The Divine Union Project
James walked into The Big White Church through the side entrance and one of the deacons met him at the door. She was a large woman with black stretch pants, a frilly purple blouse that hung below her crotch and tan ankle boots with low, man-style heels. James was glad to be spared a view of her feet. So many of those southern Christians wore open-toed sandals.
She walked James to his place in the front pew and sat him between two women, each with a man on her other side. There were 10 of them altogether—five grooms and five brides—but he didn’t know which one would be his. There was a tall thin brunette on the end. He was hopeful.
The congregation stood and sang while the grooms and brides remained seated. A movie screen flashed vaguely religious images—a gold chalice, doves in flight, rainbows, cloud-piercing sunlight—with lyrics along the bottom of the screen and a soundtrack of wallowing string instruments. The church could hold a thousand people, and was maybe half full. A couple of dozen were family members of the five brides and five grooms; the others were there to witness the experiment.
The group wedding had been advertised for six months in The Weekly Malachi—The Big White Church’s newsletter that was available on Sundays at the newsstand near the front entrance. A committee had been assembled to facilitate God’s holy unions: happily married couples over the age of 50, together at least 10 years, church members for at least 20. One of the committee members—Adam Willard, a guidance counselor at the high school—had written a column that appeared in The Weekly Malachi: A HAPPY LIFE ’TIL DEATH DO US PART: THE DIVINE UNION PROJECT. This would be a moral undertaking, Mr. Willard assured his readers. All brides and grooms would be over the age of 21, and compatibility would be painstakingly considered from both a social and a spiritual perspective. None of that Mormon polygamy. Two opposite personalities, if properly connected, Mr. Willard claimed, could cancel each other out: an honest woman could save a dishonest man; a Christ-loving man could save a spiritually lapsed woman.
Two hundred people volunteered. Fifty were dismissed due to unpaid church membership dues. Another 75 failed to properly submit the registration form. The remaining 75 were interviewed, drug tested, filled out a questionnaire and were given a physical at the Christian clinic downtown. James was told that his blood pressure was a bit high but he was otherwise in good health. “High blood pressure can be stress-induced,” the nurse practitioner told him. “Devote an hour each day to prayer, and avoid caffeine.” At the bottom of the questionnaire where it asked Are you a virgin? James lied and put an X over the box for No.
It had been three years since James graduated from high school and he’d spent that time working nights and weekends at a comic book shop. He was awkwardly tall, just under six-nine, due to a diseased pituitary gland. The knuckles on his oversized hands were bulbous and rock-like, and he had a sharp, protruding jaw.
James’s mother had made him volunteer for The Divine Union Project. She couldn’t ignore her son’s looks. And his personality, she admitted, was creepy. “Stop slouching. Speak up. Look people in the eye. Brush your teeth. Change your shirt.” More than once she’d caught him in his bedroom masturbating to illustrations of comic book women with neoprene breasts and shrink-wrapped butts. “It’s those damn comic books,” his mother said. “Only God can save you.”
The grooms were brought up on stage and stood in a line while the women stayed seated in the front pew. James was the fourth man called. His light blue suit was too short in the arms. The music had stopped; the movie screen held an image of white roses; the crowd offered mild applause for each name announced. The senior pastor stood on a carpeted riser with hands folded. Adam Willard stood beside him in a black suit to act as each groom’s best man. Mr. Willard waved at the crowd, with one hand and then the other like a politician, as the deacon paced the stage and spoke about The Divine Union Project’s intent. The grooms clasped their hands behind their backs. The brides all wore sleeveless cream dresses and too much makeup, held yellow bouquets in their laps and stared at the line of grooms, each of them hoping, James imagined, that he wasn’t the one God had chosen for her.
The deacon took an index card from her pocket and announced the name of the bride selected to be divinely matched to the first groom in line. The congregation praised Jesus and the bride got up from the pew, took her man’s hand, and stood before the pastor. They were both broad-shouldered with freckled faces and greasy hair. They said their I do’s and the bride tossed her bouquet into the hooting crowd and shook Adam Willard’s hand.
Next was a plump woman with short pixie hair matched with a man of similar height and girth. Her bouquet was caught by a middle-aged man in the front row who held it over his head like a torch.
The third bride and groom were both Mexican American. James had been in high school with the guy; he’d gone away to college somewhere out west and taken a semester off. He had a wrestler’s thick chest and long hair tucked behind his ears. His bride had milk chocolate skin and the most perfect nose James had ever seen. The couple made their vows and then kissed with open mouths as relatives in the crowd yelled “Dios bendiga!”
Only two grooms remained: James and a smooth-faced African American man in a fitted gray suit with a narrow waistline. An equally put together and handsome African American bride sat in the front pew beside the pretty brunette. The African American couple smiled at each other. But the brunette started to cry, quietly at first, then audibly, with tears cutting through her foundation.
The pastor and the deacon and Mr. Willard and someone who appeared to be the girl’s mother huddled around her, rubbed her heaving back and whispered into her ears. The congregation’s murmurs turned to laughter and James felt all 500 pairs of eyes on him. “Please, people, please,” cried the deacon, waving her arms above her head. But the laughter kept rising and the brunette kept sobbing as James scanned the jeering crowd. He knew his mother was out there and tried not to spot her. This, too, he thought, must be part of God’s plan.
First published in the Winter/Spring 2018 issue of The Southampton Review.