Brian Eckert

I put the revolver to my temple, reconsider, and stick the barrel in my mouth. I sink to my knees on the floor and look at myself in a full-length mirror.

Hanging on the wall above the mirror is a Van Gogh self-portrait completed shortly before his suicide.

I think about Van Gogh’s suicide often. I think about whether he would have killed himself had he been successful in his lifetime.

Then again, perhaps he would not have become famous if he hadn’t killed himself.

Van Gogh shot himself in the abdomen, a sure sign that he was not serious about dying. A shot to the head would have done the deed straight and quick.

Why Lord, if you died for my sins, do I continue to feel the need to die for them?

Something happened out there in the wheat field that changed Vincent’s mind about dying. This is what I imagine:

A shepherd, tending to his flock, heard the gunshot, came running and said, “My good fellow, you’ve been shot!”

Vincent looked at the shepherd, admired his volk features, and thought he’d make a fine subject.

“Yes,” said Vincent. “I’ve been shot, by a young tramp. He must have known I’m a famous painter. He was after my wallet and became angry when I didn’t have any money.”

“A famous painter?” said the shepherd with skepticism. “What is your name?”

“Van Gogh. Vincent Van Gogh.”

“Vincent Van Gogh. I don’t know the name. Do you do exhibitions in town?”

“Well, I’ve not for a while,” admitted Van Gogh.

“Van de Kamp,” said the farmer, probing his memory.

“The name’s Van Gogh!” shouted Vincent, and doubled over in pain.

At that moment, Vincent decided, world be damned, they would know his name.

So he limped back to the inn where he was staying and had the wound dressed. Two days later he was dead.

In death you became more powerful than in life, Vincent. People admire your paintings, but they don’t know your struggle. But I do, Vincent. I do.

She is pure, I am certain.

There is a knock at the door. The knock is hesitant, suggesting a neighborhood child on a fundraiser, not wanting the door to be answered, knocking out of obligation.

The knock belongs to a lovely young woman, well-dressed, carrying a shoulder bag full of pamphlets. She presents to me a pamphlet with two hands, the way a peasant would.

“You are invited to meet at the Kingdom Hall of Jehovah’s Witnesses on Sunday, April 11 at 4 p.m.”

She is beautiful, seraphic, lifting the veil of ugliness from my eyes.

“Will you be there?” I ask.

“Of course,” she says.

“I will come.”

I mean it. I want to be there with her. I want her to help ease my burden. She is pure, I am certain.

“Wonderful,” she says. And she means it. I am certain.

When she is gone I read the pamphlet, which tells of the prophecies of the Book of Isaiah, about a time when man will be at peace with nature. Illness will be eliminated. Families will build their own houses, plant their own fields, and enjoy the fruits of their labor.

Jehovah’s Witnesses had always struck me as Bolsheviks. But I’d never seen a Bolshevik like her.

Everyone in the brochure smiles. Men and women of all races and creeds head arm-in-arm into a valley of plenty. I imagine being among their ranks with her, the angel at my door, returning to the Garden.

I will be there at the Kingdom Hall of Jehovah’s Witnesses, on the anniversary of Jesus’ death, to commemorate his ultimate sacrifice, his dying for our sins. I will be there with you, my angel, who came to me at my darkest hour. And while I am there I would like to ask Jesus one simple question: Why Lord, in your infinite wisdom, why, if you died for my sins, do I continue to feel the need to die for them?

Wearing my Sunday best khaki pants, Doc Martens, and a long-sleeve button shirt, I head for the Kingdom Hall on April 11 at 3:35 pm.

The building is located on the west side of town. At a distance, it looks like a bank, or a post office.

I blend in toward the back of recent arrivals who chat while making their way toward the entrance. The crowd parts around a homeless man dressed in rags, reeking of piss, lying on the ground. He groans and looks out of one eye as the church shoes click-clack past his head.

A woman pauses to look at the man with concern. Her husband pulls her away by the hand.

“Mommy,” says a little girl. “Why is that man sleeping there?”

“He’s lost, sweetie.”

“You mean he can’t remember where he lives?”

“That’s right. He can’t remember where he belongs.”

“That’s sad.”

“It’s very sad, baby.”

The minister stands near the stage, looking like a pimp.

I scan the crowd for her. I picture her in a floral dress, hair tied back in an elaborate braid.

The urchin sits up, looks around in a stupor. I can see the world crashing down around him on this too-bright, too-hopeful Sunday afternoon.

I see her standing at the church entrance, greeting the parishioners. She smiles warmly to a hobbled old man as he steps gingerly over the threshold, his stooped back rounded into a hump. A young man stands opposite her, sharing the greeting duties.

I have stuffed into my back pocket the brochure brought to my door by the divine messenger. I pull it out, smooth the wrinkles as I approach the entrance. I fall in behind a fat couple.

The girl shows no sign of recognizing me. I show her my brochure.

“We’re so glad you decided to join us,” she says impersonally.

I wish to say something, but she is already on to the next person, greeting them with a “God Bless.”

I slide into a pew in the back that is still empty, like a teenager riding the city bus, inconspicuous.

The minster stands near the stage, dressed in a white robe, shaking hands and looking like a pimp.

After the last guests have filed in my angel takes her seat in the front pew with the young man who accompanied her at the doorway. He puts his arm, very subtly and affectionately, on the small of her back as they sit down. She gives him a coy sideway glance.

Organ music begins playing. I pick up the hymn book in the seat back. The preacher leads the assembly in song:

               God sent his son, they called him Jesus.

               He came to love, heal, and forgive.

               He lived and died to buy my pardon.

               An empty grave is there to prove my savior lives.

 

               Because He lives, I can face tomorrow.

               Because He lives, All fear is gone.

               Because I know He holds the future.

               And life is worth living just because He lives.

There is one late arrival. The bum from the parking lot. He takes a seat on the same pew as me, nearest the door. He keeps his head down and makes no eye contact.

The stale piss and booze on my pew mate mixes with perfume, cologne, moisturizer lotion, hair product, paper and wood, a burnt offering.

The preacher takes the floor.

“I look around and am overjoyed to see many new faces, along with many familiar ones. You newcomers are probably wondering, ‘Who is Jesus and why did he die for me?’ Jesus is a name you’ve heard your entire life. You may have paid it no mind. You may have scoffed at it, or taken it in vain. That’s okay with Jesus, though, because he loves you. No matter what you’ve done, Jesus loves you. He loves all of us, whether rich or poor, young or old, healthy or sick. We all are sinners, we all live with the stain of sin. But if we accept Jesus Christ—he who died for our sins—as our savior, we may also have the promise of a world without sin, without suffering.”

In history, the best story wins.

He takes a clicker from the podium and a video is projected onto a retractable screen. The lights go down and the movie begins playing.

The short opens with the image of a waterfall in a tropical forest.

“Imagine a world filled with peace,” says a man’s voice, deep and slow. “A world free of suffering, an abundance of food for all, and life in perfect health.”

A young couple stands on a beach, hand in hand, as the sun begins to set. I picture her, my angel, with her man, preparing for perfect eternity together. My face has faded from the fantasy.

“But how can this beautiful future be possible? Because of what Jesus did for us. He came to Earth for a purpose. He gave his life for those he loved. The night before he died, Jesus asked that we commemorate his sacrifice. He said, ‘Keep doing this in remembrance of me.’

Christianity and Communism are dangerously close. The only difference a prominent suicide by cross.

Sitting here, watching the presentation, it is clear to me that in history, the best story wins. And since all of the best stories are found in religion and in revolution, the Christians and the Communists, the Jehovah’s Witnesses and the Justice Warriors, are undefeatable.

The truth does not matter. What matters is belief. The future belongs to the True Believer, whatever he believes.

I believe in Vincent Van Gogh. And for a brief moment, I had believed in me and her—the angel in the front pew. I believed she could save me and that we would spend eternity together in paradise.

This belief was powerful enough to arrest death. But now it is gone.

I feel the way you felt, Vincent, right before you cut off your ear. No one seems to know exactly why you cut it off. They do not know your struggle. But I do, Vincent. I do.

I take the revolver from my waistband and cock the hammer silently beneath the noise of the movie. Slowly I slide out of the pew and stand in the aisle. I walk towards the front of the congregation and stop when I’m next to her pew.

The dim light of the screen casts her face in a soft glow. Oh, Vincent! What a wonderful subject she’d make!

There is a murmuring of voices as people begin to notice me standing there holding the revolver. I put the revolver to my temple, reconsider, and stick the barrel in my mouth. I sink to my knees on the floor, never taking my eyes off her.

I am sacrificing myself, like Jesus. I am dying for her. I am giving my life for the one I love.

One day, world be damned, they will know my name.