This nearly made me fall to my knees in religious ecstasy (and I say nearly, because I was wearing shorts and while we have been discussing getting the rug cleaned over here, we haven’t actually done it yet) and shout with inspired joy, because the Reverend was describing the version of the Christ that graces my library, Dollar Store Camouflage Jesus.
Both of you who read this blog on a regular basis know the provenance of Dollar Store Camouflage Jesus. He was found in a 99 Cent Only store in Vista, California by my son, who promptly brought Him home, where He has resided ever since, keeping a watchful Eye over my premises.
That’s all I expected of Him previously, although I did whine a while back about Him never starting to weep or bleed on special occasions like other, harder-working holy figurines. Now I realize the error of my ways. Oozing a little liquid on holy days is a snap compared to visiting the nightmare landscape that must be Pat Robertson’s dreams, infested as they likely are by stomach-boggling visions of Trump and Pence in robes and halos.
Now that DSCJ’s place in the End Times has been revealed to Robertson, it strikes me that I better get busy working up a theology for the Church of Dollar Store Camouflage Jesus, which I have been waiting for Him to inspire me to do. All He has revealed to me up until now is that both automatic weapons and PTSD are gifts from God. The fact that He pals around with Robertson implies that He is violently homophobic, so I can check that box off now.
But first things first. I anticipate a horde of pious pilgrims will soon materialize at my door, keening to see DSCJ. From what I know of Robertson’s flock, they will be humble men in hunting boots and pious women who bake pies and possums.
I need to make them feel welcome here. Got to get that rug cleaned. And POLISH THE COLLECTION PLATE!
Pat inspired me to think of that.