First Draft

Peruvian sunlight blazes down on me, making my shoulders ache as we march down the road, maneuvering past vendors and stray cats. It’s so empty in Arequipa, which is usually a bustling city. But not now. Not today.
My host family is dressed in their best. Skirts shimmy, dress shoes clack. And then there’s me. Oh, and Emerson of course. Two vanillas amongst a sea of chocolate. We are so out of place together walking towards the church. I fidget nervously with my hands, tying and retying my ponytail over and over again so that I have something to do with them. I smooth my skirt, feeling jumpy. Emerson is in a tailored suit of dark brown, which matches his dark brown hair distinguished with gray and dark eyes. Unlike me – I’m trembling like a cat in a rainstorm and keeping my eyes averted from all passersby – Emerson strolls casually down the street, his head held high and a confident smirk on his face. I wish it were that easy for me.
The wrought-iron gates swing open to admit us. My host mother takes my hand firmly, shoving her way through the now swarm of people trying to get the best spot. I grab Emerson’s hand – it’s so big compared to mine – to drag him with me. As soon as we are through the gate with other well-dressed Hispanics, we are mob from all sides. The homeless. Some of them are lepers. One man is missing his eyes; one woman holds her arms up imploringly because she has no hands to plea with.
“I have heard a devout person, who prized the Sabbath, say in bitterness of heart, ‘On Sundays, it seems wicked to go to church.’” Emerson says, turning his face away from the man with no legs and one arm with a disgusted sort of sadness. I blush but refuse to answer.
We sit down together in a pew, so close I’m practically sitting on Emerson’s lap. The bench is so full that my little sister has to sit on her grandfather’s lap in order for everyone to fit. The service is about to begin. We’re so far in the back that I can’t see the preacher, but I hear him loud and clear. I try to listen; try to understand, even though the sermon is all in Spanish. When we stand to sing, Emerson leans down to me to whisper, “Meantime, whilst the doors of the temple stand open, night and day, before every man, and the oracles of this truth cease never, it is guarded by one stern condition; this namely; It is an intuition. It cannot be received second hand.” And while my host family sings songs in a foreign tongue I comprehend only in the simplest of ways, I realize that Emerson is right.
I have never been a religious person. My dad is agnostic on the best of days, and throughout my youngest childhood my mother always sought a more spiritual path. The town I have grown up in, however, bubbles over with religion – mostly Christianity. As a little girl my classmates diligently went to church, diligently wore crosses on their necks and went to religious camps, and diligently spewed to me what their parents and religious leaders had always said: go to church. Believe in God. Or you’ll end up in Hell. The thought of those words constantly echoed in my ears from classmates and even teachers makes me feel claustrophobic. I look up at the ceiling for comfort only to find a scene of God’s greatness spreading out above me like some great fishing net.
“Churches are not built upon on his principles,” Emerson murmurs to me. He points at the pulpit where a carving of Jesus dying blossoms in ivory. “But on his tropes.” I scowl, but only because I know he’s right. Maybe once, long ago, Christianity was about people trying to find light in darkness. People wanted to be good back then. They wanted to be righteous not only for themselves, but for future generations. They wanted to prove that they weren’t monsters like their warring brethren. But after Jesus died and the church itself took over, the message changed. No longer does this religion inspire hope, I think to myself as I glance at my host mother holding her child protectively, as though trying to hide him from the eyes of sinners. Now it only inspires fear.
“There is no doctrine of the Reason which will bear to be taught by the Understanding.” Emerson continues. “Jesus Christ belonged to a true race of Prophets.”
I feel my scowl deepen, but also can’t help but look around to make sure no one heard him. If anyone in this church heard Emerson say that, we’d be thrown to the lions. But he’s right – again. The more I read about it, the more it makes sense: Jesus is kind of like Buddha: a highly enlightened man. But that’s just it: he was a man. That’s why people related to him. I look up at Emerson.
“One man is true to what is in you and me. Thus is he, as I think, the only soul in history who has appreciated the worth of man.” Emerson says. I nod in understanding. “But what a distortion did his doctrine and memory suffers in the same, in the next, and the following ages! The true Christianity, - a faith like Christ’s in the infinitude of man, - is lost. None believeth in the soul of man, but only in some man or person old and departed.” Emerson storms, his voice growing with his agitation. I shush him because people are starting to stare. I don’t want to get kicked out – I would disrespect my family if that happened. Still though, the man wearing the long white robe is an imposter. He isn’t doing the religion justice. Instead he is only installing more fear into these people – who watch him like some kids watch TV, with wide eyes and slacked jaws – and not only that, but he is installing prejudice and judgment. It makes me so furious I almost stand up to leave. But really, I remind myself, it isn’t the preacher’s fault. It’s the institution’s fault.
Emerson nods back towards the entrance, where those poor people are still sitting, begging for something, anything, to see them through the day and into the next. “But the very word Miracle, as pronounced by Christian churches, gives a false impression: it is Monster.” I nod sadly, feeling my heart go out to them. They know no better. They are probably so helpless for life that they crawl beneath the overhang of the roof, resting against the pulsing walls and begging for Jesus to save them. They don’t know that the new institution that Emerson has pointed out to me doesn’t include them. When they die, they will only become mortar for the foundation of its lies.

Almost a year later and I’m in a store back home. It smells of incense and the air is permeated by the sound of Native American flutes. There are crystals, paintings and books of fairies and angels, books of spirituality. I find what I’m looking for along the wall. A pentacle – a simple thing, really, made from sterling silver. It glints from the lights and the bouncing crystal laughter of the store. After Peru I realized that religion wasn’t bad, it just wasn’t for me. So I’m trying a new path – a spiritual one. I glance through the window, and swear that I see my good friend Emerson give me the thumbs up.