The mass was mostly benign, and I found it weirdly engaging. People came from miles just to kneel at Frick’s portrait. The pastor told wild tales—recounting miracles Frick had supposedly performed, describing tortures Non-Believers would face in the months between the Rapture and the planet’s ultimate obliteration. Everybody stood to sing “Jesus (Thank You for Making Me American),” a song I’d noticed creeping ever more insistently onto the radio station that played on the bus to school. I remember looking down the pew at my parents and discovering with surprise that they knew all the words. I decided then that the Church of America was strange, but probably harmless—Mom and Dad seemed happier than they’d been in months, and everyone was so cheerful, so sure of their fate. I didn’t think to fear it until we were home, until I opened my laptop and searched for videos of Frick, curious to know more about the weaver of this elaborate fiction. I spent three hours watching YouTube videos of him preaching to crowds in Seattle, Houston, Indianapolis, Washington, DC—as he moved across the country, his speeches grew more and more convincing.
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