Lemon Grove Inferno

By Rachelle King

Hell is a Fundamentalist Christian church in the city of Lemon Grove on Skyline Drive every Sunday between 10 and 11am. Here the congregation and I wait in methodical cherry wood rows smelling of fresh Murphy’s Oil. Sitting perched with our clown faces on, hands intertwined neatly on our laps and right leg placed homogeneously over the left. Broken light plays silently across our faces from stain glass stories of the bible. Sixteen century imitation chandeliers let down the vague illumination of electric candles. Glittering reflections from the overzealous podium cause the elderly in the front row to keep their sunglasses on inside the sanctuary. The décor alone is testimony of the church’s priorities.

Dodging lavender and neon orange mushroom shaped haircuts, I attempt to peer down at the stage. Strutting like a Vegas show host in some end-of-the-strip hotel casino, pastor John makes his way onto the stage. He could have put Liberace to shame with his impudence. “Good morning fellow children of God,” he pronounces monotonously. Applause brakes out like firecrackers in a tunnel at his greeting. The band behind him on the podium starts to play an old hymn converted into a new age Christian rock song. People surrounding me chant along and clap simultaneously to the percussion machine. Today the spirit was not moving me to rock back and forth stiffly, flailing my hands in the air. I wince as my neighbor assaults me with his buoyant interpretation of “He is My Rock.”

Patiently, I wait for the simulated rejoicing to end. Attending this church always feels to me like involuntary subjection to a weekly time delay. I cannot recall how we ever transition from one ritual to the next. At the moment, my interests are captivated by the large threads in my neighbor’s polyester slacks. My thoughts drift off, and I think about what doughnut I want from the coffee shop across the street.

Pastor John finally silences the church body with his request for a choir member to lead us in prayer. A bulbous woman with a cranberry colored eighties-style office suit steps forward from the choir, knots her hands below her many chins and prays: “Dear Heavenly Father, we gather here today in your blessed presence.” Tiny pearls of perspiration accumulate just above her lips and below her hairline. I wonder to myself if people like her have to take a course on how to lead a prayer in front of a large congregation. She must have had to. After all, this church is located in the city known to have “The perfect climate,” which refers mostly to Lemon Grove’s social and economic climate rather than the actual weather patterns.

She then trims her speech with the customary finale: “In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, Amen.” “Amen,” the congregation answers back passionately. Pastor John then begins his long tedious descent into the world of adult Christian ideology. I let out a strained puff of air and grip the wood beneath my legs with moist palms. First, I had to attend the service specifically designed for High School students, most of whom were the offspring of well-to-do San Diego county conservatives, and now I am forced to sit here and listen respectfully to issues concerning their parents. I could not day dream myself out of this subduing lecture fast enough.

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