Are you there God? It's me, the Sodomite
Joshua Aaron Jones
God, are you listening? It’s me, the Sodomite.
You probably only remember me as Joshua. Not the one with the trumpet and the quasi-marching band in Jericho. I’m the one with a music degree, a law degree, and no marching band (a little bitter about that one this time of year) in Florida. I know it’s been a while, unless you count my little short prayers every time I miss a practice question for the bar exam, but I was hoping you could help me out.
See, Hubby and I have to go to my hometown this weekend in north Alabama because my brother is getting married. We didn’t think this day would ever come. He had, after all, already sprayed litters of non-marital children all over the county. Well, actually just four. I guess the Christian right finally convinced him of the importance of the sanctity of marriage, albeit four babies too late. It probably would've been easier if they urged the sanctity of condoms, or at least the common sense of prophylactics, but I digress. He and my soon-to-be sister-in-law (and her three kids from her three previous marriages) will certainly be a shining example of how precious and pure the martial institution should be. I’m so glad the very fabric upon which our great Christian nation was founded, the family, will be strengthened by yet another heterosexual marriage. It might be dysfunctional from the get-go, but I just know that their heterosexual practices will cleanse any problems away, like the blood of Jesus Christ himself. Blessed be.
And this additional sacred marriage comes just in time! I feared anarchy was upon us, what with all this gay marriage business and the collapse of the Defense of Marriage Act, the President following the gay agenda to a T. Democracy is hanging by a thread! I just know, God, that with every heterosexual marriage in the United States, our place as your chosen people is ensured. Not like Iraq—HA! It must be full of sodomites! Bless US God, in the United States, not those homosexual Iraqis! I can feel the Shekhina Glory beaming upon us with the affirmation of penile and vaginal union! Hallelujah for heterosexuality and the sanctity of marriage! Yesss, Lord, hallelujah for heterosexuality! Hallelujah!! Amen! Ummmhmmm, that’s right!
Anyway, I’m the best man. I’m not sure if I’m the best man because my brother and his fiancée wanted to incorporate family into the wedding (my other brother is in the wedding as well) or if it’s just because having me do it meant one less tuxedo to rent, as I own one. My guess is: probably a little of both. For an Alabama redneck, he’s incredibly supportive of my less sanctimonious and abominable union with Hubby. My duty as best man very well could be a sincere sentiment. I mean, after his fiancée reminded him to do so, he bluntly and unemotionally asked me five seconds before he walked out the door at the end of his weekend visit here last month. I guess that was machoman redneck speak for, “I love you. It would really mean a lot to me if you would be my best man.” Never-the-less, thank you, Heavenly Father, for fulfilling the false prophecy my mother holds that my brother and I will one day be the best of friends and call each other every five minutes, like she and her sister.
So, I have to wear my tuxedo, the one I haven’t tried on since last year when I sang with the Gay Men’s Chorus. You remember? When I wasn’t nearly as fat-assed as now? And God, I’m afraid. I just pray, God, that you will surround everyone at the ceremony with an invisible shield to protect their eyes from the buttons that could ricochet from my waistband at any moment. I ask, Heavenly Father, that you’ll let my cummerbund be a satin barrier, in case I should not be able to hold my breath through the entire ceremony and reception. I can fit into it today, but I can’t guarantee tomorrow. Eating one carb or grain of salt could change everything. I just thank you, God, that it’s part of Americana for a wedding party to be ill-fitted in its formal wear and that my jacket, which due to your wonder-working powers still fits perfectly, will partially cover the bulging seam and cloak my ass crack from the summer breeze. Oh, and please don’t let my three-year-old nephew drop the wedding ring from that little pillow, because the sound of my ripping pants, as I bend down to retrieve it, might burst the ear drums of the dearly beloved heterosexuals gathered there together.
And God, when I’m standing beside my partner of eight years, who my family clearly knows I'm "gay together" with and who they've already met on a number of occasions, and they ask me, “you ain’t got-chew no girl-frand yit,” that you’ll give me the patience to not hurl myself or any of their NASCAR memorabilia over the waterfall nearby. I know it will be hard for them to recall the reality of my refusal to give up sodomy while they are still blinded from the dazzling perfection of the heterosexual wedding they just witnessed. It will only be with your firm hand that I will be able to restrain myself from angering Charlton Heston and breaking about six commandments all at once.
Well, that's all, God. Thanks for listening to a Sodomite like me. Bless Hubby, the kitties, my family, all of our friends, my readers, and anyone who votes against Republicans.
In Sandi Patty’s name, I pray. Amen.
Joshua Aaron Jones is a music educator turned lawyer who resides in Pensacola, Florida. When he's not writing or solving others' legal woes, he is out for adventure with his husband, two old cats, and a puppy.