Dehortatio (de-hor-ta’-ti-o): Dissuasion.
“Believe it! If you don’t believe it, I’ll kill you. People like you don’t deserve to live.“ He meant it. He had a hatchet in each hand and I was tied with ropes around his refrigerator. I couldn’t pretend I believed what he believed. It would be a sin if I lied. I was a zealous as he was. The irony didn’t escape me.
He was an Elvisite. Elvisites believe that Elvis Presley was the true messiah. They believe Jesus was an imposter. They believe his resurrection was enabled by devils from outer space who used alien technology to roll away the rock at the cave’s entrance where Jesus was waiting for them in a magic spacesuit. The space devils transported Jesus on a flying guitar to Antarctica where he froze to death and was eaten by a leopard seal. Elvis, on the other hand, sits in Heaven alongside Billy Graham playing his guitar and singing “Don’t Be Cruel,” a hymn that teaches the foundation of the Elvisite faith.
There was no way I could directly refute the killer’s faith. All I could do was lay out the basic tenets of my faith in the hope it would turn him around. I started singing the Mermaids 1980 song:
Popsicles, icicles, baseball and fancy clothes
These are a few of the things he loves
He loves Levis and brown eyes
And wind blowin’ through his hair
These are a part of the boy I love
The “boy” I was singing about was my savior Fred. I could see my killer start to soften. I continued:
If you put them all together
Much to your surprise (oh tell me what)
You’ll find a bit of heaven
Right before your eyes
My killer cut me loose and put his knife down. He was crying and apologizing for being “cruel” to me.
I was a teenager in love. I thought I’d be a teenager forever and that Fred would be my rock—my savior. I had faith in him and everything we planned for—a future of spiritual bliss.
POSTSCRIPT
I’m glad my rendition of the Mermaids song turned the killer-Elvisite around. But, here I am ten years later sitting alone in the dump I live in. Fred left me two weeks after the Elvisite episode. I raised our son Levi on my own. He’s a truck driver. He never visits. I work as the wet boobs girl at the car wash. I get a lot of tips, but the job is demeaning. I want to vest my faith somewhere as I age and get closer to my trip into the eternal mystery.
I have heard of a group of people who worship bicycle pumps. I think it’s a cult. It has something to do with the breath of the universe and the sanctity of the universe’s “pumping arm.” The leader of the Pumping Arm cult is a man named Lance Armstrong—an apt name. The motto of Pumping Arm is “Pump and ye shall receive.” The motto is printed on wristbands that all members wear, along with carrying silver-plated engraved bicycle pumps.
I have purchased a bicycle pump and a wristband on Pumping Arm’s website and will be attending my first service on Sunday. Pump and yea shall receive!
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.
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