by Karen Nowviskie
“Nothing is as it seems. Nothing. Everything is a matter of faith. Do you understand this?”
Lori tried to gauge the reactions of the other seminarians, most of them scribbling or typing on their laptops. Some, like the man in the next seat, nodded sleepily.
“If I tell you that my hand is green, can you say it is not? Tan, you say? What of the blind man? Would he believe green if we all agreed this is so? It is a matter of his faith in our truthfulness that makes the hand green.”
Lori looked at the man on stage before her. She wanted to like this famous theologian, had waited for hours to see him, like he was Michael Jackson or something. Now all she could focus on was his greasy hair and the wet stain on the side of his shirt, visible as he spread his skinny arms wide.
God, he’s disgusting, she thought. Spitting and shaking and working himself up about faith. I know about faith. I want something to really move me.
She ducked her head at the unbidden thought of the old guy moonwalking across the stage, so when the audience gave a collective gasp, she nearly jumped out of her chair.
The old hippie before her, hands neither tan nor green but dripping red from the wounded palms, raised a crystal glass and intoned the words that Lori had spent her life preparing to say.
Finally, she thought, Showtime!