Each Sunday

Each Sunday congregations of freshly showered and scented cultists sit on cushioned seats in air-conditioned churches across America, contemplating whether to have lunch at Hometown Buffet or Red Lobster. They like their church because the pastor wears a Hawaiian shirt and cracks clean jokes with a George Carlin wit. They like the church band because they’re edgy, like the music they used to listen to before they were converted. They close their eyes and raise a hand to the sky (Jesus antenna) phishing for reception from the man upstairs as the Dave Matthews look-alike sings songs of praise and worship. The church is the size of an arena with a large stage and giant screen in the background. On the screen is an image of troops huddled in prayer, which fades into an image of a soldier holding a smiling Arab child, which fades into an image of F-16’s blazing across the sky, which fades into an image of troops on tanks handing out bottled water to a thirsty crowd, which fades into an image of a soldier reading the Bible, which fades into…