
“What’s that supposed to be? The body of Christ?”
He said it in a mocking tone through a half-smirk, half-scowl, as he held up a round water cracker. He had plucked it off the slap-dash charcuterie board I set out for our Christmas house guests—him and his family.
He was Christian, like me, but made sure to let me know how he felt about my Catholicism right there in my own home. He preached his version of the truth, pulling up conspiracy websites and videos in the cracked-screen phone he shoved in my face.
He ruthlessly spouted lies and misconceptions about my faith but refused any healthy debate or reasonable discussion. He was too caught up in his ego trip, raining down fire and brimstone in my parlor, telling me to repent and follow Jesus.
If only he could understand that Jesus is everything to me–to us.
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