The Show
You wake up each morning, trudge through your daily devotions. You're reading, but nothing's really registering in your head. You slur through your prayers, pausing for a teensy moment of clarity to make a half-hearted attempt at an excuse or an apology.
You hold bible study meetings once a week, encouraging your officemates that if they only follow God's commands, everything will be alright, all the while thinking about how you practice the opposite. To appease yourself, you tell them as much as possible that nobody should be able to tell them that they don't belong here just because they're not perfect. You make yourself believe that, hey, you're not really lying here, and ignore that small voice in your head that says that that is such a cop out.
You attend ministry practice on Saturdays, and try to stay out of the limelight. You try to keep as quiet as possible, and not overcommit. You think that Saturday is enough as it is and that you don't want to "overburden" yourself. Fellowship outing on the holiday? "Um, I'll check my schedule. My boss might ask me to go to work that day." Special service on the weekend? "I'll try my best. Sorry, I really get out of the office late." The lies become easier and easier week after week.
On Sundays (the ones where you show up at least), you go in and out as quickly as possible. You raise your hands during worship and let your mind weave through the things you want to finish that day, the things that happened during the week, the things that will happen once you've gotten your business going and, very occassionally, the things that you really should be thinking about during worship. You listen to the preaching, take notes to keep yourself awake and agree with the pastor's points in theory. You tell yourself that you really want to be pure this time, but your gut tells you that this probably won't happen. After the closing prayer, you tell people that you have errands to do and you hope to join them for after service lunch next time.
Once-a-month ("schedule permitting" you tell yourself), you attend the meetings for bible study leaders. You discuss situations with them, listen, joke around and laugh at the right moments. You give safe answers to your ministry pastor's questions, and put on a face of attentiveness. After the prayer, your pastor takes you aside and, without skipping a beat, confronts you:
"Do you smoke? Somebody from your office told us you smoked."
You panic. What? Somebody ratted you out. You admit to it but only to a vague degree and bleat repeatedly that you've stopped.
"You stopped? How many times have you smoked really?"
You make more half-lies. Your pastor raises her eyebrow and asks the question again. You finally admit to it, and immediately feel guilty and stupid for starting out with the lie.
"Do you have other vices? Do you drink? Do you go to bars."
You panic some more. Your perfectly structured, perfectly divided world is starting to unravel. You can't think of anything to stop it because it's the truth that's the catalyst. You start off with another feeble lie because you never learn.
"Really?"
She gives you an appraising look, which makes you feel cornered. She asks the question again, and you admit to the truth once more. You never were any good when you're caught in a lie after all. Throughout the whole thing, you dread the outcome of the conversation: Your family back in Manila knowing and being subjected to embarassment within the church. Your churchmates here knowing about it and looking at you differently. You're no longer their golden boy, no longer someone to be emulated, no longer an example used by the ministerial staff of being both spiritual and successful.
You feel your face getting flushed. Your mind is drawing a blank, but you can't seem to stop talking. You blurt out your problems, and your puny realizations. She nods and listens, and make small but straightforward remarks here and there. It's been all a show she says. You agree and continue to ramble: you've made bad decisions, it's all your fault, you want everything to be right again and you know that you're being a hypocrite. She interjects simply:
"Well, yun na nga."
You feel bad, but know that you deserve it. You're not looking for someone to comfort you because the most honest you've been in the whole conversation was when you panicked and started to ramble: You do believe that it's all you're fault. You are being a hypocrite.
Just as she leaves you ask her if you should stop teaching. She says that she will have to think and pray about it, but you kind of expect what's coming.She tells you that you need to have a serious talk with your members, and that she will let you know.
You walk dazedly out of the room. You want to cry but you can't. Expectedly, there is no sense of relief that things have been revealed, but curiously there is no sense of sadness either. There is only the fear of the worst that's about to happen. You're going to have to wait for it hit and you're going to have to take it all.
The show's over and you can't do anything about it.
