Jesus Freaks: Sins of the Father(69)

The two friends Purple Hair has with her are a lot less scary when forced into an actual conversation. They’ve been silent the whole time. Purple Hair seems to have gone mute, too, not knowing how to answer my question.

“Well, no,” I start. “I’m not okay with this obvious late term abortion. Also, I’m not okay with you being made to feel like walking through these doors means you’re participating in such a thing. Finally,” I have to cut everyone off as they all go to speak at once, “I’m not okay with any of you infringing on Freedom of Speech.

“These girls,” I point to my roommates, “are expressing their belief in what they consider to be murder. They’re allowed to believe that, and allowed to tell you.”

A girl with black hair steps forward. “Yeah, but they’re not allowed to tell me I’m going to hell for supporting this place.”

My jaw tightens. “Did they actually say that?” I cast a quick glance over my shoulder and see Bridgette and Eden unable to look me in the eye. It’s answer enough. “Well, that’s the thing. They’re allowed to. They shouldn’t, maybe. But, they feel it’s their duty to tell you what happens—in their belief—if you participate in murdering what they consider to be a baby.”

“They can’t throw their beliefs on me. I’m not a Christian,” Purple Hair cuts in.

“Good,” I say in an exhale. “Then hell shouldn’t offend you so much.”

The five women around me are silent, with varying degrees of skepticism and shock on their faces.

“You’re one of them, aren’t you?” Black Hair asks with a slight snarl.

“I beg your pardon?” My legs are shaking, and I’m afraid I’ll fall over.

“A Jesus Freak,” she spits out. “Dressed like one of us.”

Us versus Them.

I’ve been working that exact concept in my head for the last couple of months. Am I one of them? Or one of them? Now, faced with the question publicly, I’m forced to answer. I open my mouth, trusting that the truth will come out.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “And, I don’t think it has to be like that. This is how I look.” I step back, gesturing to my hair, face, and clothes. “I also believe Jesus died for me,” I proclaim out loud for the first time in my life. “I don’t know how the two pieces fit together, but they do. Because I’m standing here, aren’t I?”

Previously silent, Matt moves closer to me and takes my hand again. “Me, too,” he whispers into my ear.

Between what I’ve said and Matt’s apparent understanding, I feel a brick wall—much like the one behind me—crumble inside my spirit. With this instant lightness comes a flood of tears.

“Look,” I say to the three angry liberals through sniffs. “My mom is Wendy Sawyer. Go inside the building, look through some of the literature, and you’ll eventually come across her name. She’s a policymaker from Connecticut whose focus is reproductive and women’s rights.”

At this, my roommates look at me with wide eyes. My birth father’s identity isn’t the only one I’ve guarded this semester. I’ve also been vague about the work of my mom, not wanting to drive an unnecessary wedge between me and two young women who I care for and respect. Matt squeezes my hand and I straighten my shoulders.

“So, if you want to talk policy, I’d be happy to do that with you. I think this organization does some really important things for all kinds of women. And, if you want to talk about Jesus and why some of this stuff,” I gesture to the building, “might not be okay…well…I work at Word on Friday and Saturday nights and would be happy to talk with you. For now, though, can we dial the anger down a bit?”

Walking to Eden and Bridgette, I take the graphic pamphlets from their hands and stuff them in my backpack. I pull a notebook and pen from my bag and scribble my name and number on it three times before handing it to the still unnamed girls. “Call me.”

The girls take my number and put it in their pockets. Slowly, they each turn away after giving Eden and Bridgette one last cautious eye.

Immediately exhausted, I release Matt’s hand and sling my backpack over my shoulders, lowering my head for a second to thank God for keeping all of us safe during what could have been a much nastier confrontation. When my eyes meet my roommates’, I see them looking just past me, a slight look of surprise on their faces. Turning, I find Jonah and Silas standing awkwardly on the sidewalk.

I want to ask them how long they’ve been standing there, why they didn’t say anything. Or maybe thank them for their silence, since it’s clear to me that what happened here was just as much for me as it was for everyone else. I love Jesus. And, I said it out loud. I love the God that drives my Carter friends to be kind to each other first. Slow to anger, quick to prayer. What I want more than anything, is to figure out where it breaks down; where it becomes okay to shove pictures of bloodied fetuses in someone’s face in the name of Jesus. And the paradox? I have to pray to the same God my protesting friends do in order to find the answer.

Open my ears, God. I offer one more silent prayer before letting my shoulders fall.

Looking at my friends, and having little strength left to say anything else, I sigh. “Let’s go get some coffee.”

“Kennedy…” Eden starts, making her way to Jonah and taking his hand.