Whenever I’m at the grocery store and walking down the cereal aisle, I tend to speed up when I get to the cheap shit they sell in bags, just because it prompts feelings from childhood that I’d prefer to forget. Growing up, my friends’ families generally aligned themselves with the breakfast godhead of General Mills, Kellogg’s and Quaker, but not us. The Sjostroms fearlessly repped the Malt-o-Meal and store brands to the point where my asshole friends would respond to sleepover requests with, “Sure, Ty. And I really can’t wait to wake up to a nice bowl of Marshmallow Mateys.”

Some kids remember the ridicule of gym class. Some kids cringe at the thought of their braces or their knock-knees or their baby dick. I remember bagged cereal.

Although my dear mom probably believed it herself when she sang the heroic hymns of Mini Frosted Spooners, the reasons we bought it were purely economical: we had four boys, we didn’t have much money, and arguing that one brand of sweetened corn product is somehow superior to another, cheaper sweetened corn product is patently absurd. Of course, you try explaining that to an innately materialistic ten year-old who looks forward to the yearly church food offering because that meant he’d finally get to eat cereal from a box.

Every adult eventually hates the adolescent they once were, but I think my feelings are a little more complicated. I truly didn’t know how poor we were, so it isn’t guilt as much as it’s just belated eureka. But then I think about it now, and I remember certain things that probably should have tipped me off. Credit cards being declined when we were shopping for school clothes. Seeing my dad’s church paycheck for $340 per week and thinking, “Whaddya mean, I can’t have Jordans? You’ve got $340!” And of course, there was that year we spent living on a lended farm while my parents truly did everything short of prostitution to make ends meet, and probably would have given it a shot if they weren’t fifty combined years past their sexual primes.

Some kids respect their parents because of how much money they’ve made. I respect mine for almost the exact opposite reason: they didn’t make shit, but did exactly what they felt they were called to do. They never let us go without, they kept the lights on, and kept the constant financial terror from us kids as best they could.

You know, except for that one time that my brother saw Dad bawling in the shower about money.

Let’s talk about the tenuous relationship between religion and money, and not because it’s that complicated, but because it’s fucking ridiculous. We all know the story of Jesus and the money changers, and that “love of money is the root of all evil,” but even the most naive among us must admit that there’s a distinct difference between what Christianity preaches about money and what it generally practices.

Now, before we even get into this, understand that there is absolutely, unequivocally nothing wrong with being rich. If you’ve worked hard and made a shitload of cash, you’re no more at fault than a white chick who’s done a ton of squats to make herself more appealing to black guys, only to find that, yep, that milkshake truly does bring the boys to the yard. Hey, go on and get yours, you know?

Of course, there are different degrees of cynicism about money as it relates to religion. If a wealthy Christian donates to a cause dedicated to defunding Planned Parenthood solely so that they can write it off on their taxes at years’ end, that’s one level of cynicism. If you’re a washed-up actor or musician whose product is totally ignored by mainstream audiences, so then you reinvent yourself to angle for the rigid, monetized loyalty of middle America faithniks, that’s another. But there’s cynicism that can be answered away, and then there’s Creflo Dollar.

Creflo Dollar is the founder of World Changers Church International and one of the most visible purveyors of what’s known as “prosperity theology.” Prosperity theology is based on the totally bonkers notion that a Christian will reap financial benefits if they give their own money to the church, and its tenets are most frequently (and not surprisingly) found in Pentecostal churches.

Last year, Dollar (yeah, that’s really his fucking name) came to his 30,000-member congregation with a peculiar request: he needed a new jet. Turns out that his current plane, a Gulfstream III, was badly in need of repairs, and that it made more sense to just get a new plane. Sound reasoning, right? But he didn’t want just any old plane, because Creflo Dollar isn’t just any old faith-healer. He wanted a $65-million Gulfstream G650, which Wikipedia tells me is the “largest, fastest and most expensive business jet on the market.” It’s such a ballsy request, it’s amazing that Dollar and his big-ass nuts can even fit down the G650’s aisle.

But surely, the good people of WCCI would recognize this snakeoil for what it was, right? They’d certainly sent Creflo and his menagerie of multi-colored suits to the unicorn farm from whence he came, right? Nope. Despite an ongoing investigation from the Senate Finance Committee and a verbal rectal exam from John Oliver, WCCI came through with the millions needed to get Creflo is dearly needed aeroplane.

And apparently not swayed by the to-date-fruitless investigation, he was predictably dickish about it. “It is our intention to purchase another airplane at a time, place and price of our choosing,” the press release reads. “We seek out what we believe to be the will of God, we allow ourselves to dream BIG, we present our ‘family’ with an opportunity to ‘invest,’ and we all come together to turn those dreams into reality. We plan to acquire a Gulfstream G650 because it is the best, and it is a reflection of the level of excellence at which this organization chooses to operate.”

You’d like to think that a story like this would end in Dollar’s comeuppance, but it would seem that this will have to wait until he enjoys death’s sweet embrace and, if there’s any goddamn justice in the world, an eternity of damnation and hellfire. He’s even doubled down on his unbelievable bullshit recently, tweeting last month that Jesus died so that we’d all become rich. If that isn’t worthy of some swift, God-sanctioned lightning bolts, then brother, I’m sure I don’t know what is.

I’m not necessarily arguing against the offering plate, since that’s the only way that a church can survive. All three-hundred-forty dollars that weren’t spent on my new Jordans started in the pockets of some member of the congregation. But advocating that God or Jesus is more likely to hear your prayers — and specifically that you will be financially rewarded in kind — if you’re generous to the church with your money is so problematic, I almost don’t know where to begin.

So I’ll just begin here: the very people who would be compelled to donate in hopes that it’ll be some sort of loaves-and-fishes windfall are precisely the people who can least afford to do so. The people who would be urged to essentially “pay” God or the church to alleviate the pain or stress in their lives are the people most vulnerable and defeated to begin with. If you’re feeling hopeless, and the only step you haven’t taken in your trek to the bottomless pit of despair is to buy Creflo Dollar a diamond-encrusted toilet brush or whatever, why wouldn’t you? What else is there to lose?

So that’s who gives, and that’s why it’s incredibly disingenuous for a so-called “man of God” to build his ministry around the concept of “give and you shall receive.” The lottery has often been called a tax on the poor; prosperity theology is no different. The people who give are the ones who feel like it might be the only thing that will finally set things in motion toward some vague future destination. People who are slowly tearing themselves up inside.

People like my parents.

The years that led up to Davy finding my dad at what he later admitted was his lowest point were some real doozies for the Sjostrom family. What began with the pregnancy several years prior set off a trend of events ranging from subtle undermining to outright sabotage from both the church itself and from the gasbags at the statewide church office, culminating with Dad’s decision to cut bait in 1995. Surely, a new job would be right around the corner, right? We’d been good and faithful. God is good. You know, except when he isn’t.

We stayed in the area waiting for a new church that never showed up, commuting to school while we lived on a farm that a member of Dad’s former flock offered when we had nowhere to go. The new pastor moved into what had been our house, we’d see the new pastor’s kids at school, and the world moved on.

Except that Mom and Dad really didn’t, because they didn’t really know how. Dad drove truck for a potato farmer, Mom worked at Wal-Mart, and we’d head to different churches on weekends if they had a pastoral vacancy they were looking to fill. A pastor without a church can be similar to a retired athlete without a sport or Ja Rule without a J-Lo song to ruin, and they were no different. They were hurt, they were angry, and perhaps worst of all, they were flat broke. I remember I got a calculator for my birthday that year, MSRP of about $13.

Davy and I were precisely at the wrong age to try to understand what they were going through; all we really understood was that we weren’t getting to do all the fun shit we used to do. There was one night that a girl named Darby was having a Super Bowl party, and they refused to drive me to town on account of there being no money. Being the wise old age of 12 (almost 13…spoiler: I got a calculator), of course I didn’t understand, and I wasn’t about to try either. I just knew that one of the worst games in Super Bowl history was being played without me, and that our current financial morass was the reason why. Kids are the worst.

Looking back on it now, it’s easy to understand how beat up they were. He’s explained that he felt like he was failing us and failing my mom, and though they put a pretty brave face on 99% of the time, there were times they couldn’t hide from it, such as when he was naked, literally, in the shower.

But they still tithed, they still prayed, they still hoped, and years on, it’s hard to argue against the results. They’re happy and healthy, and I’m pretty sure he still uses “Would Jesus Wear a Rolex?” by Ray Stevens as a sermon illustration. It would seem that all prayers have been answered, with one glaring omission.

Still waiting on those Jordans, old man.

Next time on Pastor’s Kid, we’re going to take a comprehensive look at several vital Christian pop culture entities from the ’80s and ’90s, including the Power Team and McGee and Me. Follow The Pastor’s Kid on Twitter here and Facebook here.