelled of polished wood and faint traces of perfume. Somewhere in the back, an old heater ticked and rattled, puffing out waves of warmth that couldn’t quite chase away the morning chill. People shuffled into the pews, murmuring hellos and shedding their coats. Above it all, the choir swayed and crooned I Surrender All in their practiced harmony, though their voices lacked the conviction to match the words.

Pastor Bernard Jenkins towered behind the pulpit, six-and-a-half feet of booming authority. He opened with his usual theatrics, gripping the edges of the podium as if anchoring himself to the world. “Jeeeeee-sus is in the house, this morning! Can ya’ feel ‘im?” he bellowed, his voice ricocheting off the stained glass.