The Sermon on Uncreativity
When a sixth-grade "Free Thinker" is cornered at recess by a zealous classmate, a clash over faith, art, and authenticity unfolds.
Phoebe, who was eleven and in sixth grade, hardly knew Lilac. Lilac wore dresses and participated in the before-school prayer circles held once a month around the flag pole. Phoebe and Lilac had never exchanged two words, but this changed one morning at recess. Lilac searched Phoebe out where she was standing by the pink oleander bush at the furthest end of the school yard.
“Have you been born again?” Lilac inquired.
“No, thank you,” Phoebe replied coolly. “I’m vice-president of the Free Thinkers Club. I’m not interested.”
“Not interested in your eternal soul?” Lilac cried in amazement. “Not interested in Jesus Christ our savior?
“No. I’m a Buddhist. Please leave me alone.”
Phoebe walked away, but Lilac followed her.
“A Buddhist!” Lilac exclaimed. “But Buddhists believe in Jesus Christ. They consider him one of the great prophets--”
“No, that’s Muslims. We Buddhists believe that you can’t step in the same river twice and that the mind makes suffering.”
“Are your parents Buddhists?”
“Why?” Phoebe stopped in her tracks. That question made her furious. “Are you with the religious police?”
“God--”
“Your Christian God.”
“The one-and-only God--”
“Your Christian God.”
“--Makes himself known through the Holy Spirit and offers a chance of salvation even to Buddhists--”
“Leave me alone! You’re molesting me!”
Phoebe wasn’t a Buddhist but she knew a thing or two. She knew that religious apologists said things like “Fasgoopadopity” and “Rangtangmojumbo.” What were you going to say in response? “Caskeetpodotimy”? Their sentences looked and sounded like real sentences, but Phoebe had sat in on her father’s “Apologetics for Artists” class and knew better. She knew that if you replied and said something sensible, like did a God who cared about whether you kept two sets of dishes or prayed facing in a certain direction make the least bit of sense, you would only get a reply like “Rasparmindlipoo.”
“Do you realize that you are insulting my religion and saying that yours is better than mine?” Phoebe cried suddenly, entirely forgetting herself. “Do you realize--”
“If you would open your heart to Jesus Christ--”
“Why are you picking on me?”
“Our pastor told us to go out and talk to the brightest people we could find. Everybody knows that you are the best artist and the best writer in the whole sixth grade. You are someone who ought to know Jesus Christ.”
“Your pastor--”
“Our pastor loves art, just like you do.”
Phoebe squinched up her face something terrible. This was an especially outrageous lie and she could hardly stand it. She was about to protest, but Lilac spoke first.
“Come this Sunday,” Lilac said. “Our pastor is giving a sermon on creativity. Wouldn’t that interest you?”
Phoebe couldn’t believe her ears. “You must mean AGAINST creativity?” she cried.
“No, silly, FOR it. You’ll come, won’t you?” Lilac beamed. “It’s the perfect Sunday to come. We’re having a very special event after church. A sale of paintings! By a very famous artist. I forget his name, but, you know, ‘the painter of values’? He is the MOST collected artist in the world. He’ll be at our church, individually signing certificates of authenticity. Maybe you know his motto? ‘Scenes you can trust’?”
Phoebe stamped her foot. She wasn’t sure if she had ever actually stamped her foot before. She was about to say something—but Lilac turned on her heels and danced away.
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A telling scenario I know all too well. Thinking for yourself requires critical thinking and courage.
The alternative to becoming a sheeple is unacceptable.