The air in the church was thick with the scent of incense and anticipation. It was Sunday, the day of the Lord, the day where you, like everyone else, were expected to be at your most pious, your most generous. You, however, were at your most sleepy. The sermon, delivered in a booming baritone, had lulled you into a state of blissful, church-induced slumber.
The air conditioning was set to arctic levels, sending shivers down your spine despite the thick fleece lining your jacket. You shifted in your pew, adjusting the worn prayer book resting on your lap, just as the pastor’s voice rose to a crescendo.
“Brothers and sisters,” he declared, his voice echoing through the cavernous space, “let us stand in praise of our Lord!”
A jolt of adrenaline shot through you, the word 'stand' jolting you awake. You blinked, disoriented, and looked around. Everyone else was already standing, their faces tilted upwards in a display of fervent devotion.
You didn’t want to be caught snoozing, so you scrambled to your feet, muttering a quick prayer under your breath. You were the last one standing, and as you did, a ripple of applause broke out, a sea of smiles radiating towards you.
You froze, confused. Was this a new form of encouragement? Were you supposed to be lauded for your… well, for standing up? It made no sense. You looked at the pastor, his face beaming with an almost unsettling enthusiasm. He was pointing at you, a microphone in hand, and his voice booming across the room.
'What a wonderful example, brother!' he exclaimed. 'We have a man here who is not only standing, but clearly a man who has been blessed beyond measure!'
You felt your face flush. You weren't blessed with anything beyond the ability to nap during sermons, but you weren't going to contradict him in front of an entire congregation.
'Brother,' the pastor continued, his voice taking on a softer, more intimate tone, 'would you consider sharing this blessing with your fellow brethren? Perhaps… a small contribution to the Lord’s work?'
He paused, his eyes twinkling with the glimmer of a hawk eyeing its prey. 'Let's say… two million kwacha?'
Your heart sank. Two million kwacha? That was your entire month's salary, maybe even your year's salary, depending on how generous your boss was feeling that particular year. You looked around the church, your eyes landing on the faces of your fellow churchgoers. Some were gazing at you expectantly, others with a mixture of admiration and pity. The unfortunate truth was that you weren't exactly swimming in cash. You were a struggling artist, a freelance graphic designer, perpetually trying to make ends meet.
You opened your mouth to politely decline, but before you could utter a single word, the woman sitting next to you, Edna, leaned over and whispered, “Go ahead, honey. Your mother would be proud.”
Edna, with her immaculately coiffed hair and signature Chanel sunglasses, was the embodiment of luxury. Her husband, a prominent businessman, always gave the biggest donation every Sunday. You knew she could easily afford to throw a couple of million towards the church, but that was beside the point. It was her way of showing off, her way of saying, 'Look at me, I'm so wealthy I can just throw money around like confetti!'
You felt trapped, cornered. You wanted to sink back into your pew, disappear into the cushioned abyss, but you couldn't. Now, the entire congregation was waiting, their eyes fixed on you, waiting for you to become the church's latest hero. You were being forced into the spotlight, the very spotlight you had been trying to avoid.
You sighed, resigned to your fate. 'Okay,' you mumbled, your voice barely audible above the murmur of expectations. 'Two million it is.'
A wave of applause erupted. The pastor’s smile broadened, his face radiating the kind of unfettered joy that could only come from witnessing a generous soul fulfilling their obligation.
You walked towards the offering box, your steps heavy with a sense of impending doom. And as you dropped your two meager kwacha notes into the box, you knew you had just condemned yourself to a month, maybe a whole year of sleeping on an empty stomach, just so you could save face in front of the entire church and a woman who could afford to buy a whole new church, if she felt like it.
As you walked back to your pew, feeling the weight of your financial despair pressing down on you, you couldn't help but wonder - what exactly did the Lord need with two million kwacha anyway? Couldn’t he just conjure it out of thin air, like he did with everything else? Suddenly, the pew felt quite cozy, the air conditioning wasn’t so bad after all, and the sermon sounded a whole lot more interesting. Your eyelids began to droop, and a smile crept onto your face. Maybe, just maybe, a little nap wasn't such a bad thing. Besides, who was to say you couldn't get through the rest of the service on the power of faith alone? After all, the Lord worked in mysterious ways.
