Of Divine Teaching
By Ryan Bresingham
Rapture
“And everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved.”
Acts 2:21
Group X, No. 1, Altarpiece (1915) by Hilma af Klint
Hilma af Klint Foundation, Stockholm
The boy looked down at his shoes while the host
was placed in the palm of his hand, barely uttering
Amen before slipping the unleavened bread
into his trouser pocket on his way back to the pew.
He silently prayed for the liturgy to close, a ceremony
he grew to despise after the God they worshipped
let a drunk driver shatter his sister’s spine
one late October night three years ago.
“God works in mysterious ways,” his mother
would say as she fought back tears. He locked
eyes with the priest at the altar, who blessed
the congregation in the name of The Father,
The Son, and The Holy Spirit. The choir belted out
songs of praise, raising their hands to the heavens.
The boy stared up at the ceiling, a divine mosaic
of two hands reaching out, almost touching,
and for just a moment, he could’ve sworn one hand
moved, peeling off the ceiling like paint
and reaching out to him, calling his name.
Yet he bowed his head, refusing the offer,
denying the existence of a higher being
he was taught to foolishly believe in at school,
a being who’d allow such evil to pervade his creation.
“Go in peace,” the priest said,
and trumpets blared, and the ceiling parted
like the Red Sea, opening a path to the sky,
with seraphim and cherubim pouring out, lifting
believers high into the clouds. The boy watched
as the souls of his mother and father and brother,
pure and holy, soared towards salvation,
the hand of God welcoming them through the gates,
a shepherd herding His sheep. He gazed with awe,
reaching into his pocket, but it was now empty,
and so he cried out, pleading for absolution
as the gates closed, the glory and honor
now beyond reach, leaving him behind
with only an echo of her voice in the distance.
Unclean Lips
“And I said: ‘Woe is me! For I am lost; for I am a man of unclean lips, and I dwell in the midst of a people of unclean lips.’”
Isaiah 6:5
My father took my wrists
and dragged me to the bathroom
after the name Jesus Christ poured out
from my lips like poison at the dinner table
on the first day of summer, the prayer
words jumbled like scattered puzzle pieces
in my head. He stared at my reflection
in the mirror, waiting for me to pick up
the bar of soap and stick it in my mouth
like a wad of chewing gum.
I looked at him, my eyes pleading
for mercy, but he just huffed,
muttered “for fuck’s sake,”
and shoved the white bar into my mouth,
the same way his father did to him
when he was my age. A punishment
for taking the Lord’s name in vain,
for unclean lips wreak an unclean heart.
My tongue throbbed from its touch,
as if my taste buds were now withering
from the abuse, my hands clinging
to the sink, my sacrificial altar,
a torturous atonement, a wicked deliverance.
Seven minutes passed before he took it out,
one minute for each vice he thought infested
my morality like fleas – sloth and greed
and lust and gluttony and wrath
and envy and pride, all washed away
by soap bubbles bursting on my tongue
like live coals sparking in the deep pit,
absolved, cleansed, spiritually restored.
The taste still burns like hell.
Ryan Bresingham is a writer and aspiring screenwriter based in Los Angeles currently studying Creative Writing and Film Studies at Pepperdine University. He is a strong advocate for the Oxford comma, and he finds immense beauty in the power of storytelling.