Inside Those Stained Glass Windows

People think that I should not write some of the things I do, especially my opinions on organized religion, which, by the way, I grew up in, and I mean deeply in. Nobody went to the mourner's bench as regularly as I did. I was a broken, messed up little boy with a tremendous amount of guilt about what I had done to that poor man Jesus Christ who did nothing but love me, and yet I had been so brutal to him that I had played a part, however small, in his crucifixion. When I ran to the altar after a moving sermon about how Jesus dies for me, it was to absolve my soul of the terrible agony I had caused that blond-haired white man that somebody had done a masterful job of painting blood all over.The church people criticize me when I went to the altar, because they really wanted to go home to eat their Sunday fried chicken, and I was keeping them back. In those days when someone was at the altar, many amongst the church congregation felt a needling sense of obligated to remain and help that contrite heart pray through. It was almost like sin if anyone left a poor, penitent soul prostrated on the altar, alone. I believe I wanted some attention too, for  I knew, in some childish way, that it would only be a matter of time before some empathetic minister to the wounded, would come bending into my shoulder, encouraging me  in drawling monotones to tell Jesus everything I had ever done. I was a little boy, so I am certain I made up some stuff to report to Jesus, for as such a young boy I must not have sinned enough, nevertheless I wanted Jesus to pardon me for playing such a big role in making those wicked men plait the crown of thorns that made blood stream into his eyes. I needed his pardon for making those Roman soldier plunge that spear into his side, and I longed for his mercy on me for making him cry "ELI, ELI, LAMASABACHTANI?" Telling me that I aught to be happy I went through that is like telling me that I aught to be glad that my father blazed my backside because it made me the good person I am today, and so I need to blaze the backside of my little boy as my good father blazed mine.