WHEN CHRISTINE LOOKED AROUND THE FINE CHURCH, SHE had felt out of place and awed by the beautiful pews and carpets, the radiant stained-glass pictures. At Gloria’s suggestion, they’d come early to get settled. They would watch the people congregate. In comparison, Christine’s Bethel Church seemed small and drab, but Christine told herself that the Holy Spirit didn’t care where he dwelt. Then she thought of Reverend Shuttlesworth and how the spirit came into him at Bethel and through him to her. That was what counted.
Gloria showed her the bulletin and whispered quietly about the worship service.
“It has eight parts,” Gloria explained, “including the musical prelude and postlude.” She put her finger on some boldface printing. “This is for the responsive reading.” Gloria had chosen a good spot for them, not too close to the pulpit, not so far back you couldn’t feel like a part. “He usually says something to make everybody smile about here,” Gloria said, pointing her finger to the page. “And—”
Christine and Gloria reeled from the blast. They sprang to their feet, bodies shaking and trembling. The congregation erupted in screams. “Thank the Lord, thank the Lord!” Christine screamed not because she was alive but because her babies were safe. Little Honey, Diane, and Eddie; her children were at their own humble Sunday school, not this rich place. Terrified, she and Gloria grabbed each other and sobbed and shrieked. Others rushed from the pews.
Bombed! Bombed in church! For nothing. For worshiping God. Christine howled for revenge. All the oppression of her life—her rage blew out the circuits of her mind. She seemed molten with hatred, but she clung to her friend and wept. Christine felt useless, immobile, devastated with hysteria. Not safe in church.
She sobbed with shame, boiled with hatred. No safe place. She wept with shame. They allowed no sanctity, no sacred place. And she? The force of hate left her mindless. Helpless. Bound to the shame of her own helplessness. Raped again, made helpless. She lost her mind with it. All she could do was cling to Gloria, hurting Gloria with the desperation of her clenching fingers. Christine could only clutch harder and harder until she felt the force of Gloria’s own fingers squeezing back. But Gloria was not clinching out of terror.
As desperately as you need me, Gloria’s hands meant, so will I return your grasp. Gloria’s replying grasp was full of calm.
I AM NOT AFRAID, Gloria thought. Here am I.
Billows of dust came toward them, passed through them, passed on, and then Gloria saw, as she held Christine, that they yet stood in the place she had selected just before the explosion. Behind her, presiding high over the violated church, stood the full, stained-glass figure of Christ, faceless. Instead of Christ’s face, a blank opened to the sky.
Christ’s face, only his face, blown out. Gloria pressed Christine to her bosom, held her as tightly as she could. If they bombed again, she would save Christine, protect her with her own body.
No convulsion followed, except convulsions of screaming and fear.
Through the empty face of Christ, Gloria saw her world—a bit of treetop against blue.
What did it mean that God had let the face of his only begotten Son be destroyed? Where was the hand of God when it failed to protect his home and his worshipers from hate? Sunlight continued to pass, indifferently, through the stained glass still standing in the windows. Stained purple, the light caught the motes of dust that clogged the air, and purpled them.
“I’m going to be sick,” Christine said, and her vomit splashed onto the polished wooden back of the pew. She sat down weakly. “I hate them so much, it’s killing me.” Christine put her arm on the back of the pew, leaned her face into the crook of her arm and sobbed.
Gloria let her be. Floured with plaster dust, Christine seemed shrouded. Over her navy blue suit, her skin, her hair, had been thrown a veil of powder. As Christine sobbed, dust rose from her shoulders. The wailing of the broader misery, police sirens, someone shouting orders washed over them, and every moment they breathed the dust and the odor of something broken open that should have been kept sealed.