I don’t believe in God anymore, but the way the South does religion is fascinating to me. The God of the South is Old Testament, through and through. Here, in the saltwater marshes and the dense thickets of greenery, God is still something great and terrible - still a creature of fire and brimstone, of floods and righteous fury. From the sides of highways, the churches erect their signs, flashes of penance and admonition: JESUS IS KING; REPENT & BE FORGIVEN; WHAT WILL YOU DO ON JUDGMENT DAY?
They make my skin crawl, these roadside homilies. I left my rosaries and my St. Jude pendant in a drawer back home, kissed God goodbye when I kissed my mother's cheek for the last time - and yet those signs never fail to rouse the creeping guilt, the dread and shame, a feeling as old as I am. Sometimes I find myself apologizing to God, going down the list, before drawing up short.
Funny, what a God-fearing upbringing will do to you. Funny how you never stop apologizing. Sorry I haven’t gone to Mass; sorry I haven’t called Mom back. Sorry I kissed a girl in seventh grade and never quite forgot it. Sorry I’m like this, sorry I exist this way, but what am I if not what you made me?