I was about eight years old when I draped myself in a bedsheet and slowly glided through the house, arms outstretched intoning in a low ghost-like voice “I am the Messiah.” When my mom saw this she must have been amused, although slightly horrified, for ours was a conservative Evangelical household. “Bengie!”, she exclaimed in a hoarse whisper. “We don’t say things like that! Only Jesus can be the Messiah.” I looked up, shocked, sad and a little embarrassed as I let the sheet fall to the floor. I still don’t know if she ever repeated this event to friends like she did other “cute” things her little Bengie did. It was never again discussed.
She did, however, like to regale people with the tale about the time I got home from church and proceeded to serve myself communion by breaking up saltine crackers on a little fancy plate and sipping a tiny cup of grape juice out on the patio. All-in-all I got the general feeling that my mom and the entire family was pleasantly amused by my performances, not that I needed an audience. My experiments with the Gilbert Little Scientist Chemistry Set were always done solo, in the basement where I could mix up all the stinky chemicals in private. Mom would only call down occasionally, probably when something like the “Little Volcano” was spewing sulfurous lava on the counter. “Bengie,” she yelled through a crack in the door at the top of the stairs. “Is everything OK?” Yes, mom, all is well.
Then as now, church is not a building for me. And the power of god is not limited to one or even three entities. I know god, and magic, is in everyone and everything. My church is my garden, my designs, my cooking; my little personal communions go on. And yes, I am The Messiah, and so are you.