Tuesday, March 27, 2012

Yogurt Jesus.

So, I have been reading things lately, in case you were wondering. I finished Alias Grace by Margaret Atwood and Her Fearful Symmetry by Audrey Nifenegger (Yes! Meh.). And am getting ready to start The Warmth of Other Suns here shortly. I've just been kind of lazy about formulating an opinion about them, because, really.

Anyway lately I've been thinking a lot about Yogurt Jesus.

As anyone reading this blog knows, I was raised in a pretty virulent strain of Baptism. My parents were raised Catholic and somehow, at some point before I came along, ended up becoming Baptists.

Becoming a Baptist is a weird and unusual thing. Right? Like, someone could convert to Christianity or Islam or whatever, but converting to a particular strain of Christianity is kind of oddly specific. Especially the oddly specific sect of independent Baptism, which is sort of like being, I don't know, transubstantiation seems really far out, I'd prefer having strychnine in my tap water and handling snakes!*

*Actually that's certain branches of evangelical Christians. Most Baptists believe the Age of Miracles has passed, but still think that God steps in now and again to Do Stuff, which is not classified as a miracle, because Doctrine.

My maternal grandmother is pretty darn Catholic, but like the sassy kind of Catholic, not the weepy, black-mantilla kind of Catholic. I really do believe that her Catholicism gives her a great deal of comfort and solace, so I don't knock it. She's also kind of a queen bee in her church (early Mass, median age is 73. Except for the week I was visiting, when I knocked the median age down to like 72 and 3/4).

So even though I would normally react like a scalded porcupine to anyone trying to proselytize me, I think Grandma does it because she really, truly thinks that I would be much happier (and probably also married to a doctor and magically tattoo-free) if I converted. So, coming from a place of love and all that.

Grandma used to send me regular Catholic care packages as a child, including outdated copies of Our Daily Bread and plastic rosaries, the kind you can pick up for a dollar next to the cash register at a lot of the stores in Florida.

This made my mother apoplectic with rage. I don't know what part of her conversion was a road-to-Damascus thing and what part was a rebellion against her mother, but probably a pretty equal mix. This was one of those classic The Thing Is Not Just The Thing moments. The rosary was not just a tacky plastic rosary, but a symbol of years of familial strife and mutual antagonism. It was like a smart bomb stamped with a blurry Virgin Mary medallion. Mom would usually intercept these and chuck them out, but one package got through.

Grandma sent me a picture of Jesus.

For those of you not familiar with the finer points of the great Baptist vs. Catholic debate (Banana pudding and shellacked hair vs. the Whore of Babylon), you'll notice that in Baptist churches the cross is empty, Jesus having departed to kick some ass and root for your home team from up on high, like this guy.

This, according to Baptists, is Real Bad. Because the Baptist Jesus is not a weenie, and he would totally smash that cross and then pick his teeth with it, probably while walking away from an explosion and not looking back. But the Jesus that Grandma sent me was definitely the Catholic Jesus, with sad liquid eyes and a narrow face like a beautiful, doomed consumptive. Or it may have been heartburn from the flaming, thorn-encrusted heart he was sporting.

Anyway, since I was about eight and knew that Jesus was kind of a big deal, thanks to my thrice-weekly Baptist churchgoing (not counting excruciating outings with the youth group, in which I was routinely menaced by Lucy, a girl who purported to be my age but was roughly the same size and heft as a Yugo and had a nasty habit of giving you Indian burns), I put Jesus up on the wall of my bedroom.

Until one day he was gone.

I searched for Jesus everywhere, until I got the quivery feeling that there was possibly a supernatural explanation behind His disappearance. Did Jesus hate me? Had he sensed the stirrings of skepticism that I was experiencing during sermons? Had he found out about my habit of drawing cigarettes in the hands of the illustrations in my Awanas book? (Admittedly a really odd habit, since no one I knew smoked.)

The mystery behind Jesus' disappearance wasn't solved until a few hours later, when I opened the kitchen trash can to throw something away and discovered Jesus, His divine face smeared with strawberry yogurt and smelling kind of like tuna fish.

I FREAKED. As early as eight, I already had a sneaking suspicion that deep down, despite my rather limited dossier of sins, I truly, richly, deeply deserved to go to Hell, if for no other reason than I was convinced I was headed there anyway. Now it was indisputable. I was, as our flamboyant preacher put it, dangling from a corn cob above Hell. God, who was everywhere, had definitely seen the picture of His beloved Son in the trash, covered in curdling dairy.

I dug Jesus out and rinsed off the yogurt and coffee grinds as well as I could, while weeping. The glass had cracked, too, so even if I put Jesus back on the wall it was going to be obvious that something had happened. I couldn't hide it.

I don't really remember what happened after that, my tiny brain being so traumatized that it must have wiped the record. I dimly remember my father telling me that it was the wrong Jesus, but I think my brain conjured up that image, my Dad being an also vaguely omnipresent but never actually there presence. There was, of course, no right Jesus, since Baptists didn't really believe in pictures of Jesus (which actually makes them Muslims, and when they figure that out they will probably self-immolate in anger and confusion).

The episode of Yogurt Jesus left me deeply troubled and confused. Having nowhere to seek counsel, I walked the half-mile to an abandoned garden in the back of a shabby apartment building. The garden had a weeping willow that hadn't been trimmed in a long time, so you could crawl underneath the branches and effectively disappear. I sat on the icy mud underneath the tree and slowly ate a stale bun.

I'm really sorry, I said. Our preacher always talked about the still small voice, but by eight I had already started giving up on getting an answer, so I wasn't even that disappointed when the only sensation I felt was of mud seeping through my jeans.


  1. Why don't you write a novel?

  2. Probably a combination of my short attention span and having three jobs. I guess.

    I can't even really write a memoir. It would have to be titled something like Vaguely Upsetting Things That Happened To Me That I Eventually Got Over. I mean, yes, there are some odd elements to my childhood but nothing Jeanette Wall-sy.

  3. God dammit, Alana, you are a really good writer! Forget a novel. You should write a memoir. Don't talk yourself out of it. You are a better writer than 90% of published writers, easily. Your voice is sharp and fresh and really inviting. I will be stalking your blog from now on...
    JP from MA

  4. Honestly! start. writing. now. now. now. now. A children's book - you only need TWENTY LINES - 20 - lines - (I know a fairly good artist....). START. WRITING. NOW.

  5. 'Yogurt Jesus' would be a great book title, too, really. We need to talk, seriously. Please stop wasting your time walking dogs and babysitting. Please.

    1. Yogurt Jesus, Or, How Not To Talk To Your Kid About Religion.

  6. No, don't stop babysitting. But do write a book. And then read it to my kids. : )

    Secret for some of you readers: aside from being a spectacularly talented writer and all around gem of a person, Alana is also a modern Mary Poppins. Not kidding.

  7. Secret for some of you readers: Alana is my niece. I don't want her to grow up, I want her to seriously get serious about writing and cartooning. Not kidding, either.

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