My Bad Religion Shirt Isn’t an Invitation to Tell Me About Jesus
Heavenly Breakfast Burritos
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Throughout my life I’ve had dozens of people threaten to “pray for me.”
Being a life-ling Atheist (for lack of a better term, a designation which I loath) in America, it comes with the territory. I’m not sure what the prayer’s desired results were, but clearly, it didn’t fucking work.
I was born in the year nineteen hundred and eighty one, the first of two children, into a religion-free home. I was not baptized, probably to the chagrin of my grandmother, a lifelong Catholic, who kept a ceramic bust of the pope John Paul II on her wall until the very day she died, and had raised her children Catholic via Catholic schools. This may have been a contributing factor to why my mother hadn’t opted to baptize me. My father, raised free of religion on the east coast of America in the nineteen hundred forties, and fifties, likely a daring feet for the time on my grandparents part, probably never even considered a baptism for me.
It wasn’t until grade school that I was made aware some people went to a different building from their home, early every Sunday morning, to be told how if they didn’t show up weekly, or if they didn’t straighten up and fly right, they’d be condemned to a fiery damnation for all eternity, tortured endlessly. They told me it was called “church.” It sounded, even then to my childish ears, like a crock of shit. When the school children asked if I believed in “god,” my answer, always met with shocked, gaping maws, was “no, this ‘god’ fellow kinda sounds like a dick.”
My childhood Sunday mornings were spent warmly in bed, reading the comic book adventures of the X-Men, or getting the secret level warp whistle in the classic video game “Super Mario Bros. 3” on the family’s Nintendo Entertainment System. There was hardly time for god in this routine. My life was already pretty well fulfilled.
One Sunday, bright, and way too fucking early, my father burst into my room.
“Get up, get dressed, we’re going to church,” he said, the early morning, last minute notification clearly a part of his strategy.
What the fuck, I thought? Were we being punished? I know my brother and I could be a handful but had my parents actually thrown their arms up in defeat, and in desperation, turned to the “almighty” to help them?
Turns out, our family friends, the Dunkles, had invited our family to their church’s annual Easter service ceremony, and my parents, suddenly stricken with a bout of insanity, accepted, resulting in me being forced out of my cozy, secure, Sunday morning confines, and into the family’s Dodge Minivan on our way to attend church.
The Easter service lasted precisely eighty seven hours, all the while some funnily dressed doofus prattled on, and on, and on, and on, about this Jesus character. How he’d died, and came back to life, hence the reason for Easter, and my being subjected to this endless monotony. Me, being a child, unburdened by the history of Christianity, had no context for any of this, and quizzically wondered how the Easter Bunny fit in to the story. The only kind of Easter I’d ever known involved him, collecting his candy-filled, discreetly hidden plastic eggs. The previous easter he’d even brought us a puppy. Puppy delivering, sweet-treat-hiding rabbits seemed far better than this dead-ass Jesus jerk who was currently keeping me from the latest issue of Spider-Man.
Eventually the borefest concluded. Piling back into the Minivan, now on our way to an Easter brunch at some quaintly named chain restaurant, and still being confused, I asked my parents, “why did we have to go to church today?”
“Sometimes you have to do things for other people you don’t want to,” my mother responded. A fair lesson, but one I thought could have been taught a different way, and later in the day.
A few years later, when I discovered Punk Rock, what with its highly anti-authoritative stance, I was ripe for the plucking. Hearing bands belt out critical lyrics of all institutions, including religion, I felt an immediate kinship.
“Yes,” I thought. “All religions DO make me want to throw up,” I agreed, as the Dead Kennedys’ frontman Jello Biafra caterwauled in their song “Religious Vomit.”
Punk Rock, with its brazen defiance, showed me there were others who didn’t find religion, and authority, all that keen. That it was permissible to question those ideas, and their holders. That spirit of defiance filled me, like some would say, the light of the “holy ghost,” only Punk Rock was real, tangible, spiky, and pissed off. It didn’t require a blind leap of faith. Joey Ramone was right there, on my TV, and in my ears. But how would I let people know of my newly discovered, rebellious attitude? Enter my first Bad Religion shirt.
Bad Religion, in case you don’t know, is a pioneering punk band that helped usher in punk’s second coming in the nineteen hundred and nineties by making the blueprint for the catchy, skate punk that dominated the decade, with their seminal, nineteen hundred and eighty eight album, “Suffer.” Fronted by Greg Graffin (current PHD holder in Zoology), with his biting, and satirical sociological examinations of the human race, Bad Religion are still going strong to this day. Their impact on punk, and myself can’t be overstated, especially as manifested by their iconic logo, the “cross-buster,” a typical religious cross surrounded by a bright red, “Ghostbusters” like circle and bar blocking out the symbol. It’s as pure a work of art as any, one I covered my teenagedtorso with.
Not just my torso, but my arms as well. Along with the classic logo emblazoned largely on the front, it featured the band’s name printed down both of its long sleeves, and for added flair, printed stacked along the bottom back side. At the time it was of the utmost importance that I show off my various assortment of studded belts so I’d always tuck my shirts into my pants, which left only the “bad” part of the name visible, leaving my friends to refer to me as “bad ass” whenever I donned the shirt. Clever bastards.
Aside from my arsenal of Misfits band t-shirts, this was my next most worn article of clothing. I wore it to school, to the movies, to friend’s houses. Everywhere. The power that logo has to incise people is staggering, and being as I was just a snot-nosed, punk teenager, they were going to fucking tell me about it, but not as much as they would tell my now wife, then friend, Desirae, after she got the cross-buster tattooed on her eighteen year old arm, for all to see. A choice she regretted until two thousand and twenty two when she finally had it covered up by another, far less antagonizing tattoo of a beautiful tree, sprouting from a book. Her being a teenage age girl at the time brought her more scorn from strangers than me, a six foot, two hundred pound boy, could imagine, and she quickly learned that unless she wanted to be aggressively harassed by uptight, middle aged, Jesus freaks every time she walked out the front door, she’d have to say goodbye to sleeveless tops.
Walking, and or skateboarding around as I did, punk rocked out and sporting a shirt so flagrantly in opposition to their firmly held beliefs , made me, and my friends easy marks for nosey religious types, prowling the suburbs for potential converts to help pad their recruitment numbers. I can’t tell you how many times during my daily walks to, and from high school, or at the neighborhood Burger King, or while perusing the aisles of the super market, or even while sitting on a green electrical box, smoking cigarettes, a wild-eyed stranger with a skip in their step, would saunter up to us, a stack of religious pamphlets clasped in their eager hands, to talk about Jesus Fucking Christ.
Imagine the gall these nitwits must have to approach a gaggle of funny haired, leather clad teenagers, convinced your poorly designed, religious-filled clap trap pamphlets would be all they needed to fall down in praise of Jesus. Sometimes they’d doll out “chick tracts,” small, religious comic book illustrated warnings about the dangers of a sinful life, and the fiery perdition that awaited said sinners. Being so tasteless, and ironically hilarious, they had the absolute opposite of the intended affect.
I would have none of it. At first, trying in my own way to be polite, I would say “no fucking thank you,” but they are a persistent bunch, never taking no for an answer, only hightailing it after a crumpled up pamphlet was hurled at their enlarged heads accompanied by expletives.
The occurrence became so frequent I could smell it coming a mile away, and quickly, made my getaway, or if I was caught, skipped the pleasantries all together and went straight for the swear words.
Despite being part of a group of punk rocking comrades, a few were still in the clutches of Christianity’s grip. One in particular, Josh, took umbrage with my approach, accusing me of being close minded, or even rude. If I was out and about with him and we were approached by another converter, he’d actually engage with them, fancying himself some sort of teenaged philosopher, something that immediately bored me to tears. This always just lead to my abandoning Josh, and his new fanatical friend, to their lame discourse so I could smoke cigarettes, and drink Surge soda somewhere in peace.
Josh, and another friend, Carmen, whom wasn’t so much into punk, or skateboarding, but was nonetheless a fellow outcast, both attended the same Sunday morning Christian youth group, I think, mostly at their parents behest. Carmen was finding their way out of favor with religion due to their parents reactions to their recently disclosed bisexuality, but Josh was still slightly clinging on enough, that for some reason I cannot fathom, he invited me to attend their service one Sunday, which was held regularly in the cafeteria of the very same high school I was then attending.
“Are you fucking crazy?” I rightfully asked in return. Get up early on a Sunday just to go back to place I wanted nothing more than to be away from? Fuck that noise.
“It’s not like regular church,” Josh retorted, unconvincingly. “It’s all other kids, and there’s a band.”
“Sounds pretty fucking lame, dude,” I reiterated.
“There’s free breakfast burritos,” Carmen piped up.
Hmmm… free breakfast burritos for sitting through an hour of nonsense? My teenage hunger got the best of me, and I reluctantly agreed.
Rising bright and early that Sunday, because, it seems, god, or Jesus, never fucking sleep in, I grabbed my trusty Bad Religion shirt, and headed upstairs, startling my father, who was not used to my appearance before the reasonable hour of 10am.
“Where are you going?” his eyebrows rising questionably.
“Church,” I said, immediately greeted by his laughter. I explained the situation, and my mother suggested I change my shirt, an idea likely more for my wellbeing than her taking offense. After all, it probably wouldn’t serve my ambitions of procuring free burritos by immediately entering the church aggressively. I switched to a more “church friendly” Misfits shirt.
Transport to the school was provided by Josh’s god-fearing parents, enthusiastic that a new face was joining the horde. Upon arriving the adults filed into the school auditorium. Josh, Carmen, and myself made for the cafeteria, where a small army of pastel-clad, spring-skirted, and polo-shirted youths had already gathered. Like a scene from a bad comedic film, a vinyl record scratch could be heard as all
conversation came to a screeching halt so the congregation could get a gander at the weirdo with spiky hair, drenched in black clothing, and various metal studded leather accoutrements entering the room.
Eventually, the youth “pastor,” or whatever they’re called, brought the scene to order by reading from the bible. Some passage about something. I have no idea. I was immediately checked out, remaining so all through their follow up discussion, and into the first song from the “band,” which consisted of goofy, khaki-panted, well-quaffed, sensible shoe wearing jabronis, playing guitars without a single punk band sticker affixed to them.
So the hour went: bible passage, discussion, crapy song. Rinse, wash, repeat. Occasionally I’d catch Josh’s eyes, to roll mine at him, which he responded to with a chastising look.
Finally, the nonsense stopped, and out came the burritos. Before we could partake it was demanded, unfairly, that we sign their church member’s pledge book, signifying we’d be upstanding Jesus slaves. What for? I have no idea, but I hadn’t come this far to not get some tortilla wrapped eggs and bacon in my tightly clenched jaws.
Approaching the book, the teen pastor greeted me with a smile, thanked me for coming, and asked if I’d like to join them in their post sermon discussion. More fucking church? Hell no. I politely declined as I scrawled my name in their brainwashing book, hastily grabbing TWO burritos (I’d earned that extra one) leaving the pastor to decipher my chicken-scratched name: “Penis McFartface.” Not today, Jesus.
I wore my Bad Religion shirt for years to come, harassed by Jesus’s fans continually, until the shirt fell apart at the seems, or my diet of pizza and Chipotle burritos made short work of my once svelte teenage composition. I can’t remember.
I didn’t replace my “bad ass” long sleeve shirt, having grown weary of fending off thin skinned weirdos. Eventually, in my forties, I purchased a more subtle Bad Religion shirt. One that simply featured the band’s name, and the cover art of the wayward cornstalk featured on their album “Against the Grain,” perhaps two of my all time favorite works of art. I wear it occasionally, though that dreaded washing machine may have shrunk it.
As a forty something year old man, nobody has stopped me once to chastise my choice in fashion, and I’ve safely stayed out of churches, save a handful of weddings, and funerals.
As a man of my own means I can easily procure my own breakfast burritos, though, now that I live in the Czech Republic, a country unfamiliar with the beauty of Mexican adjacent foods, and whose population hovers around something like ninety percent Atheist, I fear I may never get to indulge in one again.
May god have mercy on my soul.
I want to thank you for the PDF. I have to close my eyes to imagine the ink smears on my fingers but I so appreciate the alternate format and the work put into it.
Same as you, now that I'm a "grown ass man" in my 40's no one says a goddamn thing about my choice of "controversial" punk t-shirts. Far cry from my teens when there was a slim possibility of getting your ass kicked.