Impatient rustles and excited whispers crowd the auditorium. Backpacks line a wall along the far-right aisle. We theatre geeks are eager to learn the musical our high school will produce this year.

We are the first to hear about productions, because we are in theatre class. Auditions are open to the entire student body, but those of us in theatre class are likely to land lead roles.

Mr. E: (sidles on stage, hiking up his pants, and holding up a script.) We will perform Jesus Christ Superstar this year.

Chatter erupts.

Bridgit: (glancing around, brows furrowed) Jesus Christ Superstar?

Jeremy: Oh my god, Bridgit, you don’t know JCS?

I shake my head.

Jeremy: It’s Andrew Lloyd Weber.

Bridgit: Really?

Jeremy: Yes.

Mr. E: Settle down. Let’s hear some of the music.

Trumpets blare in staccato, an electric guitar strikes in between blasts. The chords slip into minor, creating a discordant melody. I’m on the edge of my seat, eyes wide, unblinking.

Folk and psychedelic notes tinged with rock crash over me. As Mary Magdalene sings “I Don’t Know how to Love Him,” I feel the melody rise from my chest, rush through my throat, notes trying to escape my mouth. I begin to hum.

At home, breathless, I explain the news to my mom.

Mom: (staring, eyebrows raised) You can’t be in that show.

Bridgit: (eyes wide) Why?

Mom: (hands on hips,) Because it’s Satanic and blasphemous.

Bridgit: What?

Mom: Bridgit, Jesus is just a man, nothing more in that show. And it depicts him as gay and bisexual (whispers last two words).

Bridgit: But, it’s so good. I can feel the part of Mary.

Mom: Is it worth your soul?

There are practices pre-dating or co-existing with Christianity, but these are never mentioned.

Lu, Irish sun god, caught between worlds. Hanging from a cross-like structure, he lifted his head, clouds parting, silky sunbeams stroking his face, he took a final breath. Death conquered, Lu rose, shaking off death.

Eoster, known to us as Easter, a Celtic pagan word appropriated, forced to assimilate. A celebration of renewal, a hare representing fertility. Winter melts into spring, cleansing, rejuvenating. Arms lift to heaven, voices sing praise, blood renews the land, the soul.

For God so loved the world, he gave his one and only son, so that all whom believe shall be saved. Washed anew by his blood, healed by his stripes. Bloody, broken and bruised, Jesus sacrificed himself for the world.

Odin, chief of all Norse gods, sacrificed himself, driving a spear into his side. Blood oozing, he hanged from Yggdrasil, arms and legs splayed, a feast for carrion. Breath arrested, his soul wrested from his body. Nine days later, he returned, alive, stronger than ever.

Krishna meditated, enveloped by trees. A spear forked his side, a deer hunter mistaking him for fauna. Blood filled the woods, seeping into the ground. A wick lit, Krishna burnt alive, a sacrifice. Death did not shroud him; he ascended to heaven, white light raising him to the ether.

Mithras, a Roman deity, born of a virgin birth, his blood offered for strength. Expedited death, its purpose to save man-kind, a bond between worlds. Breaking his ropes, defying nature, Mithras took a breath and ascended to heaven. Worshipers banquet, a private feast celebrating Mithras. Honoring his power, seeking his fortitude, a bull is sacrificed, its blood given up to the god. Washing, renewing, cleansing, reviving, the blood has power.

The words rush in and out of my head, tickling my brain. This plummet seems to have no end. Shelves line the hole I find myself in, the words escaping out of manuscripts, colliding with one another, taking up residence in other books. Sighing, I reach out and grab a tome.

Christianity has been a part of my life since childhood. Praying a part of daily breathing. Denomination — do not ask me. Dad was raised Missouri Synod Lutheran, Mom, Southern Baptist. Lutheran smelled too much like Catholic — it was over Mom’s dead body her kids would be raised too close to Catholic. Dad didn’t really care. Funny, decades later, she will convert to Catholicism. We will traverse the denominational path for years, peeking in-and-out of doors. Most Sundays Dad stayed home anyway as Mom ushered us four kids out the door, in our finest. We marched by, waving at Dad, finishing his cardio.

Some of my earliest memories of literature are Bible stories. I likely learned, in part, to read from these stories. Years would be spent reading the Bible, learning about God and Jesus. Any knowledge I obtained about other religions came from a Christian perspective. Years later, as an adult, I will be confronted with other beliefs, other truths, told from their perspectives, free of Christian taint.

A book of Bible stories rested inside a brown end table in the living room. My sister Brook and I pulled it out daily, giving it to Mom to read. A Caucasian Jesus sat in his white robe and blue sash, surrounded by Caucasian children, a white background plastered behind the cozy group. Leafing through pages, abridged, toned-down versions of favorite Bible stories grabbed our attention.

Brook and I nestled around Mom as she read story after story, our childish imaginations lapping each up. Later, I directed Brook to act out the stories with me. Writer, director, actor, I was born a triple-threat, and my family was forced to participate.

One of my favorites was about Ester, a Hebrew captured, presented to the king, who fell madly in love with her. As a child, I did not recognize the appalling truth of Ester. Stolen from her family, forced into a harem, paraded pageant-style before a king known for vanity, cruelty and arrogance. But at church, we were told to revere Ester, use her as a model for femininity. Ester was a love story, something we starry-eyed girls fell for.

Bibles rested on tables and dressers and bookshelves. My favorite was my mom’s from when she was young. It was in my possession as a teen, its avocado-green cover cracked, the spine split. A rainbow now illustrates the pages from highlighters marking passages, notes dot the margins: my spiritual education, steeped in Christianity.

Yet, as I read about other religions, it’s like taking a pry bar to my knowledge. Sliding the lid back, this new knowledge flings out, sticking to me. Perhaps I’ve opened Pandora’s box.

Each book I open illuminates my features. Glowing and shimmering, it washes over me. The words now whisper in my ear, a gentle cadence, coaxing, inviting. Slow, as if shy, books slide off shelves, nudging me — pets seeking attention. This knowledge is alluring, dangerous. Warned against this forbidden knowledge as a child, I feel guilty.

Life changes, ebbing and flowing, breaking off chunks, polishing others. Dad was gone for a time, restrained by bars and cinder blocks. He didn’t speak much about it — yet. He was different, morphed into a gentler, quieter person when he returned. Tumultuous memories of childhood contradicted this new man. An enraged voice, hand ready to strike, face terrifying in its rage. Now, this face has stilled, taken up a quiet residence.

A white-collar crime that will cling to him the rest of his life. But he rediscovered Christ, finding solace, resolve. Now Dad joins us each Sunday. Designer clothes have been replaced with K-mart brands, but still we marched down the church aisle seeking seats.

We moved to a new city. Moved, fled — just words — more words. No longer president of a bank, that small town spat us out. Mom told us to trust in Jesus; he will bring us through the fire. Landing back in Omaha, the city of my birth, finding a church was paramount. Mom’s cousin, a reformed junkie, invited us to her Assembly of God church.

At the time, it didn’t seem a whole lot different than Southern Baptist, a bit more charismatic, but generally similar. Until I heard a guttural cacophony uttered throughout the sanctuary. I looked at Mom and Dad, both deep in prayer. They called it speaking in Tongues, the language of angels. These words, few seem to understand.

A chorus of angelic language filled the sanctuary every Sunday. Arms raised in celebration, hands clapping, feet danced like King David. The theatrics enthralled me. Eventually, I would speak in Tongues, slipping in-and-out, moving between languages. Dancing, whipping Tongues out my mouth, I was part of the group; I was a part of the performance.

Youth group and drama team were my hold to church. Several days a week were spent at church, dogma dripping off of me, rhetoric spewed in chunks. I marched in line with the crowd. But the drive to perform is what sustained me.

The sanctuary is a pit, encased in darkness. Except the spotlights covering the stage in an ethereal glow. Synthesized notes land in legato, minor and major chords setting the mood. Drama team performs a human video; a panto, actions set to music.

The music transitions into an Arabic-style sound, and I step forward, my feet curving into graceful motions. Sheer, gauzy material covers my head and shoulders. I’m a seductress, tempting the Christian with sex and witchcraft.

I hold a mock crystal ball in one hand as I undulate, twirling around Christian. My hand caresses the ball before showing it to Christian, bangles clinking on my wrists. Jesus stands nearby, a frown on his face. I toss a sardonic smirk at Jesus as he waits for Christian.

Christian breaks from my spell, rushing to Jesus. Holding him tight, Jesus flings an arm at me. I pirouette off stage, as though a wind blows me away.

Bridgit: (Panting) How was it?

Mary: Great, you’re so good at that part.

Bridgit: Thanks. I hope we can do a few more shows.

We changed churches. I think I was sixteen, seventeen? A long-time friend, once youth pastor of our previous church, was the new head pastor of a non-denominational church. An alleged former drug addict who believed higher education was a tool of the Devil.

Whispered conversations question the druggie claims. Maybe he wanted a testimony? The all-mighty testimony is crucial for Pentecostal leaders. The juicier, meatier, shocking, the better.

We had not seen his family in years. Rumors, conjecturing, theories — conversations as to why he was no longer working for a mission-based church in California. Delilah, Bathsheba — they seem to exist in every era. The Sampson’s, David’s, Solomon’s — still stupid, still driven by the flesh.

His sly smile greeted every Sunday. Boyish good looks complimented the Southern beauty of his wife. Sex sells.

I remember standing in his office years ago. Seventeen, long-limbed, completely unaware how others saw me. How men saw me. Another teen in youth group was relentless in asking me on a date, despite my no’s. He had started stalking me, showing up randomly to my house. My parents reported him to our pastor, and I was now present before him, not the boy bothering me. His blue-eyed gaze lingered on my thin frame before speaking. Dimples held his grin together.

Pastor: You’re a pretty girl.

Bridgit: Um, thanks.

Pastor: A godly woman is supposed to be different. I know Chad has been hanging around you, but you don’t like him, do you?

Bridgit: I’m at church almost every day of the week. I’m involved. I’m friendly with everyone, but no, I’m not into him that way.

Pastor: You’re too beautiful for him. But have you considered how your actions impact young men?

She freezes, staring expressionlessly at him.

Pastor: Maybe you’re giving him the wrong impression.

A refrain I would hear for years. From the pulpit, from church members, from parents. They had me play a seductress in church, but my body was to be hidden, a beacon men could not control themselves around. So I dimmed myself.

Dad was hired as head of maintenance — told he must work his way back up. Told he must redeem himself. I saw what no one spoke. This friend, this pastor, determined who was worthy of forgiveness. A boot on a back, pushing down — tyranny, spite, fear, insanity — all the attributes you want in your spiritual leader.

His exterior eventually cracked, darkness streaming out of him. Like so many Evangelical leaders who were hyper-focused on sex and its sins, our pastor was not the blameless lamb he projected. Multiple extra marital affairs led to a divorce. His inability to uplift and shape a compassionate congregation left a legacy of in-fighting and distrust in the church he was eventually fired from.

We called him pastor, but, he did not guide; he did not shepherd. He definitely was not a spiritual leader. Certainly, he was not mine.

Sundays are bleak. A cement, round structure — functional, not beautiful, compound-like. Dark brown doors open from beige walls. Not a single window brings light into darkness. As I approach the building, music thumps a primal rhythm, vibrating through the cinder block walls.

Our pastor, our friend, steps to the podium, the music beginning to plummet, his cue. He sputters in Tongues while our small congregation whoops and hollers. Pacing the platform resembling a stage, a tiger on the prowl, face red, eyes blazing, he calls on Jesus. Our worship leader, his wife, belts her agreement. This scene is familiar. Standing in the balcony, hands gripping the railing, the view closes in, a cinematic scope framing the edges.

Recalling a documentary on world cultures, I see a South American tribe convene. Dressed in traditional garb, every color represented — their finest. The leader speaks with enthusiasm, shouts and whoops emit among the gathering. Leaping and whirling, they chant and dance, a jubilant celebration, as arms raised, mouths muttering, they worship.

Reality snaps back, the paused scene before me winds back into animation. Folding my arms, I raise my eyebrows. At eighteen, my questions are too big to contain.

I sit crossed-legged as I continue falling, a book open in my lap. The pictures begin to transpose upon one another. Overlay after overlay piles up. Sheer pictures growing thick, all resembling one another, only minor variations in each. Knowledge sounds in my head, creating a clatter. Juxtaposing information shouts from each book I pick up. Pagan, Hindu, Muslim, Buddhism, Judaism, Christian—too close to separate. A bell jar filled with years of facts fractures as new facts buzz in and out of the fragments.

For some reason, our church didn’t have Christmas Eve or Day services — it was considered unnecessary work. So, Christmas Eve, we visited a Lutheran denomination; the church of Dad’s childhood; the church Mom swore never to join. Years spent in Pentecostal churches softened Mom. We started frequenting a large Lutheran one at times of the year when ours didn’t hold services.

I remember my grandparents’ church. As a little girl, we sometimes visited it with them. A large, traditional building with a steeple. Crimson velvet lined the dark wood pews. A silver pipe organ filled the sanctuary, its eerie melodies turning hymns into dirges. The pastor wore a dark robe. Visiting church with my grandparents was such a contrast to the vibrancy of my Evangelical upbringing. I wonder what that little girl would have thought of the Assembly of God churches she would later join.

Christmas was a season of anticipation. Snow-dusted streets, decorations ornamenting lamp-posts, evergreen trees filling every space indoor and inside, we knew the holidays had arrived. At home, secularism was railed at. “Jesus is the reason for the season,” started in the mouths of adults long before it was commercialized.

For me, the holidays were the best and only part of winter I liked. Red and green splashed everywhere, the distinct jingle of Christmas bells echoing, holiday music streaming from radios, ice skating in sweaters and scarfs, toasting up with hot cocoa, it all mashed together inside me, creating a gooey warmth. Cheeks cherry from the cold, nose dripping, I dealt with the icy weather just to wander about, mesmerized by the sights and sounds. No matter how old I grew, every year, I became that dopey, starry-eyed kid who deep down thought that maybe, just maybe, Santa was real.

Christmas enabled my performing inclinations. It was an opportunity to sing and dance and participate in theatrics everywhere. From school to home to church, my creative juices were stirred. Center stage, spotlight illuminating me, it was my cocoon. For my family, it was their misfortune to live with a performer.

When I was fifteen, Dad came home from prison, guitar playing a new skill. Always musical, learning trumpet as a kid, gently forced to learn piano from Grandma, it was not outside his nature. But it evolved, a singular rope to grip onto in darkness. Family sing-a-longs became a norm. I always took lead vocals, but Dad strummed the tune, his baritone mixing with my soprano. Mom and my siblings fit in where they could. When no one brought up the harmony, I transitioned, belting it out. This new dad encouraged my dreams.

Cold air from the air conditioner hits me, instantly cooling my sun-warmed skin. Stepping into the entry-way of the church, I pause. Notes tinkle in the silence. The rhythm creates a tether my mind latches onto. Drawing myself slowly along, I move toward the sound.

A vacuum stands outside a door to the sanctuary, its cord lying in loose circles. The music is slightly muffled. Notes cascade, and I feel the harmony in my chest. Pulling the door open in inches, I stare into the gloom.

A single spotlight illuminates the stage. Dad sits at the piano, head bowed, eyes closed. His hands dance along the keys, an effortless melody rising. I fight the urge to join my voice with the notes. Face serene, he doesn’t notice me. Eyes still closed, he raises his head toward the ceiling.

I slip silently out.

Music crucial to humanity, the Ancients raised voices in praise. Tibetan monks chant, a deep-throated vibrating, resonating throughout the body.

Levites called by God, instruments of praise. Levites alone were allowed to worship in song.

Bards recited stories set to tune. A melodic history.

Cadences filtered through time, voices crying, a beautiful rawness given to glorify, to appease, to please, to commune.

Sundays, I sang solos, thinking little of the intent, focused mostly on my performance. Dad started playing various instruments with the worship team. Good looking, well-built, a quiet charisma people were drawn to, our pastor kept a short leash on my dad. Competition, in any form, could end a church career.

A distinct memory sticks with me. In Evangelical churches, people on the worship team are the cool kids. For years, I was lead vocalist for our youth group. My voice was my passion. I was a vocal performance major in college. During practice one day, our worship leader asked me to take a solo. Our pastor’s daughter, much younger than me, was upset. The next day, I was called into his office and removed from the worship team.

Never swim close to the sharks, a lesson I did not fail to learn.

Music was crucial to the Christmas season at church. Hymns out of style, we sang contemporary worship music, lyrics tossed up on a screen for members to follow along with. Christmas was one of the rare times we turned to traditional music. Music came before the tirades, before the stream-of-consciousness-style preaching, before Tongues lapped through our minds, music filled the dark space, a peaceful moment.

Twin evergreens, dressed for the season, stand like guardians on either side of the platform. Silence spreads out, music fades, relegated to the ether. In this moment, with all sound muted, I glance around.

Families line the pews. Beads and sequins twinkle from red and green and blue and purple finery. We commune, celebrating the Virgin Birth, an immaculate conception. Heads bowed, no one yet breaking the thread with shouts and clapping, this reverence seems out of place in our boisterous church. In the heartbeat following the music, memories of knowledge gained slam into my brain.

The Players

Krishna was born of Davarki, a blessed virgin.

Codom was a Siamese god, also born of a virgin birth.

The Egyptian god Horace, son of Isis, was born of a virgin birth.

All beget by divine means. All conceived by Immaculate Conception. All expected to bless the world with wonders and miracles. All pre-dating Christianity.

The Christmas tree glitters with lights and ornaments. Pretty packages ring the tree. Evergreen garlands adorn mantles and railings and door frames. The wonder of the season leaves us all in awe. Decorated trees embellish homes and malls and parks and offices. We eagerly await the day we can open the shiny packages piled beneath the tree.

Christians, superior in all things, we set holiday customs. Centuries spent bestowing the world with Christian practices. Christmas belongs to Jesus, to the Christians. For decades, I’ve heard it shouted inside and out of the pulpit, “Damn straight, we’re taking back Christmas.” As though Christmas has ever been threatened. We are certain Christmas customs and practices belong to us, only us, created by us.

It was told that Martin Luther stood in awe in front of a large evergreen, a midnight star seeming to top the crest. Stars dotting the inky sky, mapped out like a tapestry, crowning God’s creation. An evergreen, tall, mysterious, deep roots containing the secrets of the universe, the picturesque image impressed into his mind. And the Christmas tree was born.

Or was it Boniface, axing down an oak tree the Germanic tribes worshiped, replacing it with an evergreen?

Evergreens and mistletoe, revered by western pagans, symbols common for them, symbols stolen. Spirits roaming, seeking prey were warded off by sprigs of mistletoe hung on lentils and window panes. For the Norse, it represented peace and friendship, a hug and warm greeting given to all underneath the mistletoe.

Deep silence, midnight sky clear, ancient Druids cut mistletoe on the sixth day of a new moon, close to the winter solstice. Sacred rite, the cosmic male seed given to earth’s womb, nature’s union. Referred to as “all heal,” mistletoe restored health, medical applications still used today.

As the seasons cross, nature fading from primary brilliance to rusted earth colors to stark, bare, crystalline landscapes, pagans sought light and warmth. Cozy hearthsides bonding neighbors, feasts warming bellies, festivities in plenty to entertain, to celebrate. As winter settled in, evergreen was cut and decorated homes, a reminder of life.

Berries, pinecones, fruit, leaves- items adorning ancient evergreen trees. Gifts worshippers hoped for from the gods create a picture close to home. Representing goodwill, peace, a guardian against demons, the evergreen tree stood for much in many traditions, especially at the winter solstice.

Appropriation- a long-standing tradition in the Christian church. Take it, slice away from another culture. Wrapped and packaged as a pretty, Godly custom.

My focus swirls back with stark clarity. The silent hum long abandoned, our pastor prowls the stage. Bright, blue eyes glare with menace. I look around, not sure what I missed.

Pastor: Satan wants to rule you. I sit in bed every night, praying for you to say, ‘Satan, get behind me.’

His face is flushed, cheeks puffed out, heavy breathing making his chest rise and fall.

Mom rolls her eyes, flipping through her Bible. Dad studies the sound board he mans.

Pastor: Darkness fills us. You need to turn away from sin.

I look down at the program in my lap. The sermon title is listed as something about the blessing of Jesus’s birth. Cocking an eyebrow, I stare at the ranting man on stage. People slip from pews, a slow stream of movement in-and-out of the sanctuary. Children sit drawing on paper or quietly play games, using the seats as tables. A few parishioners give unblinking, rapt attention.

Pastor: (as if choking) “Satan wants to destroy you. Sin will destroy you.

I rub my forehead, an obvious gesture. Smirking, Mom swats at my arm.

Bridgit: Merry Christmas.

Words swim in my head, no longer tidy sentences and paragraphs. Words and phrases resonate, call to me. The familiar is terrifying.

Tera and I stand in the school bathroom. While I wash my hands, she stands behind me, fiddling with her bag.

Tera: How come you didn’t audition?

I pause, glancing at her in the mirror. Shrugging my shoulders, I look down at my soapy hands.

Tera: You’re one of the best singers. You would have got a part for sure.

Bridgit: Maybe.

Tera: I mean, you never don’t audition.

Bridgit: I just didn’t.

Tera: Why though?

Bridgit: (taking a deep sigh) Jesus Christ Superstar is blasphemous.

Tera’s mouth hangs open. I take fleeting looks at her in the mirror, fidgeting with my sleeves.

Bridgit: It’s just, in Christianity, we want to praise Jesus, not tell lies about him.

Tera nods her head, as if understanding, but her eyebrows crinkle. I swipe at a towel in the dispenser, briskly scrub my hands, crumple it and slam it into the bin.

Shrouded in darkness, I sit in the balcony, near the sound and lighting crew. I lean forward, elbows resting on the railing, chin cupped in my hands. Doleful eyes stare wide at the proscenium stage, framing the scene.

Jeremy, cast as Jesus, hangs on a cross, belting out. Other cast members crowd the stage, viewers to the Crucifixion. Mindy, Mary Magdalene, attempts tears as she sinks at the foot of the cross. Dancers twirl onto stage, a Greek chorus in movement.

Each note is torn from me, leaving me empty. The melody and harmony collide in my chest, a storm raging. As the Apostles carry Jesus off stage, applause spreads across the theatre. Pat, smack, pat, smack, over and over. My head sinks, notes caught in my throat.

short creative nonfiction

About

Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter is a freelance journalist, PR specialist and playwright.

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