Creepy Catholic Statues

 


I spent most of my time in front of the TV as a kid. 

The glowing box was an oracle to me, a doorway. It took me away from whatever was going on around me, which was a whole lot of nothing, to be honest. I lived with my mother and grandmother, and for whatever reason, we didn't communicate much. We each lived in our own spheres. We were all healing, quietly and slowly, in individual stupors.

My mother also spent a lot of time in front of a TV.  Upstairs in her bedroom, she was trapped in an adult version of the childlike Lala land I lived in. The Television programs of the time (1980's) fashioned the world for us. And what a stylish fashion it was! We were both addicts and slaves to the glowing cube. 

My grandmother was different. She didn't worship the glowing box. Instead, she worshipped books, most notably, the Bible. Tv for her was as it should be,  some background noise to keep her occupied as she sliced up green beans for supper. A little Jeopardy in the evening as she cleaned up the kitchen. 

 Jesus Christ had released my granny from the cube; after all, a cross is but a cube unraveled.  

Religiously, Grandma at least was consistent. She was a Catholic, then became a Protestant, and as far as I know, that's what she stayed until she died. 

My mother, on the other hand, was not as consistent.  It was clear she knew there was a God, beyond the one that brought her "Facts of Life" and the "Night Rider." Who that God was, she was clearly on a quest to figure out.

This quest lead her (and me with her) too some very shady cults.

The problem was she called them all "Christian" even though it was clear to me that they weren't. She tried to convince me that the horrifying looking demons on the walls were "saints."

"Yeah, that Black Skinned creature with the eyes bugging out of his head is Saint Thomas!"

I was naive as a kid, but I wasn't too dumb, especially when it came to spiritual matters.  So I'd sit in church the entire time staring at "Saint Thomas," saying multiple prayers in hopes that the thing didn't come alive and devour me.

Even as a kid, I could tell the spirit of these places was off. They were not worshipping the Christ of the Bible, who was for righteousness.

That was not any fucking Saint Thomas with blood dripping out of the sides of his mouth and murder in his eyes. These were satanic churches my mother was bringing me to. However, the people were always friendly, as far as I can remember. I could feel bad things happened in them, though. I didn't want to go to them. 

Luckily, my mother's fickleness worked in my favor...sometimes. Rarely did we ever go to those churches more than once. My mother would quickly find a new path to enlightenment, and she'd be on to something else. 

So we'd go to other milder churches. Churches a little less strange...a little.

We'd go to Haitian churches where most of the service was in Creole, and the older people's singing was quite horrible. I'd cry and die slowly inside just at the sound of their bad singing.

(Haitians have beautiful voices in their pop music. It's only in the church do they ever sound so horrible!)

We'd go to Baptist churches where they sang cheerful songs, which I liked, but often went on for hours, which I didn't like.

More often than not, we went to Catholic Churches. That was the only constant. Sometimes granny would accompany us even though she was no longer Catholic. 

We may not go to any church the other 364 days of the year, or we might go to churches where they presented me with Voodoo Loa and tried to convince me it was Catholic Saints.   

But we'd always go back to Catholic Church, if for no other reason than to see the decorations at Christmas time. 

The hidden truth was Catholic churches with their white saints who always seem to be looking at you with a slight hint of disdain...also gave me an off feeling. 

Saint Thomas white wasn't all the better than Saint Thomas black. At Least Saint Thomas Black was honest. If I didn't behave and do what God said, he would destroy me. Saint Thomas white...well, I didn't know what he was up to, but it wasn't good. 

Maybe it was because I watched too much TV where the people were always smiling. People inside the box were normal looking; they made sense. But these morose saints? If they are who populate heaven, how can heaven be a place of joy? Them Saint's look tried.

They were always looking at you strangely. The Virgin Mary seems to be sneering. Spiritually, I didn't feel much difference between them and the voodoo Loa. Maybe my mother had been telling the truth? Perhaps those were just Christian Churches.

Ever notice the Catholic Church statues don't look you in the eyes even if the figure is staring straight ahead?


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