Here’s my contribution to Dan O’Shea’s flash fiction throwdown, on the subject of churchly violence. His piece, Let Us Prey, can be found here, and the originally challenge is stated on his website, Going Ballistic, over here.

For the record, the following piece is a work of fiction, though it is based on certain real-life events that Montrealers may be familiar with. My own Dad doesn’t, so far as I know, actually believe that Jesus is magic, so let’s all stop conflating the author’s life with her work right now. Okay?

Okay, let’s do this thing! I call mine:

Biblical Proportions
by Laura Roberts

My Dad believes that Jesus is magic. And not in the Sarah Silverman way, either; he really and truly thinks the dude performed miracles, even from beyond the grave. Which is a shame, because if he really were magic, then maybe this whole thing would never have happened, and all those people wouldn’t have had to die.

I mean, it’s not like it’s Jesus’ fault, exactly. He did, supposedly, do a lot of great shit for a lot of people. It’s just that my dad wasn’t one of ‘em, and I guess he took that personally.

Wouldn’t you?

I’ll be the first to admit, I found the whole thing bizarre. Even—dare I say it?—crazy. It just doesn’t make any logical sense, and I’d always figured my father for the logical type, down to his pressed khaki pants and 9 to 5 as an accountant. Sure, he played the organ at church every Sunday and believed in a dude who allegedly walked on water, but so do millions of otherwise sane people, right? It’s the opiate of the masses, after all, and lots of people swallow that pill every weekend. But most of the others aren’t going to burn their churches down in a fit of righteous rage when things don’t go their way.

Presumably, anyway.

Dad had made it very clear that something was wrong with him that Sunday, but I hadn’t been following the details. He said something about a score to settle, and in my bleary, pre-coffee haze I’d thought he was talking about the previous night’s hockey game with “Les Boys.” (The “boys” were all middle-aged men with children, so I dunno why they still insisted on the moniker, but I digress.) There was always some rivalry on the ice between him and Kevin O’Malley; they were old pals who took the sport way too seriously, for a couple of has-been wannabes.

St. George church fire, Cincinnati, Ohio (photo via eBaum’s World)

Anyway, it didn’t really cross my transom that it could possibly have anything to do with THE LORD GOD ALMIGHTY until I heard the sirens and ran to the window to see smoke billowing out of the church just up the street. My Dad’s early-morning handiwork had set the thing ablaze.

It was a total mess. The place was like a tinderbox from Heaven, all original wood this and hardwood that. Went up like a book burning in Nazi Germany. The congregation narrowly escaped, by virtue of the fact that nobody in town ever made it to the service before 9:15, thanks to some quirk of timing at a particularly narrow covered bridge. Dad had started his spree at precisely 9:01, and even Father MacDougall hadn’t yet made his way from his breakfast at the rectory over the 15 feet to the sacristy by the time his loyal organist had doused the place in diesel (scrounged from his tractor) and struck that fateful match.

So why the hell did he do it? Well, it’s been all over the papers, so you’ve no doubt heard all the rumors already. But just in case you haven’t, here’s the straight dope: the dope wasn’t straight at all, and had recently been the victim of a botched operation that was meant to deliver Mr. Stephen Harris fresh from the ER as Mrs. Stephanie Harris.

I never suspected a thing. He’d told me he was going in for a routine procedure, something to do with a bum ticker, and then this.

As you can probably imagine, I’m mortified. Not only is my Dad a failed trannysaurus, but a murderer and arsonist to boot. (Wouldn’t have been so bad, except that a couple of the attending firefighters got trapped under a burning knave as they swept the building in search of church-goers. Tragic loss.) The whole town’s been talking about me, like maybe I’m next, and with that kind of pressure who knows? Still, I’ve been turning up weekly at the local synagogue, which is where the church’s weekly services have been transferred while the rubble is sorted (how’s that for irony?) and the congregation tries to raise money for a new church. I try not to make eye contact, but I can feel them staring at me, judging me. I try to take solace in the book of Job, but I really wish I’d just get swallowed up by some whale like Jonah instead. Seems like the stinking belly of the world’s largest aquatic mammal would at the very least offer a little peace and quiet.

Jesus ain’t magic, I can tell you that much. My dad found that out the hard way, and I guess I just wish someone had told the old boy a little sooner that the Good Book isn’t meant to be taken quite so literally.