Slouching toward Zion and More Lies

SLOUCHING toward

ZION and MORE LIES by ROBERT FLYNN foreword by Rev. KYLE CHILDRESS

University of North Texas Press Denton, Texas

Copyright © 2004 by Robert L. Flynn

Permissions:

Foreword Copyright © 2004 Kyle Childress

Do You Have a Rapture Lawyer?, copyright 1999, Robert Flynn, first appeared in a slightly different version in The Door Magazine, July/August, 1999.

All Rights Reserved Printed in the United States of America 654321 The paper in this book meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard for Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, Z39.48.1984 Permissions: University of North Texas Press PO Box 311336 Denton, TX 76203-1336 940-565-2142 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Flynn, Robert, 1932– Slouching toward Zion and more lies / by Robert Flynn. p. cm. ISBN 1-57441-183-7 (cloth : alk. paper) 1. Christian fiction, American. I. Title. PS3556.L9S57 2004 813'.54—dc22 2004011380 Cover Artwork by Deirdre Flynn Bass Design by Carol Sawyer, Rose Design

Ten Mistakes God Has Made, copyright 2001, Robert Flynn, first appeared in a slightly different version The Door Magazine, July/August, 2001. If You’re There, God, Pick Up, copyright 2001, Robert Flynn, first appeared in a slightly different version in The Door Magazine, Sept./Oct., 2001. Questions Southern Baptists Never Ask, Questions Catholics Never Ask, and Questions Mormons Never Ask, copyright 2002, Robert Flynn, first appeared in a shortened version in The Door Magazine, Sept./Oct., 2002. Born-Again Jesus, copyright 2002, Robert Flynn, first appeared in a slightly different version in The Door Magazine, March/ April, 2002. Reasons for Being a Southern Baptist, copyright 2003, Robert Flynn, first appeared in a slightly different version in The Door Magazine, Jan./Feb., 2003. Testimonial Time in the Baptist Church, copyright 2003, Robert Flynn, first appeared in a slightly different version in The Door Magazine, July/Aug., 2003. Wednesday Night Prayer Meeting at the Baptist Church and Slouching toward Zion (titled Marching toward Zion), copyright 2003, Robert Flynn, were published in Windhover: A Journal of Christian Literature published by the University of Mary Hardin-Baylor, 2003.

To Aunt Arlye and Uncle Arthur

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Other books by Robert Flynn North to Yesterday In the House of the Lord The Sounds of Rescue, the Signs of Hope Seasonal Rain, and other stories When I was Just Your Age, with Susan Russell (published by UNT Press) A Personal War in Vietnam Wanderer Springs The Last Kick Living with the Hyenas The Devils Tiger, with Dan Klepper Tie-Fast Country Growing Up a Sullen Baptist and Other Lies (published by UNT Press) Paul Baker and the Integration of Abilities with Eugene McKinney

Contents j

Foreword—Rev. Kyle Childress vii The Trouble with Eve 1 Do You Have a Rapture Lawyer? 15 The Baptist Sex Position 17 Reasons for Being a Southern Baptist 21 Ten Mistakes that God Has Made 25 If You’re There, God, Pick Up 31 Questions Catholics Never Ask 37 Slouching toward Zion 41 Questions Southern Baptists Never Ask 59 Born-Again Jesus 63 Wednesday Night Prayer Meeting at the Baptist Church 75 Onan Comes in From the Cold 83 Questions Mormons Never Ask 97 Testimonial Time in the Baptist Church 99 The Rest of the Story 107 Next Year in Oberammergau 113 Mission to Mexico 121 Radio WWJS 147 Questions Secular Humanists Never Ask 163 Redemption 165 v

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The Church Softball League 177 Chicken Soup for the Damned 181 Desert Duel 185

Foreword j

It is a long way from Chillicothe, Texas, to early sixteenth-century Rotterdam. But since Bob Flynn has started writing it is not as far as it used to be. Bob, born and raised in Chillicothe, a very small, dusty West Texas cow-country town, writes humor and satire in a way that invites comparison with Erasmus of Rotterdam who wrote Encomium Morae (In Praise of Folly) in 1509. At this time, Erasmus was in England visiting his friend and fellow humanist, Thomas More, and wrote partly as a joke on More, whose name means folly, but also against pretentious political authorities and arrogant religion. In Erasmus’ mind, both secular rulers and religious leaders had overstepped their proper boundaries and were guilty of hubris, the sin of pride. Moreover, their pride was dangerous, resulting in wars, authoritarian religion, and a state yearning for absolute power. Erasmus used the foolishness of humor and satire to help remind those with power of their proper, more humble place. Bob Flynn tells stories that are pointed with the sharp wit of prickly pear cactus and mesquite thorns of his West Texas upbringing, but they are in the same tradition of humor and satire made famous by Erasmus. And even though nearly 500 years have passed since In Praise of Folly, we still need such humor. Fellow Texan and theologian Stanley Hauerwas said that he didn’t know which came first: did Southern Baptist preachers start looking like Texas politicians or did the Texas politicians start looking like Southern Baptist preachers? Whichever came first, part of the problem is that we look like one another because too many of us have a bad case of pride and a yearning for power. Another theologian, Reinhold Niebuhr, defined sin, vii

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especially pride, as “taking ourselves too seriously.” If that’s true, and I think it is, then we all, not just preachers and politicians, need Bob Flynn. In the Gospel according to Luke Mary says, “He has shown strength with his arm; he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts. He has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly . . .” (Luke 1: 51– 52). According to Mary, part of God’s work is taking the high and mighty down a notch or two while also lifting up the lowly. Therefore, there is a whole lot more going on with Bob Flynn’s humor than simply laughter, although that in itself is no small thing in these all-too-serious days. Humor helps put us all in our place. For those of us who take ourselves too seriously and think too highly of ourselves, humor humbles and restores us to the place God intended us to be. And for those who have been ground down and worn out by the powerful interests in this world, humor picks up and renews them to the good and glad place God has for them. In other words, grace can come to us through humor. “Poke them sacred cows and make them moo,” Garrison Keillor said. Bob is pretty good at poking sacred cows and I don’t doubt there will be some robust mooing in response. But Bob, and his wife Jean, poke as committed church people, active in their Baptist church in San Antonio, who know not only the foibles of church life but also its goodness. They love the church, which is one reason Bob pokes. He wants us to do better. Years ago I heard an old veteran preacher tell me that every morning I needed to look myself in the mirror and then laugh at what I see. Humor often is paired with a healthy humility; it helps us keep from taking ourselves too seriously. Bob Flynn provides us with the mirror. Rev. Kyle Childress Lent, 2004

The Trouble with Eve j

America was in the third year of a world war. Young Carter was in his first year of confusion over girls. Everything they did was so . . . confusing. When a girl said he had long eyelashes he had rubbed them, not sure whether she meant a loose one was falling into his eye or that he was a sissy. He was sure “You have nice hair,” meant why don’t you wash it sometime and “cutest freckles” meant did all of them survive a washcloth? When girls looked at him he couldn’t meet their eyes afraid of what his face would show. When they smiled at him he gaped at their lips. Why were their mouths so . . . different? When they laughed, he fled. He also fled the presence of Clarissa for fear of what he would do. Fall on the ground and kiss her feet probably. Clarissa Bowman. Girls had such pretty names. Clarissa. Bowman. He tasted the words with his mouth. Clarissa Bowman. He was given his mother’s maiden name, Young. Young Carter. It made him want to cry. Why would anyone name a baby “Young?” It was bad enough being called “kid” when you were fourteen and the country was at war. New teachers called him Carter Young until he corrected them. Men said his name sounded like a law firm or a funeral parlor. He had tried to get his friends to call him “Car,” or “Sandy” because his hair was almost red, or “Rabbit,” because he had long legs, big teeth and when he got a G.I. haircut his ears looked too big for his head. Even “Freckles” or “Red” was better than Young. He wished boys could change their names like girls when they got married. He would change his first name. It drove him to despair that Young would be carved on his gravestone. Maybe the war would last until he was old enough to 1

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serve and he could be a hero and pretend he was dead and pick a whole new name. Young Carter stood outside The Corner Drug looking at the wonders in the window—ointments, liniments, corn plasters, something called a truss, a rubber water bottle with a long hose attached—pondering what he had just heard in the Church of Christ Bible School. Billy went to the Baptist Church with his parents, but all three churches in Chillicothe had summer Bible School and Young went to all three hoping Clarissa would attend one of them. Also, because his father said he didn’t want Young to spend the summer following his mother around complaining about his name. The Church of Christ preacher had taken the older boys into a separate room and told them that Eve had led Adam into sin, and that they were to avoid Forbidden Fruit. Young had glanced at the other boys but they solemnly stared at their feet. Afterwards he asked Harold what he thought. Harold was supposed to be smart although he went to the Church of Christ. “Woman was the first to sin, the last to repent,” Harold said. “What is forbidden fruit?” “You know,” Harold said, pretending he knew and so should everyone else. Young waited. “Girls who wear red lipstick and stuff like that.” That was a question he was going to have to ask his mother, Young thought, catching Clarissa’s reflection in the drug store window. Too late, she had already passed. He berated himself for worrying about forbidden fruit and missing a glimpse of Clarissa. Then he saw her reflection as she passed again, slower this time. He studied her as she passed then turned to stare as she walked away. Only she didn’t walk away. When she got past the window she turned her head and caught him ogling her walking parts. He returned to his scrutiny of the corn plasters, pretending he hadn’t seen her. “Do you like me?” she asked.

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He couldn’t even look at her reflection. All the blood in his body crowded into his head so that he couldn’t think. His tongue swelled to fill his mouth and his throat constricted. He locked his knees that threatened to swoon so he could kiss her toes. “Yes,” he croaked, unable to swallow. “What?” “Yes,” he tried again. “Do you want to go out with me?” The roots of his hair blazed. He nodded the head that was trying to contain the brain that skittered around inside. She waited for a verbal answer. “Okay.” Still he could not look at her for fear that his eyes would bulge in open mouth adoration. “Do you have a car?” Young’s heart sank into his unusually crowded jeans. He had failed the test. “No,” he admitted. “Can you drive?” she asked doubtfully. “I can drive,” he said pretending anger. He could drive, sort of, although neither his parents nor the law allowed it. Anyone could drive. “My brother has a car we can use but we’ll need stamps.” He was pleased that she asked admirers to prove their patriotism before going out with them but he wasn’t sure how much patriotism she required. “I buy a fifty cent war stamp every Friday, even when school is out,” he said, hoping that counted. He had already accumulated enough stamps for two bonds. He hazarded a glimpse at her face. “Gas ration stamps, silly,” she said. “Oh. I don’t have a ration book.” “Your father does, doesn’t he? Get some from him. Wait for me across the street at seven o’clock. Don’t ring the doorbell. I’ll pretend I’m visiting my girlfriend. When mother goes inside, we’ll get my brother’s car.” “Where’s your brother?” “He’ll be at work. Be sure to bring the stamps. We’ll have to push the car out of the drive so Mom doesn’t hear it start.”

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Dating was a lot more complicated than he had imagined. And scarier. His father walked to work and home for dinner and unless the weather was bad they walked to church. Because the bank sold war bonds, Dad said he had to be stricter about rationing than anyone else. Clarissa poked a finger into his chest. “Seven o’clock. Gas stamps. And money,” she added leaving nothing to chance. “How . . . what . . . where are we going?” he stammered. “You’re taking me to a dance in the McCarty barn and it costs fifty cents to get in. Fifty cents each. And I’ll have to have one Delaware Punch because I’ll be thirsty and another to show my girlfriends that I am not a cheap date. And what ever you want for yourself. And some gas so my brother won’t say anything. And don’t forget to open the car door for me.” He tried to do the math with a brain that didn’t want to compute but to lie down and gaze at the clouds in the strange world he had entered. A dollar to get in, at least four bits for gas, a dime for drinks, unless they charged more at the barn. Two dollars to be safe. “Maybe we should just—” “I am not walking. I would be humiliated. What if my friends saw me? What if someone thought we were too young to drive? God, I would just die.” Hope that she would call the whole thing off and let him remain untroubled warred with the dream of unknown adventure. “What if your brother suspects something?” he asked. “That’s why we need the gas, silly. He won’t say anything if there’s gas in the tank. It’s on empty now. There’s a Humble station a couple of blocks away. I’ll steer and you can push.” She felt his thin arm. “I bet you’re really strong.” “Yeah,” agreed short-haired Samson. She poked him in the chest again. “Seven o’clock. Stamps. Money. And don’t be late.” She swished her way down the street, pretending not to notice that he gaped after her. A car stopped and the passenger door flew open. She pretended not to notice. “Hop in,” he heard a male voice say. An older male voice. Maybe sixteen.

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“I’m not going anywhere until I have a milk shake; it is so hot.” She turned and looked at Young. “And then I’m going straight home,” she said, blessing Young with a smile. She bent over, looked into the car, then turned to Young and nodded before getting in. Young watched them drive away. Everything she did puzzled him. She was in his grade at school but he doubted he would ever be that mysterious. He didn’t even have secrets. Where was he going to get two dollars? And gas stamps? He had fifty cents for a war stamp, a quarter for church, a dime left of his allowance. “Harold,” he yelled at a boy passing on a bicycle. “Wait.” Harold wore thick glasses, hadn’t grown into his ears and tried too hard to make friends. “Can you loan me some money?” “I can let you have a dime?” Harold said. “I need fifteen cents.” That and his money would get them in the dance. “Is that all you have?” “It’s all I have to loan.” Harold wasn’t as eager for friends as Young had hoped. “How much will you give me for my funny book collection?” “To look at or to keep?” “To keep.” “What do you have?” “Superman, Captain Marvel, True Comics”—his father made him buy those—“Katzenjammer Kids, Mighty Mouse, G-Men, Archie—” “Fifty cents.” “I have to have a dollar. And a fifteen cent loan.” Harold hitched up his glasses by wrinkling his nose. “Okay, but you have to give me everything you have.” “Scout’s honor.” “No. I search your room and I ask your mother if she has any funny books I can borrow . . .” “Okay.” “. . . a week after you give me all you have. And she better not tell me to look in your room.”

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“Okay, okay.” No wonder no one liked Harold, Young thought as he took the money from him. “I need the dollar by five o’clock.” “Seven,” Harold said. “Six,” Billy Joe countered. “We eat at six.” “Six thirty and a one-funny-book-fine for every minute you’re late.” Two dollars. That would buy gas and get them into the dance. He still needed ration stamps. He hoped to catch Dad in a good mood when he went to the bank, but Doris warned him, “They can’t get the books to balance.” Young went in the office and sat down. He loved Dad but wished he were a soldier or maybe a policeman. “In a minute,” Dad said, punching numbers in an adding machine. Betty watched over his shoulder. “Okay, run those and see what you come up with.” Dad handed Betty strips of paper and got his hat to walk home for dinner. “Did you buy a stamp?” Dad asked and Young had to give fifty cents to Doris, the most unwilling, therefore patriotic, stamp he had ever bought. How was he going to tell Clarissa he didn’t have enough money to take her to the dance? Maybe Dad would give him an advance on his allowance. And gas stamps. When he asked for an advance Young got a lecture and he expected it. “The reason your mother and I give you an allowance, for chores that you should do for free as a family member, is to teach you financial responsibility. And giving you an advance after you have squandered your allowance is not going to do that. And I don’t expect you to spend the money we gave you for church on yourself. That would be stealing from God. Mom and I might never know, but God will, and so will you.” “Yes sir,” he said. Young had expected to lose that round. “Dad, what are gas stamps?” “Gas is rationed so that civilians don’t waste it for frivolous reasons when it’s needed to fight the war.” “How can I get some?”

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“Don’t be dumb, Young. You know how much that annoys me. You don’t own a car.” “I need some stamps for a friend.” “Young Carter, if you sell any kind of ration stamps you will be betraying your country. If you’re that kind of boy I don’t want to know it.” “I won’t sell them, I promise.” He couldn’t tell his father he needed them to take a girl to a dance. He was pretty sure his folks didn’t approve of girls or dances. “You’re going to give them to some friend and the two of you are going to drive around town wasting gas and looking for some mischief you can get into.” Young knew if he asked again he would not be allowed to go out that night. They walked in silence. Mom knew almost everything and he preferred her answers, but he needed to get Dad’s mind off gas stamps. “Dad, what is forbidden fruit?” “Gas stamps.” Young frowned. What did that have to do with red lipstick? His father turned to look at him. Young was almost as tall as his father but knew he would never feel that big. “If we forbid you to do something,” Dad said, “like go to the picture show on Sunday, and it’s something you really want to see, that’s forbidden fruit. I guess anything that you want to do that you know you shouldn’t do is forbidden fruit.” Young wanted to ask about girls and red lipstick and kissing but he was pretty sure he knew the answer. “At Bible school the preacher said girls—” “Don’t start troubling yourself over girls. You have the rest of your life for that. If you need a dime for the picture show, get a hoe and edge the driveway. You shouldn’t expect to get paid for things like that. You should pitch in because you’re part of the family.” He wasn’t being given a choice of edging or not edging. He was given a choice of getting a dime for doing it or being told to do it. After dinner, when his father went back to the bank, he got a hoe and edged the driveway. When he finished he went to his room to get his funny books together, even the one about

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Guadalcanal that was his favorite. He read them one last time waiting for supper. Dad came home, told him he had done a good job edging and gave him a dime. While his father bathed and his mother fixed supper, Young slipped into his parents’ bedroom, a place as frightening to him and as unfamiliar as the preacher’s private office. He pulled open the chest of drawers and there in the first drawer were ration books, loose change, scattered keys, a pocketknife, several pencils, and a box of something that looked like rubbers but couldn’t be because his folks wouldn’t do anything like that. He counted the change. Sixty-five cents. If he took it all Dad was sure to notice, but it would guarantee no embarrassments at the dance even if Delaware Punch was a dime, and he would replace any money he had left over. He would repay God later. How many gas stamps would he need? He forgot to ask Dad. One for each tankful? He took two to be sure. After supper he put on clean jeans and tee-shirt and took the comics out on the porch to wait for Harold. He didn’t have a watch so every five or ten minutes he went in the house to check the clock until his mother told him to stay in or stay out. He accused Harold of being late so that Harold would know that he couldn’t get away with anything, but didn’t argue because he was afraid he would be late. He ran all the way to Clarissa’s street and walked fast down the street in case she was waiting. When he reached the corner he looked at her house but could see no one in a window or at the screen door. He walked slowly down the street this time, then waited longer on the corner. Was he more conspicuous walking up and down the street or standing under a tree, pretending to watch the clouds? He stood under a tree. He had changed trees three times before Clarissa came outside and walked slowly across the street. He started toward her but she walked past telling him, “Stay there.” She knocked on a door, was greeted by a friend, waved to her mom and went inside. Young wondered if he was supposed to

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knock on the door of the house she went in. Clarissa emerged from the side of a house three doors down and signaled to him to follow. They walked to the corner, crossed the street, and walked around the block, back to the alley beside her house where the car was parked. He tried to open the car door for her but she whispered, “Not now, silly.” She helped him push the car out of the alley, then jumped in, quietly closed the door, and steered the car down the street. He lowered his shoulder into the back of the car and began the pilgrimage to Humble at least three blocks away. While pushing, he remembered that he didn’t know how to dance. He wondered if he should have told her that. He had pushed the car as far as he could and Clarissa had gotten out to help when Mr. Parker from the church came by in his pickup and offered to push them. Clarissa moved to the passenger’s side so he could steer. Getting behind the wheel made Young feel big but he knew Sunday in front of Young’s folks Mr. Parker would say something about him driving and ask who the girl was. “You made me scuff my heels,” Clarissa said. “I had to borrow them from Linda and I don’t like her and now they’re scuffed.” “Fill her up,” he said at the gas station, trying to look contrite and big at the same time. “You’re supposed to let me tear them out of the book,” the attendant said taking the stamps and bending down to look at Clarissa who had folded her arms across her chest and looked cross. A strand of wet hair was stuck to her forehead. He pumped gas for a while and came back to the window. “You don’t have enough stamps to fill it. Do you have any B stamps?” Young counted out the change for the gas. The car wouldn’t start. “Turn on the key,” Clarissa said. “Choke it. Give it some gas. Now you’ve flooded it.” He wondered if when she grew up she was going to be a teacher.

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After a lot of cranking he got the car started and lurched away, aware that Clarissa rolled her eyes. She waited too late to tell him where to turn and when she did, he hit the curb and killed the engine. “I thought you said you could drive,” she said. “I can,” he said but when he tried to restart the car nothing happened. He stared at the useless starter on the floor of the car. “Look under the hood and see what’s wrong,” she said, and had to show him how to open the hood. She shook her head as he stared at the innards of the car as mystified as if he were examining human innards to see why it wouldn’t breathe. “It must be the battery,” she said. “Take it to Humble and get it recharged. There’s a wrench in the trunk.” He removed the battery from the car, surprised at how heavy it was and started back to the station. He hoped recharging batteries wasn’t expensive. “I’ll go with you,” she said. “I can’t sit in the car like I’ve been jilted. I hope no one sees me walking.” Charging the battery took a while and he had to pay for a Cream Soda Clarissa took out of the cooler. “Have you seen Betty since school was out?” he asked. She flipped her wrist. “I don’t want to talk about kid things.” What did grownups talk about? Religion probably; that’s what his folks talked about. That and the war and the weather. He didn’t know anything about weather so he began with the war. Clarissa hated war and war comics and war movies. So there. That left religion although Young wasn’t sure he should talk about religion while carrying stolen money. And he wasn’t certain they hadn’t stolen the car. “Where do you go to church?” “I don’t.” Young’s jaw snapped. He had never known anyone who didn’t go to church. “You believe in God don’t you?” “I believe in Jesus and I believe in Christ.”

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“Some people think they’re the same,” Young pointed out. “I don’t trouble myself with what other people think.” “You believe the Bible don’t you?” “I believe an angel came to Jesus and told him to go look in a secret cave and when he went there he found the Bible written on gold. I’d like to see a Bible written on gold. That would be worth a lot of money.” Young didn’t know that story but there were a lot of stories they didn’t tell at the Baptist Church. He wondered if she knew about forbidden fruit. “Do you know the story of Adam and Eve?” She looked doubtful. “They were the first man and woman and they lived in this garden until Eve ate—” “She was in this wonderful place,” Clarissa interrupted. “There was no boring war, no algebra, no mother telling her she couldn’t wear red lipstick—” “It was perfect,” Young said. “They weren’t troubled by anything.” “It had snakes so she had to leave. I can’t stand snakes.” “I think they were driven out.” “Adam was thrown out because he ate fruit and threw the seeds on the ground. He trashed the place. Like my brother. Eve would have left anyway.” Everything she said confounded him, yet nothing seemed to trouble her. They were in the same class at school but he doubted he would ever be that smart. “What do you think forbidden fruit is?” he asked. “Oysters. Mother says I can’t try them until I’m eighteen.” “How do you know you’ll like them?” “If they weren’t good they wouldn’t be forbidden, silly.” She opened a tiny purse, so small he hadn’t noticed it before, and took out a tube and mirror. He watched open-mouthed as her pursed lips turned crimson. He had never seen anything so fascinating before, not even the bullet riddled car that Bonnie and Clyde had been killed in that Dad had given him a nickel to see. She turned and smiled at him and he blushed and looked away. “Girls like to be looked at,” she said.

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He never knew that before. Every time he passed a group of girls they turned and looked at him like he had bombed Pearl Harbor. He determined that Clarissa would not be a cheap date. He would buy her two, maybe three Cream Sodas, even if he had to go without. He carried the battery back to the car and hoped it started. If the battery had to be charged again he wouldn’t have enough money to buy her anything. The car started and he backed away from the curb, negotiated the turn and when they got to the barn, Clarissa said, “Drop me off in front. I don’t want to get these heels muddy.” After opening the door for her, he parked where he wouldn’t have to drive between two cars close together or back up to turn around. When he paid so they could go inside the barn, she said, “Do you jitterbug?” “Not exactly.” She rolled her eyes making sure he saw. “Get me a Nehi,” she said, turning to smile at an older boy who took her hand and led her to the dance floor. She danced three dances with older boys before she returned, introducing Young Carter to an adult and manly passion that divided childhood from adolescence. He had never hated a female before. He had drunk her Nehi and had to get her another. He returned to where she sat between two boys and she gasped, “Oh, my God.” He looked down and saw that liquid from the battery had eaten holes in the front of his jeans and underpants. “Oh, my God,” she wailed again. “How could you do this to me?” “It must be from the battery,” he tried to explain. He had ruined his best jeans because of her brother’s battery. “Don’t even think about asking me to dance,” she declared, looking at the boys sitting beside her for confirmation of her horror. “I . . . I think we better leave,” he said. “Leave? I can’t leave now. I have hardly danced at all. What will my friends think? They’ll think I’m leaving to go park with you.” He thought she put unnecessary emphasis on “you.” “What am I supposed to do?” he asked.

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“Well, for one thing don’t stand in front of me.” “I think I had better go home.” “Do not think of driving my brother’s car; I will call the sheriff.” “How will I get home?” “Call your parents.” Might as well tell him to call the Marines. “I guess I had better go,” he said. “Could you . . . walk in front of me until I get outside?” She heaved a sigh that would blow chalk off a blackboard. “If I ever live down this night . . .” Once he was safe outside she turned on him. “You have ruined my evening. Maybe my entire life. I hope I never see you again. Do not ask me to your church. And, sweetheart, don’t ask me out again I don’t care how many gas stamps you have.” Young started for home knowing that tomorrow—maybe tonight—he would have a lot of questions to answer. Questions about stolen money and gas stamps and his ruined jeans. Questions he did not want to answer directly because his parents wouldn’t understand the kind of world he had fallen into. He had never had secrets before. Now he didn’t know how to keep them. He longed for the day he would be an adult. When everything was simple. Right or wrong. Forbidden until you were eighteen or forbidden forever. Then he would know whether he wanted to see Clarissa again. And what he would do if she asked him for gas stamps. She had called him “sweetheart.” And he would never forget the way she looked painting her lips. He wondered if he would steal stamps to kiss those lips. The thought sent him running for what he remembered as home. The house was dark. His parents were asleep. He was alone with his thoughts. Clarissa. Clarissa Bowman. Sweetheart. He tried to make it sound sweet. Sweet heart.

Do You Have a Rapture Lawyer? j

The Lord is going to return very soon, probably before the next election. If your chances of being raptured are greater than those of a pecan pie at a Baptist picnic you need a rapture lawyer. As you rise into glory, what happens to your estate? You may think you don’t need a rapture lawyer because you have a valid will leaving everything to your wife. What if the rapture comes while you are driving your car, you disappear in the air, and your car goes smash into an X-rated video store? Your wife is going to the poor house, and your estate is going to a pornographer and pervert. You may think you don’t need a rapture lawyer because you have given up driving, along with other litigious liabilities, and you have a valid will leaving everything to your wife, children, and grandchildren. What happens if you raised them right, correcting your wife along the way, and they are raptured with you? You may think you will be so happy in heaven with God, the angels, your relatives—including your sainted mother who preceded you—that you won’t care what happens to your estate. Think again. The estate that you spent your life trying to protect from the government is going to be seized by Uncle Sam. And you’re going to feel like hell. You may think you don’t need a rapture lawyer because your estate will be safe in the hands of those who are as likely to be raptured as Bishop Spong—your wife, who is Satan’s sibling, and her spawn, who watched public television while you were in church, hid the remote when you prayed, and sneaked beer into the house while you read your Bible. Before your will 15

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can be probated, your heirs will have to prove you are dead. Where is your body? Where is your death certificate? You may think you have cause for serenity because teachers will be treasured before lawyers are levitated. This is true. The post-rapture world will be filled with lawyers and other nonChristians. The mendacious shall inherit the earth. Liberals will occupy the White House, the Supreme Court, and both houses of Congress. And they are going to want your money to throw at programs like health and education that do nothing to make the military stronger or the markets more profitable. You need a rapture lawyer. This is the age of specialization. Would you hire Johnny Cochrane to defend you if you were charged with murder? Well, yes. But would you hire him to defend you in bankruptcy court? Or would you accuse him of putting you in bankruptcy court? You need a rapture lawyer who knows how to certify that you are in heaven with Jesus and not in Bimini with a blonde, a bikini, and a bag of money. You need a rapture lawyer to see that the godless government doesn’t get your assets, even if he has to take them himself. The time is short. The crisis is now. Liberty College and Southern Baptist Seminaries offer classes in rapture law to lawyers who foresee being left behind. James Dobson has set up a hot line for your questions. “Should I make provisions for the child my unwed daughter now carries or will the innocent embryo be raptured? Is there immaculate abortion?” “My will leaves everything to the library of Liberty College. After the rapture, who will use the library?” “My estate will go to my church. How can I keep someone, who will be left behind because he goes to church only to meet widows, from getting any part of it?” “If I leave my assets to the Eagle Forum, who will be left to administer it after the rapture?” “If the rapture comes and by error I am left behind, who should I ask to plead my case? The pope or a rapture lawyer?” Call now. 1-800-rap-shur.

The Baptist Sex Position j

Some of the youth giggled when Brother Whatley mentioned Samuel raising his Ebenezer. Brother Whatley knew right then that they needed to hear the Baptist position on sex. However, Brother Whatley had a conundrum. He didn’t much like sex. He was well past forty and if he had ever been interested in what he called “baser instincts” it was before he got married and bought a big screen TV. He liked talking about sex even less. When he said total abstinence he meant no sex before marriage and only when necessary afterwards. Like wedding nights or anniversaries. When he read from the Old Testament, he read “begat” in italics. He feared that if he talked to the young people about sex, they would smirk the next time he said “begat,” elbow one another when he mentioned Abraham sporting with his wife. They would wink the next time he spoke of the sinful pride the Methodists exhibited in erecting their steeple or snicker when he asked the congregation to sing, “Love Lifted Me.” Brother Whatley thought of inviting another Baptist preacher to speak to his young people, but he was pretty sure Baptists didn’t do much begetting. That was why they prostletized. He considered a minister from another church. The Methodists were out of the question; Methodists were socially promiscuous. The Church of Christ preacher made a lot of money preaching against sex education and showing photographs from Biology textbooks to fraternal organizations. Baptists could no longer afford him. The Catholics had the right idea—if a Catholic woman didn’t have a husband, father, brother, grandfather, or male 17

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cousin, she still had a priest that she had to call Father. Above him were other fathers—monsignors, bishops, cardinals, and the big father in Rome, the pope. They told women who they should marry—a nice Catholic who would tell them what to do when the Holy Father was busy—and to have as many children as they could. God or the Salvation Army would take care of them. Perhaps God would help them sneak across the Rio Grande or past the Statue of Liberty where there were lots of people to take care of them. Jesus said to call no man father except God. Brother Whatley thought maybe Jesus was kidding about that the way he was kidding when he said it was easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a Republican to enter heaven. Jesus said “rich man,’ but the only rich man in Chillicothe was a Republican. And vice versa. He was a super patriot and a devout Christian who had stayed out of two wars to make money and avoid taxes. He also avoided tithing but that didn’t count because he gave his mite to the Methodists. Brother Whatley decided not to ask a priest to speak to the youth because the Catholics didn’t immerse, they believed God spoke Latin rather than King James English, and they prayed to Mary. It wasn’t even the elderly Mary who was the mother of Jesus’ brothers and sisters. They asked for intercession by the Virgin Mary before she renounced her virginity in order to give Jesus brothers and sisters. That Mary was a teenager. Why would God listen to a teenager when no one else did? Brother Whatley discovered the pastor of a nondenominational church in Oklahoma. The church was politically sound, theologically neutral, and socially attractive with a skating rink, bowling alley, and snack bar. It was the kind of church that had gone from Dietrich Bonhoeffer to Billy Graham, from Karl Barth to Carlos Castenada, from the King James to the Weekly Reader version of the Bible. They had gone from Baylor to Bob Jones, from George Washington to George Wallace, from burning bush to compassionate Bush, from Sebastian

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Bach to Kid Rock. The church had become so popular the members had gone from saving souls to saving seats. Brother Whatley invited the minister, Brother Stumberg, to speak to the youth about earthy matters. He had to pay him more than he would have the Church of Christ preacher they couldn’t afford, but he wouldn’t have to listen to the five steps of sexual fulfillment. Brother Stumberg was a stout man with a round head crowded by thin, spiky hair, and an inadequate mustache. Right away he set the adults at ease when he said that it was better to be married than to burn and that it was sometimes necessary to save some woman who was burning to have a baby. He also agreed that the missionary position was not specified in Leviticus but the Bible did require that the man be in charge. Especially in moments of extreme excitements like check writing, church voting, and begetting. To the youth, Brother Stumberg explained the differences between male and female. Females had headaches; males had backaches. Backaches were almost always legitimate. Females had complaints. Males had hobbies. In the best marriages, male hobbies equaled female complaints. As Paul wrote, “Be ye not unequally yoked together,” II Corinthians 6:14. Males were not from Mars they were from God, made in his image. Women were not from Venus but from the moon. They were seasonable, as likely to respond to the tide as to you or to God. That was why Paul wrote, “Be ye instant in season and out of season,” II Timothy 4:2. Women talked about nothing. They talked about nothing for a long time. The Christian husband studied what his wife said as though it had meaning. A wife loved her husband for doing this. As Paul wrote, “Study to show thyself approved,” II Timothy 2:15. Women had long hair. As Paul wrote, “If a woman have long hair, it is a glory to her,” I Corinthians 11: 15. Men had

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short hair. As Paul wrote, “If a man have long hair it is a shame to him,” I Corinthians 11: 14. A woman could dye her hair. “Thine head upon thee is like carmel, and the hair of thy head like purple.” Song of Songs 7:5. However, it was best for a man not to shave his head lest he be mistaken for a female singer. Women had cold feet. Literally and figuratively. Examine the feet of a herd of elephants hotfooting it across the Kalahari and you would discover the females had cold feet. That is what Paul meant when he wrote, “Submit yourselves to one another.” Ephesians 5:21. He didn’t mean that husbands had to submit in the same way wives had to submit. Which was to do what their husbands told them to do, God having endowed man with superior intelligence, and in those instances where God’s intention failed, superior strength. Submit the backs of your legs to your wife’s cold feet and she would graciously submit in the ways God required, and Christian men preferred, a Christian woman to submit. As Paul wrote, “in due season we shall reap,” Galatians 6:9. At the conclusion of the service, Brother Stumberg asked the youth to stand and vow to their parents, their fellow church members, their friends, and before God that they would abstain from pleasures of the flesh until their wedding night. At which time wives would graciously submit for the pleasure of their husband. A pimple-faced, fourteen-year-old boy was the first to stand and solemnly vow. Slowly, prodded by parents and Sunday School teachers, one by one the other young people stood and pledged abstinence. A widow woman, two wives, and Brother Whatley did the same.

Reasons for Being a Southern Baptist j

You can believe in sole freedom however you feel about soul freedom. You can have church by yourself, preach at yourself, or anyone else who displeases you. You can have Communion by yourself; drink real wine if you don’t get caught buying it. You can suspend or bar from membership anyone who disagrees with you or has skin or money of an inappropriate color. After baptism, that’s it. No eating fish on Friday or going to confession. No trip to Mecca or praying five times a day. Giving alms is recommended but not required. You can keep the alms in your church if you want. You can read the Bible for yourself. Written study guides are suspicious if not dangerous and studying the origin of the Bible is discouraged and should be forbidden. You can believe the Bible is literally true and that you are born again. That you are dust and will return to dust but that you have a soul. That you are made of clay and that if you cut yourself you will bleed. That God is your shepherd although you didn’t sleep in a pasture last night. That at the Great Judgment the sheep were surprised that they were sheep, the goats that they were goats, and be absolutely certain that you not only have a pass to heaven but also know who has a one-way ticket to hell. You can believe that the Ten Commandments condemned covetousness, that Paul said to be content with what you have, and that Jesus said, “Lay not up for yourself treasures on 21

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earth,” and believe that capitalism is ordained by God and that is why America is a Christian nation. You can believe that when God promised to bless those who bless Abraham he meant Israel and when Paul said that sin entered the world by one man he meant Eve. You can believe that only God is good and that you also qualify. You can believe that Jesus’ parable about workers who came to work at the end of the day getting the same pay as everyone else applied to CEOs but not to migrant workers. You can believe that the Bible forbids you to work on Sunday but it’s okay to eat at a restaurant after church because cooks and waiters are Jews or Seventh Day Adventists. You can obey Paul by not letting anyone judge you by what you eat or drink or with regard to a religious festival or the Sabbath and judge others for the same. You don’t have to literally sell all you have and give to the poor in order to be saved; you just have to be born again. You can pray in public places which Jesus forbade but you can’t drink wine in public places, which he didn’t forbid. You can claim kinship with Jerry Falwell and still be opposed to bigotry, national idolatry, and the prosperity gospel. You can believe that God is no respecter of persons but loves you, Baylor University, and the Dallas Cowboys above all others. You can believe that 9/11 was a miracle because without it Americans would not have accepted George W. Bush as the reincarnation of that other draftdodger, John Wayne. You can believe God knew what he was doing when he made America the richest and most powerful nation on earth and still wonder what he was thinking when he gave us Mexico as a neighbor. You can believe that “Defend the cause of the weak and fatherless; maintain the rights of the poor and oppressed” is in the inerrant Bible and that such people get what they deserve. You can believe in family values for women and minorities, rugged individualism for white men.

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You can be a draftdodger in the war on poverty. You can desert the church without abandoning your religion. You can believe women lead men into sin and that Satan is male. You can believe that God is omnipotent and that Jesus Christ is the Truth and that without your help both God and Truth are in immortal peril. You can believe Jesus is the Prince of Peace and that he enlisted in each of our wars. On both sides if you believe our Yankee-devil Baptist brothers. You can graduate from college and still be an antiintellectual. You can believe that Dietrich Bonhoeffer was a prophetic voice in Germany when he deplored cheap grace and proved that to take up the cross was to die, and that Billy Graham is a prophetic voice in America when he champions profitable grace and proves it by becoming the friend of presidents. You can believe that the infallible Bible says “Judge not” and that it is your Christian duty to punish those who do not live up to your expectations. You can believe “Amen” means “Good night, God.” You can believe that giving equal rights to blacks, women, and homosexuals makes heterosexual white males unequal. You can put a bumper stick on your car that says, “God said it, I believe it, and that settles it,” and vote for politicians who want to require public prayer in the schools. You can believe that Jesus condemned religious leaders and Paul said political leaders were to be obeyed and that such statements pertained only to New Testament times. You can thank God for your family because if they weren’t family you’d never want to know some of those people. You can thank God for your parents because without them there would be no one else to blame. You can believe that God belongs to us and that everyone else is trying to steal him.

Ten Mistakes that God Has Made j

Haskell Gatewood, an evangelist of the Southern Baptist persuasion came to Chillicothe for a revival. After a tour of the churches, school, water tower, and cemetery—the cemetery had the most people in it—he pitched his tent, ready to save folks from sin, sickness, disease, doubt, and Democrats. Brother Haskell put his tent where downtown used to be, before the general store migrated to Electra, and gathered a crowd by declaring a week of preaching on “Ten Mistakes That God Has Made.” A sermon on one of God’s mistakes each night of the week and two sermons on the Alpha and Omega Sundays. A large crowd showed up for the meeting, many of the people bringing their own lists of God’s mistakes. Brother Haskell said the first mistake God made was giving himself too many names. “God” was easy to remember, easy to pronounce, and easy to spell. When God went beyond that, He made a major mistake. Was it Yahweh or Jehovah? No one seemed to know. Those other names, Immanuel, Incarnation, Holy Ghost, Logos, Paraclete, Prince of Peace—all they did was confuse folks and turn them into Mormons. Great Spirit was easy to pronounce and to spell but was probably New Age. And what was with all those other names? Allah, Kami, Shiva, Vishnu, Mazda, Devi, Ganesa, Varuna, Purina, Brahma, Krishna, Kali. Except for Santa Claus they were too hard to pronounce, too hard to remember, and too hard to spell. Sunday night the evangelist preached on mistake number two: selecting Jerusalem not only for the center of Judaism but 25

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for Christianity as well. When those two religions proclaimed Jerusalem to be a holy city, of course the Mohammedans wanted it. By claiming Jerusalem as one of their holy places, Muslims pretended their religion was the equal of the religions established by God: first, the Jewish religion to prepare the way for Christianity, and then Christianity as God’s final and absolute answer. After the Protestant Reformation. When Islam chose Jerusalem as the place from which Mohammed was carried through the heavens to meet Jesus and Moses, they insured the Crusades, the PLO, the United Nations, Armageddon, Joe Lieberman, and other things too awful to mention in religious services. Mistake number three was God’s selection of other holy places. Mecca was too hard to get to. Varanasi was okay for a city but the Ganges had ashes in it. Lhasa was as hard to get to as Mecca and colder. Why would God make holy some place where humans couldn’t breathe? Or in the middle of a desert like Salt Lake City? Besides, Brother Haskell had never liked any temple except Shirley Temple. Rome. Did anyone believe the center of Christianity was in a country whose major contribution to church life was the Wednesday night spaghetti supper? As for the other places made holy by apparitions—Tepeyac, Mexico; Lynn, Massachusetts; Palmyra, New York; Waco, Texas; Roswell, New Mexico; Washington, D.C.—if Jesus chose to visit a place wouldn’t it be some place like Fort Worth? Rowdy but not erotic. Profuse but never profound. Obscene but rarely obscure. Wouldn’t Jesus, who was born in a manger and rode a donkey into Jerusalem, feel more at home in the Stock Yards than in St. Peter’s? That mistake was exacerbated by God’s selection of holy food. What was so great about pomegranates? Yak’s milk? Bread and wine? Bread was so ordinary. Why not beets? Beets had body and blood and no drunken excess as could happen with wine unless the church used a substitute, in which case it wasn’t wine. It probably wasn’t bread either.

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Wednesday night’s mistake was creating people of diverse colors. White was the color of purity. White was everyone’s favorite color. White was the color everyone wanted to be. When God gave people shades, He marked them as inferior beings who were to serve the better, purer, white race. The Bible was clear on this. Abraham had two sons, a white child by a free woman whose descendants were favored of God, and a shady child by a slave woman whose children were to be slaves and servants. Galatians 4: 24. “. . . the two women are covenants, one of which, (Hagar that is) comes from Mount Sinai, whose children are born into slavery.” If you didn’t believe that you didn’t believe the infallible word of God. However, the shady people did not want to assume the position God gave them. Out of their rebellious spirit came Black Power, the Democratic Party, the NAACP, the CIO, the War Between the States, racial integration, the Reverend Jesse Jackson, and other things too horrible to mention in a religious service. God’s fifth mistake was creating more than two sexes. It was hard enough for two genders to get along but when God created bisexuals, homosexuals, transsexuals, intersexuals, asexuals, presexuals, postsexuals, hermaphrodites and analgesics, what did He expect? What He got was the Tower of Babel and the Pit of Discontent. God’s sixth mistake was creating some animals that preferred their own gender. That mistake made it possible for homosexuals, and others whose names were too awful to be heard at a religious meeting, to pretend that it was God’s fault that they were perverts. To claim in their customary devious and deceptive manner that it was God who made them the hideous, sickening, despicable, God-hated refuse that they were. Thus permitting them to pursue their fiendish, hellish, cunning, diabolical, and God-damned nefarious, artful, insidious, and crooked life style. Nevertheless, as Christians it was our duty to love them. It was our duty to love them into the church where they might

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find a devout woman who would chill their fiendish lusts and provoke them into righteousness. God’s seventh mistake was permitting varying versions of his holy and inerrant word. There was only one authentic version of the Bible and that was the King James Version. The other versions were perversions. Those perversions permitted those who believed the Holy Bible was “just another book” to claim that there were women preachers in the Old and New Testament. The true and authentic Bible said that women were to be silent in church. The true and authentic Bible said, “No man can serve two masters.” It didn’t say “No woman can serve two masters.” A woman was to serve a heavenly master who was God, and an earthly master who was her husband. Anyone who didn’t believe that didn’t believe the holy and inerrant word of Almighty God. Those perversions, the wicked spawn of hell, allowed unbelievers to say that pastors were servants rather than masters of their congregation. A pastor was a shepherd, and shepherds not only led their flocks to still waters, they made them lie down in green pastures. Shepherds beat wayward sheep back into line. Shepherds decided which lambs would be kept and nourished and which would be supper. Shepherds fleeced their flocks. Brother Haskell’s eighth sermon was on God’s mistake in creating women second. Women had tried to be first ever since, destroying God’s natural order and substituting an effeminate, namby-pamby, wishy-washy, wussy, woozy, wet behind the ears, socialist, humanist, atheist-inspired gender equality. Such women, refusing their God-ordained position of physical, social, and verbal inferiority had brought down on our heads contraceptives, sex education, Planned Parenthood, orphans, illegitimate children, abortion, the teaching of evolution in the public school, the expulsion of God from public places, and Hillary Rodham Clinton.

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If God had created women first, men would have graciously accepted their place of servanthood and not feel compelled to convince others of their superiority. The last Sunday morning sermon was on God’s mistake in not making the earth the center of the universe. There would have been none of that nasty business with Copernicus, Galileo, and other prideful scientists who had rather be right than be religious. If the earth had remained the center of the universe, Darwin, Freud, and Kevorkian, would not have gone poking around in things that were the province of God, not man. There would be no genetics, no DNA, no atomic bombs, chemical warfare, cellular telephones, smut TV, and movies about aliens and asteroids. “Left Behind” would be the only education and entertainment anyone would need. “A Christian who says he believes the Bible and also believes in evolution is like a dog that eats from a crystal dish and drinks from a toilet bowl,” Brother Haskell said. The service was a disappointment to Brother Haskell as there were no conversions of science teachers. They were hiding in the Methodist Church. Three young people and an addled woman rededicated their lives to Christ, as they had done after every service. The final service on Sunday night was a hymn-wringing, praise shouting, Bible quoting knee-bender with thunder from the amen corner and hand-clapping in the choir as the evangelist preached on God’s greatest mistake: allowing some gospel writers to suggest that Jesus died for everyone instead of only the elect. “Whosoever believeth” applied only to the chosen few who were elected to believe. And anyone who didn’t believe that didn’t believe the holy and inerrant word of God. Jesus did not die for those who were not among the elect because they had already been assigned to the hell that was prepared for them—a hell of eternal flame, perpetual pain, everlasting agony, enduring shame, permanent rejection, abiding torment, and changeless woe. God played for keeps.

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Those who were rejected by God were rejected forever. And there was nothing they or anyone else could do about it. Not even Jesus. Mistaken and heretical readings of the gospels sent a message of hope to those who were eternally and forever without hope because God did not elect them. Brother Haskell said Jesus’s story of the ninety and nine proved that Jesus didn’t care about masses. He cared about the special and you could be special if you contributed to Brother Haskell’s ministry. Following the presentation of a satisfactory love offering, Brother Haskell promised to return the following year and point out the elect in Chillicothe who would some day go to Glory, that Promised land that knew no sadness, pain or sorrow; that great Kingdom Come. The rest could go to hell.

If You’re There God, Pick Up j

Billy Mac Wilhite came home from the seminary to be ordained as a Baptist preacher. Tommy Foster, who was fourteen, remembered Billy Mac as a quarterback for the Chillicothe High School Eagles. Billy Mac was Tommy’s hero. Tommy didn’t care that for his ordination Billy Mac wore a plaid coat with gray slacks and a bow tie, had tassels on his shoes, and paisley socks. The Holy Spirit does not always come with good taste. Billy Mac had attended one of those Southern Baptist seminaries that teach “God is deaf” theology. When he was invited to preach, Billy Mac preached that God couldn’t hear the prayers of a whole bunch of folks. Including the Methodists. Billy Mac said he had been to Jerusalem where prayers, calls for prayers, incense for prayers, bells for prayers, and prayers were heard day and night. Catholic prayers, Jewish prayers, Armenian prayers, Coptic prayers, Muslim prayers, Orthodox prayers, Anglican prayers. Was Jerusalem a city known for peace and love? That proved that God didn’t hear the prayers of those folks. Billy Mac said that although God didn’t hear the prayers of Jews it was wrong to blame the Jews for killing Jesus. Jesus died for our sins. That meant that anyone who sinned killed Jesus. Billy Mac said the reason God didn’t hear Jewish prayers was because they prayed for a messiah. God had already sent them a messiah and he wasn’t going to do it again. That, like Noah’s flood, was over. Billy Mac said the Romans killed Jesus. Tommy found that a little contradictory, but he accepted it with relief. At least the crucifixion wasn’t entirely his fault. 31

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“And it is the Roman Catholic Church,” Billy Mac said, extending blame for the death of Jesus to every thing Roman except numerals. “But that’s not why God can’t hear Catholic prayers. It’s because they pray to Mary.” God didn’t hear the prayers of Presbyterians for the same reason he didn’t hear the prayers of Episcopalians. Their “holy” spirit was alcohol. “Neither God nor saintly women hears the pleas of drinking men,” Billy Mac said. He had set the words to a catchy tune and thought it might become a hit song on the gospel charts. God didn’t hear the prayers of Methodists because they had never been baptized. Sprinkling was no more baptism than quiche was church cuisine. “Besides, Methodists dance and praying knees don’t grow on dancing feet,” Billy Mac preached. “But God is always ready to hear the prayer of a born again, Bible-believing, full immersion, washed in the blood, slain in the spirit, from grace to grave, confession to coffin, dunking to death, repentance to resurrection, sinner’s-prayer to heavenlycrown Baptist.” Billy Mac had learned a lot in the Baptist seminary but his sermon caused a controversy on Sunday morning when Baptists were supposed to be full of love for each other. In Chillicothe, Baptists reserved disputation for deacon meetings and wrangling for Wednesday night. Some church members had backslidden right out of the Methodist Church and into the Baptist Church under the banner of “once saved, always saved.” While they agreed that God was deaf to the prayers of their Methodist ex-wives who daily consigned them to hell, they believed God could hear the prayers of their Methodist children when they attended the Baptist Church with their fathers who had weekend visitation rights. Whether God could hear the children when they were in the Methodist Church with their mothers was a sticking point. Some church members argued that God could hear the prayers of Jews or Catholics. Others said, even if he could,

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would he? Almost everyone agreed that God couldn’t hear the prayers of congressmen. Billy Mac’s sermon made Tommy Foster wonder if God could hear his prayers. He thought of writing his prayers so God could read them. That might be all right with God, but Baptists didn’t hold with religion that was thought out. The pastor opened the Good Book, read whatever passage was under his thumb and said whatever came to his mind. That’s the way it sounded to Tommy. Like the pastor was stumbling around for an idea he could denounce with fervor while all over Chillicothe pot roasts turned as dry as a West Texas county with one bootlegger and sixteen Baptist churches. Church services and church picnics were spontaneous. If the preacher lost his train of thought, the song leader led the same song twice, or half the ladies in the church brought tuna fish casserole and salad with celery and carrots floating in green Jello to the picnic that was God’s will. Most screwups in the Baptist Church were God’s will. When someone was called on to pray they were supposed to pray for whatever God laid on their heart. Bearing in mind that they shouldn’t mention anyone by name or confess their sins with too much detail, and they should avoid strong words like “darn Methodists” and “dad gum Church of Christ.” Tommy thought that maybe if he wrote out his prayers without thinking too much about it beforehand, God wouldn’t tell anyone about it. At least not anyone who was Baptist. Tommy decided to keep a record of things prayed for and things delivered. He kept a record for thirty years. God did hear a lot of his prayers. Tommy didn’t marry a Methodist, although the woman that he did marry had many Methodist qualities—lying in bed, smoking cigarettes, and reading Cosmo. His pimples went away although a lot later than he had expected—Tommy wasn’t real specific about that until he became twenty-one and desperate. He had to sit in a classroom with blacks but that wasn’t God’s fault; that was the Supreme Court that God could do nothing with. God took

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away Tommy’s wicked imaginings about girls in the choir. That happened about the same time his daughter became a choir member. Tommy knew God heard his prayers because Baylor went to the Cotton Bowl and the Supreme Court reinstated the death penalty. That was all the proof he needed that God answered prayer. Baylor’s opponents stole that game the way George W. Bush would later steal the presidency. All it took was five Christian officials. Two of them had relatives playing for the opposition. Billy Mac Wilhite, who had become a seminary professor and radio evangelist, preached that the officials carried out God’s will. They let a godless public school chastise Baylor because of its iniquities. Through seminary lectures and radio broadcasts, Billy Mac enumerated the secular heresies Baylor permitted. Baylor’s Department of Geology allowed that the world might be more than six-thousand years old, and cited fossils as scientific evidence rather than theory. The Dean of the Baylor School of Business said that Jesus’ declaration, “The poor you have with you always” was not a commandment. The Dean of the Baylor School of Law said that the Supreme Court did not expel God from public schools. The Supreme Court merely put God in time-out. The Baylor Art Department hired a professor who had painted a portrait of a Jesus who wasn’t blond, encouraging dark-haired and dark-skinned people to think more highly of themselves than they should. The Baylor Drama Department presented a staged version of the Book of Job in which Job questioned the goodness of God. Billy Mac said the world was cruel only to those who had earned God’s wrath by being poor, homeless or unlikable. Billy Mac predicted that Baylor would never win a major bowl game until Baylor taught the Christian view of history: that God inspired the American Revolution and sent plagues of diseases to kill the Indians and give Americans free land.

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Nevertheless, the Baylor coach, the players and the Waco sportswriters fought over who got the glory for getting Baylor into the Cotton Bowl. No one mentioned Tommy Foster or God. No one mentioned Tommy Foster when celebrating the death penalty either. Everyone gave God credit for that.

Questions Catholics Never Ask j

When the Virgin Mary visits the earth, why does she always dress like a Muslim? Other than the halo, how do they know she is the mother of Jesus and not the mother of Mohammed? How old is that dress any way? It’s unlikely there are any fashion designers in heaven but couldn’t Michaelangelo whip up something? da Vinci? When the Holy Mother returns, shouldn’t it be “revisitation” rather than “visitation?” Why is it necessary for the Holy Mother to appear at all if she always has the same message? Love one another? Can’t she think of something that hasn’t been used in soft drink commercials? If the Secrets of Fatima were important enough for the Holy Mother to appear on earth to reveal, why did the popes keep them secret until after the events had occurred? Shouldn’t she have appeared again to be sure her message was delivered? If the pope is the head of the church, why doesn’t the Holy Mother go directly to him? Doesn’t he listen to women? What if God and the Virgin Mary got their roles crossed and God spoke to the pope and the Virgin appeared to the president of the Church of Latter Day Saints? Would good Catholics believe the pope or the president? If in 1950, the pope declared that Mary bodily ascended to heaven, where was she until then? Why do the cardinals and the pope walk around in drag? Is that why they don’t want women priests? Can’t stand the sartorial competition?

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Tornadoes, typhoons, tsunami—if moderation is a virtue, why doesn’t God practice it? If you’re celibate, are you moderately celibate or immoderately celibate? If God gave us dominion over every living thing, why can’t we have dominion over our own sperm and ovum? The church can’t sin, but did it make a mistake when it permitted members to read the Bible for themselves? When Jesus said, “Do not lay up for yourselves treasures on earth” did he exempt the Vatican? If it’s a violation of Natural Law to use artificial or animal materials in condoms to avoid disease or conception of new life, why isn’t it a violation of Natural Law to use artificial or animal organs in transplants to avoid disability or death? Are seat belts a violation of the Natural Law of velocity? What about Viagra? If priests could marry would they, like Protestant ministers, abuse their wives instead of children? When Jesus said you should call no man “father” but God, was he speaking only to Jews or to Jews and Protestants? When the meek inherit the earth will the Vatican claim it belongs to them? If the Baptists pray for rain and your house is flooded, should you sue God or sue the Baptists who claim credit for the rain? Which has more lawyers? Which is more likely to pay? Why do we try to elect Catholics to government office if Catholics in the government who help the poor are not as efficacious as Catholics in charitable organizations who help the poor with government funds? If Christians take over the government as planned, will tithes be included in taxes? Was the fear of jail the beginning of priestly celibacy? If my life is the only Bible some people will ever see, are they reading the guilt-edged edition? If Baptists send their backslidden ministers to the Methodist Church, why don’t Catholics send their wayward

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priests to the Episcopalians instead of shipping them from parish to parish? Wouldn’t that save a lot of money? When your husband says you are good in bed, does that mean you remind him of the Virgin, or that you make him forget the Virgin?

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I Thurston Morton was the kind of Baptist who when he said “thirty-ought-six,” he expected everyone to understand what he meant. Elaine was raised in the Church of Christ and when she said Acts 2:38, she expected everyone to understand what she meant. However, when Elaine reached puberty she became a Baptist because the Baptist Church had something every night. Giving Elaine an excuse to go out every night. Best of all, her Church of Christ parents wanted to hear nothing about Baptist meetings, which meant they would never know where she went or who she was with. When she and Thurston became engaged, Thurston’s buddies warned him that Elaine had dated every male in Chillicothe. “Chillicothe’s not that big,” he said. Five others, including the halt and the married. Elaine had proved to be a good wife—silent in church, faithful at work, obedient at home—the way the Good Book said. All she asked was that some day they take a trip and Thurston promised some day they would. Thurston worked at the grain elevator in the summer and the gin in the fall and listened to radio preachers who promised that God would prosper him if he would prosper them. And God did. Thurston’s father, a farmer, died two bumps into a poker game holding three aces and two fours. Thurston sold the farm, except three acres for himself, and for the first time in his life had money in the bank. Money in the bank troubled Thurston. When he was troubled, Thurston prayed. That always put him to sleep. 41

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Thurston, who had previously ventured out of Chillicothe only to shoot animals, told Elaine they could take the trip to the Holy Land led by Brother Jerry. Brother Jerry, a radio preacher Thurston listened to, preached that earthquakes were the earth shuddering at man’s wickedness. Chillicothe had never had an earthquake. Brother Jerry said famine was God’s punishment of those who preferred daily bread to the bread of life. Chillicothe was surrounded by daily bread farmland. Brother Jerry said tornadoes were the wind of lies turned back on those who told them. Washington, D.C. had been spared only because God’s science wasn’t exact. Chillicothe had been wiped out twice by tornadoes, but God must have hit Chillicothe while aiming a tornado at Oklahoma. Brother Jerry said that family and community were important; therefore, they should be denied to homosexuals. Brother Jerry found the homosexual lifestyle so attractive that he believed lesser folks like Christian soldiers and students would be unable to resist it once they learned of it. Brother Jerry wished things were still the way they were when everything was better. Brother Jerry said moral values had declined since the mid fifties when the Supreme Court integrated the schools. Since that time blacks used words in their books, songs, and daily lives that white people had never heard of. The integrated public schools had become so diverse that students needed to carry guns to school lest they fall in love with a black, gay, or non-Christian student. The Supreme Court had expelled God not only from the public school, they had kicked God out of public places like courthouse lawns. Brother Jerry believed God had created only two nations, Israel and the United States. Brother Jerry believed God should rule America just as He had once ruled Israel. To Brother Jerry that had been Mecca. Well, not Mecca but the Crusades, Inquisition, Confederacy, or some other really spiritual time.

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Brother Jerry wanted his listeners to follow him to Israel to see God’s hand at work. Thurston knew Elaine would celebrate their anniversary in Israel if he told her to. However, gracious submission by Elaine often cost Thurston more than he was willing to pay, and when she set her mind on something, she was likely to get it. Elaine agreed to follow Brother Jerry to the Land of Milk and Honey with three conditions. One, it had to be in the summer so she wouldn’t lose her job at the school cafeteria. Two, they also had to visit some of the romantic desert countries. Three, the trip could not include any of the hated four Ds— dirty, dangerous, difficult, or after dark.

II When Thurston and Elaine met Brother Jerry in Tel Aviv he was exactly what they had expected. Thurston expected he would be ponderous as befitted a Senator, CEO, college president, or preacher. Elaine expected he would be fulsome as befitted a Senator, CEO, college president, or preacher. Israel was not what they expected. Chillicothe is dry, yea, verily, arid. Bereft of water, devoid of alcohol, more familiar with droughts than drams. In Chillicothe gobbles were more popular than gulps. For an orgy, Thurston and Elaine went to the “all the spaghetti you can eat” fund-raiser for the Lion’s Club. Thurston was surprised that he could buy wine in the Holy Land. He could buy beer, whiskey, vodka, Blue Nun, Ron Pope, and Lagrima Christi. What kind of religious country was this? Thurston took a photograph of the minibar in every hotel they stayed in. You could buy anything in Israel, including small explosive devices, unless you looked Palestinian. To Thurston everyone in the Holy Land looked Palestinian but he learned to recognize

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the differences. The Israelis had tanks and airplanes. The Palestinians had rocks. The Israelis remembered what a boy could do with rocks. Every day with Brother Jerry began with prayers, Bible reading, and teaching. Brother Jerry said that the entertainment industry had replaced the church as the conscience of the nation but that God had not destroyed America because he had promised Abraham “I will bless those who bless you, and I will curse him who curses you.” That meant Israel, because Israelis were Abraham’s children, and Israel existed only because of the protection American Christians gave them. Elaine, who studied every night while Thurston watched soccer on TV, said that Arabs were also Abraham’s children. Brother Jerry told her that she had no right to dispute with a man, particularly if he were a preacher or her husband. He said that she was responsible for keeping Thurston awake during Bible lessons and Thurston was responsible for seeing that she knew what she needed to know. “If you want a Christian marriage then shower this man with gratitude,” Brother Jerry said. “Shower him with praise. Shower him with honor. Shower before he comes home.” When he was awake, Thurston learned that Jews were a bunch of Baptists who didn’t want to get baptized because the Arabs had polluted the Jordan River. They were embarrassed that the Messiah had come and they had missed him. Like the preacher coming while you were in the bathroom. Rather than admitting they were caught with their pants down, they pretended they were still waiting. They also didn’t believe Mary was a virgin. Brother Jerry said Mary and Joseph were not sexually active before Jesus was born and they were not sexually active after Jesus was born. That’s why they were the ideal Christian family. Brother Jerry believed that both Joseph and Mary were conceived immaculately. And without pleasure. Like Mary, Joseph bodily ascended to heaven. The idea that Joseph was spiritually inferior to Mary was feminist heresy.

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Nevertheless, Brother Jerry said the similarities between Jews and Baptists were striking. Both were always fighting among themselves over who was a real Jew or a real Baptist and who wasn’t. The Romans liked to see Christians fight lions because the Christians were Jews who had become the first Baptists. Some of them were so tough that not even lions could make them confess they were not the only authentic Jewish Baptists, hanging on to their unique orthodoxy while lions ate their liver. Both believed in one nation under guns. Both agreed that Moses wrote the first five books of the Bible. Both preferred the classic versions. The Jews had Jerusalem. Baptists had Lynchburg. Jews wept at the Wailing Wall. Baptists wept at the First Amendment wall. Another thing you could say about Baptists and Jews, and Brother Jerry thought it wasn’t said often enough; they knew which side of the church women should sit on. The service side. Jews had their Ten Commandments. Baptists had theirs. The words were the same but they meant different things. When Jews said, “no other gods,” they meant Jesus and Mohammed; Baptists meant guns and Elvis. Jews thought it was wrong to make graven images of holy things; Brother Jerry, and other true Baptists, thought pictures of Jesus were okay in Sunday School books for the young. Maps were better for adults. Lambs were okay for stained glass, as were fish, donkeys, and doves. Angels were inappropriate. Brother Jerry believed shepherds were okay if accompanied by sheep but not halos. Stars were okay but not Mary, Joseph, Jesus. John the Baptist was okay over the baptistery. Wooden crosses were okay as long as there was no representation of a human figure. Gold crosses were prideful; silver, showy; aluminum, pretentious; bronze, brassy; nickel, flashy; chrome, tawdry; tin, garish; pewter, practical. Stainless steel was preferred for outdoor crosses, being more expensive but longer lasting than wood.

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Both Jews and Brother Jerry agreed that taking the Lord’s name in vain meant swearing. Both believed God’s name was their private property. Baptists believed they hallowed God’s name by writing “Jesus Saves” on bridges, overpasses, railroad crossings, and restroom walls. That was holy graffiti. Baptists also believed God’s name should be used on coins, when reciting the pledge of allegiance, to increase the church budget, impeach the president, sell wholesome products, or bomb those who opposed God’s will for America. Or Israel. To Jews the Sabbath meant Saturday. Brother Jerry knew it was Sunday, but Sabbath didn’t mean you couldn’t go to the cafeteria after church or watch football or movies on TV. Sabbath did forbid going to movie theaters on Sunday where you could be seen because that might tempt someone less devout to do the same. Honoring your parents didn’t prevent Jews from making jokes about their mothers; it did Baptists. Baptists could, however, tell jokes about Jewish mothers. Jews, Brother Jerry, and other Baptists thought it was okay to kill someone for a good cause. Hate was natural, especially hate for someone who thought they knew more about God than you. “Slow murder”—killing people by selling cigarettes, polluting the air or poisoning streams—was a heresy of socioeconomic environmental terrorists. “Accidental murder”— knowingly creating products that were deadly, was also a heresy. As the Supreme Court said, it wasn’t murder because they didn’t intend your death when they sold you the product. And it wasn’t accidental because if you used their product your death was expected. Jews and Brother Jerry agreed that adultery was always wrong. Baptists believed adultery included fornication, oral and anal sex, and especially referred to homosexuals. Gays didn’t marry; therefore, whatever they did was adultery. Jews, Baptists, and Brother Jerry believed Moses knew more about divorce than Jesus. Brother Jerry did not choose his first

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wife, Darleen, she chose him, a clear violation of biblical prerogatives. When he was a youth, Darleen led Brother Jerry to the altar. Women could not be pastors because that would make them equal to men, but women could be foreign missionaries because foreigners were by definition inferior. Brother Jerry assumed Darleen was volunteering to be a missionary and wanted him beside her at the altar for moral support. However, she was volunteering for the missionary position and wanted him beside her for financial support. The pastor, her uncle, married them on the spot. His second wife was disobedient. Rather than graciously supporting his theological education by selling AmWay products she pursued her own theological education. His third divorce was because of incompatible degrees. His degree was in Religious Broadcasting. Hers in Christian ethics. Jews didn’t believe it was stealing to take land from someone else if God said they could have it. Baptists didn’t believe it was stealing to bomb somebody until they lowered the price of oil if God said the price of oil should be ten dollars a barrel. Both Jews and Brother Jerry agreed that false witness was usually wrong but unusually effective. Especially if done in the name of God about politics, theology, or private matters, and if it was slanderous enough to make the network news. Both Brother Jerry and Jews agreed that it was okay to covet something that was rightfully yours like the inheritance that God gave you that the Palestinians or liberals were trying to steal. Brother Jerry said both Jews and Baptists believed the AlAqsa Mosque in Jerusalem must be destroyed and the temple rebuilt. Jews believed the temple had to be rebuilt before the Messiah could come. Baptists thought a new temple would signal Jesus’ return. That would lead to Armageddon, a cataclysmic war between the forces of good and evil of terrifying proportions with unbelievable suffering and death. Women who had never given birth would thank God that they were barren. Mothers would

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mercifully kill their children. Men would kill, rape, and pillage. Blood would rise to the level of a horse’s bridle. It was God’s will. Vengeance belonged to the Lord, but He couldn’t do it all by Himself, Brother Jerry preached. That’s why He gave us nuclear weapons. Just as God couldn’t be omnipresent without an act of Congress, He couldn’t be omnipotent without the Pentagon. “Yee-hah, bring it on,” Thurston shouted. The study of theology always made him feel patriotic.

III Before Thurston and Elaine left Israel to begin a romantic desert tour, a man told Thurston that he liked Jesus but he didn’t like Jesus’ friends. They were mean. And not just to their own kind. “Wherever two or three are gathered together in Jesus’ name,” the man said, “you may have a lynch mob.” Brother Jerry said that Muslims were sore because the Crusaders had tried to rescue the Holy Land from the invading infidels. Regrettably, the Christians had lost. “God’s side lost?” Thurston asked. Thurston was a student of American theology. Brother Jerry explained that the Crusaders had tried to be Christian and you couldn’t ask WWJD and win a war. Kill them all. That’s what the Old Testament said. Well, kill all those who mistook a wall for a urinal. “God wanted the Crusaders to kill male children?” Thurston asked. Brother Jerry explained that the Crusaders didn’t kill women and children; they made them slaves, like the ancient Israelis did. Just like in the South, slaves did some cooking, a little light cleaning. Slave owners were more interested in the souls of slaves than in their bodies. Whites were all white and

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blacks were all black, and that’s the way they wanted it until the Yankees invaded the South bringing evil thoughts with them. “God lost the Civil War because Robert E. Lee asked, “What would Jesus do?” Thurston asked. Brother Jerry sighed. Just as God used the Babylonians to punish Israel for idolatry, God had used the godless Yankees to punish the South for making cotton king instead of Jesus. Brother Jerry said that before the War Between the States there was no rape or miscegenation in the south. And there was no abortion, incest, or pornography until the government gave women the vote and forced white girls to sit with black boys on the bus. What did they expect white males to do to get some respect? Real men went to church and put women in their place. Maybe the Congress couldn’t do it, or the Pentagon, but churches could. Thurston was thankful Elaine wasn’t there. Brother Jerry didn’t like discussion and Elaine tended to discuss. Thurston was also glad that Elaine wasn’t there because Brother Jerry needed support from believers like Thurston to call America to repentence before it became just another country in God’s eyes. Thurston gave Brother Jerry the money that Elaine had saved to buy a rug. There would be a price to pay but he would tell Elaine that he did it for his country. Reinforced by the lesson in history, Thurston and Elaine visited picturesque Arab countries. There were towers, turrets, minarets, latticed windows, and calls for prayers seemed to come from all of them. Women were covered from head to foot with only their eyes showing. Thurston liked Muslim women because they did deference so well, something Christian women had never been able to master. He thought covering their faces was probably a good thing but that the rest of them was covered overly much. In Chillicothe, Thurston fell in love with every woman he saw in a bra ad. Jordan was like Israel without the guns, violence, and divisions. In Egypt beggars or hawkers—it was hard to tell them

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apart—followed Thurston everywhere. Escaping them was like trying to remove a dog’s nose from your crotch, hard to look dispassionate while doing it. When Thurston suggested that they could avoid the beggars and hawkers by staying in the hotel and watching soccer on television, Elaine said all men thought about was sports and sex. Thurston believed all women thought about was cooking and sex. And how to get out of both. He kept the thought to himself and followed Elaine to the bazaar where he steadfastly despised every rug that Elaine liked. Elaine, who every day prayed that God would make her less compulsive, meticulously rearranged the rugs according to color. In Morocco, their guide, Abdul, tried to explain Islam. “We believe Jesus, like Mohammed, was a prophet. We do not believe Jesus is eunuch.” “What do you mean, eunuch?” Thurston asked, ready to begin a crusade of his own. “He’s trying to say unique,” Elaine said. Abdul, explained that Islam required charity, prayers five times a day, a pilgrimage to Mecca, and a declaration of faith in a personal God. “Christians believe Jesus is good for salvation, not so good for business and war,” Abdul said. “Christians believe God loves only Christians and that he loves white Christians more than Christians of color. Christians don’t believe God is love. Christians believe God is prejudice.” Abdul said America’s gospel was not the story of Jesus who renounced power and died for love. America’s gospel was the story of the Third Little Pig. Rather than building a nice home to live in, the Third Little Pig built a fortress to protect itself from the big bad wolf. In Marrakech Thurston was fascinated by the snake charmers and wanted to take a picture of Elaine holding a cobra; it would make a great shot. Elaine reluctantly agreed. “If the cobra bites me, you have to promise that you will take care of Mother as long as she lives.”

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“Throw me the snake,” Thurston said. Thurston tried to buy wine. It was something he had never done, but there were few Baptists in the heart of Islam. In order to buy wine he had to sign a written statement that he was a Christian. Thurston would stand up in church and testify but he didn’t know about signing a government document. If they could make you register as a Christian what would prevent them from making you register as a gun owner? Thurston declined to buy wine and felt a better person for it. He was pleased that it was hard to buy alcohol in Islamic countries. Like Baptists, Muslims didn’t use alcohol, not even in religious services, and they tried to deny it to others. Despite what Brother Jerry said, Muslims seemed closer to the Baptist way of thinking than Jews. Or Catholics. Catholics not only drank alcohol when folks were looking, they made wine for weddings, funerals, baptizings, fairs, feasts, festivities, ceremonies, celebrations, carnivals, contests, rites, revels, and sprees. Thurston noticed other similarities between Baptists and Muslims. Both believed that without guns they would be as powerless as doves. Or Quakers. He hadn’t observed Muslims dancing. Sex was for men, procreation for women. Their enemies belonged to Satan. Both Muslims and Baptists believed that using the name of God justified any means of seizing religious or political power. Muslims celebrated the holy month of Ramadan by avoiding sensual pleasures until after dark. Baptists celebrated Ramadan year ’round. Muslims took the Ten Commandments seriously. There were no images of any kind. They killed only those who disagreed with them or committed a crime. They chopped the hands off thieves. A woman who committed adultery was stoned. In the biblical sense. The Bible said Jesus forgave one adulteress. That was okay for Jesus, but no one else had better try it. Holy writ was taught in schools and written on the walls of public buildings. Praying five times a day was excessive but

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Thurston believed in prayer, especially at football games and in the public schools. Thurston believed the government should require children to pray. Especially if they didn’t believe in God. At least until the age of accountability, which was when they had to register for the draft. If they were required to pray five times a day they would have a lot less time for sex and violence. Both Muslims and Baptists believed that only they should run the government. But a real Muslim or real Baptist, not Martin Luther King or Jesse Jackson. A black Baptist was an oxymoron, like an Israeli Muslim. Why would you want to go to church with folks who didn’t want you in their neighborhood? Like Baptists, Muslims believed separation of church and state permitted the twin evils of secularism and diversity. The government didn’t allow disagreement about the multiplication tables; why did they allow disagreement about Columbus? the War Between the States? six days of creation? In Morocco there was no fighting among religious groups. The Muslim bureaucracy wrote a sermon to be read in every mosque. Everyone heard the same sermon so there was no religious dissension with this preacher saying this and that preacher saying that. There were no heretics, no liberals who denied the divinity of the Holy Word, no Satanic interpretations. No arguments between church and state. When Thurston mentioned his new found fellowship with Muslims, Elaine said she admired them for requiring charity of believers. Thurston, like other Baptists, disagreed. You couldn’t compel Christian charity. That would violate freedom of conscience. Charity had to come from the heart. And be subsidized by the government. Thurston was touched by the Muslims’ devotion to Allah, but Allah was a God of war. Because Muslims wouldn’t separate their God from their wars, if Christians couldn’t convert them, they’d have to kill them.

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IV When Thurston and Elaine returned to Chillicothe from their visit to the Middle East they were changed forever. Elaine, who had never before traveled farther than Wichita Falls had a spiritual, intellectual, and gynecological experience. Thurston, who had chosen the gastronomical rather than the cultural tour, had experienced delight, dismay, and diarrhea. He had discovered Arab cuisine. She had discovered what her gender meant. Elaine had been born a woman and in much of the world that was worse than being born a mule. A mule was also a beast of burden but sterile. In Israel Elaine had sat through Brother Jerry’s morning Bible studies in silence. If she had a question, she had to write it down, wake Thurston, and give him the question to read aloud. “My wife doesn’t understand why the church dislikes women so could you go over it again?” Brother Jerry said there was no need to gloss over it. The church had good reason to disdain women. Immorality could be controlled only when the sources of immorality were controlled. Brother Jerry identified the sources of immorality in order of their threat to a Christian America as women, blacks, members of other minorities, members of other religions, Supreme Court justices who put the Constitution before God, and heretical preachers in his denomination. Elaine who had seen the plight of women in other countries was determined to be more than wife and cafeteria lady. If Elaine had said she wanted to be a mullah in a mosque she could not have shocked folks more than when she said she wanted to dedicate her life to peace. Brother Cofer, her pastor, said women could dedicate their lives to serve as missionaries or to serve their husbands. Those were the only dedications possible for women in the Baptist Church because that’s what the Bible said and God was bound by what Moses, Paul, or one of the prophets or apostles wrote.

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Elaine said that Paul wrote that in Christ there was neither male nor female. When Brother Cofer replied that even Satan could cite scripture, Elaine knew he meant Satan just did. “Southern Baptists don’t believe in anything they used to believe in,” Elaine told the Women’s Missionary Society. “The reason men seem intrusive is that sometimes a portion of their anatomy precedes them, and it’s not just their nose.” The other ladies gasped. Two left the meeting. “Their stomach,” Elaine continued. “Men don’t butt in, they gut in. They push their bellies into the kitchen where women are working and look for scraps of left-over food to push down their gullets. They push their bellies into prayer circles where women are praying and ask for the key to the pantry. They push their way out of choir practice to grab a fistful of fries at Modeen’s Home Cafe.” Elaine’s comments were prayerfully spread through the congregation like gossip, some comments that she had made, some that they thought she had made, some that they thought she had intended to make. The pastor called a meeting of the deacons to decide what to do with a willful woman, disobedient wife, and upstart member of the church who wanted to dictate to men. They were also to decide whether Thurston could remain Chairman of the Board because if a man was not master of his home, he had no right to be master of the congregation. Other than Elaine and his God-given right to be Chairman of the Board of Deacons, Thurston believed in two things. Firepower and the Bible. He had returned from the Middle East determined to have more firepower than anyone in town. He already owned two rifles, two shotguns, and three handguns, but he had bought more. He believed in the Bible as much as any man. And he had read it as much as most men, which is to say, not at all. However, he had heard enough to convince him that the Bible was written by God, and he quoted it often. “God helps him who

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helps himself.” “To thine own self be true.” “All men are created equal.” Although Thurston rarely quoted him, he often reminded himself that Jesus said, “Give me liberty or give me death,” and “I shall return.” Thurston owned as many Bibles as anyone in Chillicothe, and Chillicothe had more Bibles than a motel chain. Every home had a Cotton Patch Gospel in the bedroom for bedtime reading, a Scofield Reference Bible for study, and a leatherbound, gilt-edged, red-letter Thompson Chain Reference Bible in the living room for demonstration. In addition, Thurston had a well worn Bible on the television to sanctify it, a torn-cover Bible on the “Playboy” and “Mature Living” stack to conceal it, an old family Bible with records of births, marriages, deaths, and baptisms kept in the attic along with the rest of Thurston’s mother’s belongings, although he did not intend her to ever leave the nursing home. There was a good cloth edition of the Bible on the dining room table to signal there would be grace with meals; a Harmony of the Gospels in the den to prove that someone in the family, no one could remember who but it was probably Uncle John, had attended a Baptist college; a mess of Chaplain’s Editions of The New Testament plus the Psalms in the closet as proof that the men of the family had not only served in the military, but that they had at least one time attended a service in a military chapel; the white linen Bible that Elaine had carried at her wedding; the red leather Bible that Sister carried at her wedding; the rainbow colored Bible that Thurston’s nephew carried at his mutual pledge of affection that no one from the family or church attended and that took place in a cow pasture; and the cheap cloth Bible given by Oral Roberts as a token of his appreciation for the generous check Thurston had sent to bribe God out of killing Oral. Thurston searched them all for evidence that a woman could dedicate herself to peace. Jesus said, “Blessed are the peacemakers.” But he also said, “I came not to send peace but a

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sword.” Thurston was confused but the Bible said there was a time for peace and a time for war and he preferred to err on the side of war. Thurston went to the deacons meeting with a .44 magnum pistol stuck in his belt. He explained that he bought the pistol to signal midnight on July 4, Christmas, the New Year, and other sacred occasions, and that he brought the pistol to the meeting to signal Elaine that he had been removed as Chairman of the Board. The pastor and deacons unanimously supported his continued Christian service as Chairman. They also said that Elaine could be a peacemaker but that there was no official title, no salary, and no publicity. Thurston went home to tell Elaine that he had won a Baptist victory. Unlike a Pyrrhic victory where the win was at too great a cost, a Baptist victory was a noble gesture in a lost cause. Like sacrificing your body to gain an extra half yard when your team was behind 55-0. Like mentioning that when Moses broke the stone tablets bearing the sacred Ten Commandments, God gave him a different set of commandments. Like calling for scholarship at a Southern Baptist seminary. When the church became hostile, Thurston and Elaine became mobile. Elaine joined the Methodist Church where women carried Palm Pilots to meetings instead of casseroles. Thurston bought boxes of ammunition, crates of freeze-dried rations, and began building a bunker on the three acres he had kept from his father’s farm. Elaine continued as cafeteria lady, patiently enduring the contempt of students. Since she had dedicated her life to peace, everyone thought she was afraid to speak up or defend herself. Everyone except Thurston. One day while brooding over injustice she accidentally cut off the fleshy part of her thumb while grinding hamburger. She searched the hamburger conscientiously but could not find the missing part of her thumb before frying patties for lunch.

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“Why don’t you dedicate your life to cooking?” a boy sneered. “You’re hamburger,” a girl said. “At least an onion fights back.” “We can make them behave but—” a teacher said. She shrugged. “They’re going to let you go as soon as they can find someone else.” Elaine ignored the taunts and humiliations and maintained her smile of peace and brotherhood. She would step aside graciously when they hired her replacement. She would retire to Thurston’s bunker and cook for the militia group he had formed. Until then she would put saltpeter in the cafeteria food. After lunch when the students left the cafeteria, she held up her bandaged thumb and with the same benevolent smile said, “Bite me.” In this manner, Thurston and Elaine brought the peace they had found in the Middle East to Chillicothe, believed by some to be The Holy Land.

Questions Southern Baptists Never Ask j

If being sucked out of an airplane to meet Jesus in the Rapture is devoutly to be desired, why not buy a ticket on Ed’s Cut Rate Airline and meet him sooner? What is the point of the rapture if you can’t enjoy the misery of those left behind? If the Bible is literally true why is grape juice substituted for wine? If the Bible is literally true why didn’t St. Peter turn to stone? If Paul meant the church and not husbands and wives when he wrote “submit yourselves to one another,” was the church in Ephesus for singles? If women can’t be pastors because the Bible says “husband,” why do girlfriends have to be submissive when the Bible says “wives?” If the Bible means “men only” when it says “husband of one wife” does the Bible mean “women only” when it says that a woman whose husband is dead does not commit adultery if she remarries? What Southern Baptist agency gave King James the authority to authorize the King James Baptist Bible? Can that authority be taken away by the next Southern Baptist Convention? Why am I and other Baptists more likely to spend time in jail than in a homeless shelter? If Jesus is the truth, is Santa Claus a lie? If Jesus is the way, what is capitalism? If Jesus is the life, what is retirement?

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When Paul said the purpose of labor was to support the weak did he refer to the minimum wage or did he intend the rich to work for the poor? If Paul said Christians were to be in debt to no one, why is it okay to borrow money to buy a car? a house? to finance the church building fund? If politics corrupts candidates why are we told to vote for Christians? If my life is the only Bible some people will ever see, are they reading the bowdlerized edition? If “once saved always saved” is true, why is Bill Clinton consigned to hell? Al Gore? Jesse Jackson? If God can save us from Satan and temptation and women and our own sinful selves, why can’t he save us from church building programs? If children are not condemned for their sins until they reach the age of “accountability,” is there an age of unaccountability for old folks? If God permits children to be loud, disruptive, and argumentative does he permit old folks to be loud, disruptive, and argumentative? Does God practice age discrimination? Is scriptural perversion, distorting the Bible for one’s own purpose, as wicked as sexual perversion? Was the fear of jail the beginning of tax-paying? If the “human statue” in the mall in Wichita Falls can hold a position for hours without taking any action, is he a Southern Baptist or a role model for all Christians? If God answers prayer why do televangelists need to ask us for money? When the meek inherit the earth, will televangelists ask us to give it to them? Did we boycott Disney because Mickey is gay or because Minnie wants to be a minister? Can a wife who is really slow be considered truly submissive? What good is prayer if God is the only one who hears it?

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How can we enjoy heaven if we don’t know the misery of those in hell? If Southern Baptists had been at the wedding in Cana would they have stood in a corner and judged Jesus? Would they have walked out when he turned water into wine? Was the first Southern Baptist John the Baptist or John Calvin? If Jesus didn’t die for everyone, why do we have to send missionaries all over the world? If He has the whole world in His hands, why is it going to hell with a handshake? If a picture is worth a thousand words, why can’t the photographer who took my picture for the church directory be sued for slander? Is being found guilty of blasphemy and treason a theological or a legal redundancy? If salvation means being whole why do I have to surrender my mind to be a Southern Baptist? Is extremism in the name of God a Christian virtue? If the Baptist Faith and Message is true and everyone has to believe it, why does it have to be changed so often? When will they get it right? If we rid America of Hollywood, Hillary and homosexuals, will God return his protection to us? Is homosexuality a bigger threat to the family than adultery? uneployment? bowling on TV? If everyone is permitted to interpret the Bible for herself won’t that turn the Bible into Pandora’s Box? When your wife spends an hour in Barnes and Noble looking for a book to buy, is it stealing to look at the pictures in Playboy? What about browsing Guideposts? the latest prophecies, proclamations, promotions of James Dobson? Are the hateful passages in the Koran worse that those in the Bible where Moses says Jehovah demands genocide, or where Ezra orders ethnic cleansing, or where Jesus tells his disciples to sell their cloaks and buy a sword?

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If situational ethics is a moral monstrosity, why did Jesus say it was okay to violate one of the Ten Commandments in order to heal on the Sabbath? If tithing is so important why isn’t it one of the Ten Commandments? If it’s the thought that counts, why can’t thought count for 10 percent? If God is one and three, does that mean two is irrelevant? When your husband says you are good in bed, does that mean he thinks you are prayerful or that you don’t snore? If Billy Graham is not the American pope, how can he say bad things about the Jews? Why doesn’t George W. just bomb Allah? Wouldn’t that solve all his problems and make him look religious, too? If God is love, why am I so mean?

Born-Again Jesus j

A clandestine group of scientists, even more secretive than the Masonic Lodge, met at the sacred mounds near Chillicothe. Among them was a Nobel laureate, two who had received Pulitzers—one in Specialized Reporting and one in Explanatory Reporting—one winner of the Intel Science Talent Search, two National Medal of Freedom winners, and four Teachers of the Year. By the third grade they had been the smartest kids in their schools, including the high school. By sixth grade, they were the smartest people in their church, including the pastor. They had won national championships in science fairs, spelling bees and Bible sword drills. They had learned evolution in school and six days times twenty-four hours a day equaled 144 hours of creation in Sunday School. Reptilia in school and subtle serpent in Sunday School, physics and The Rapture. They believed E equaled MC squared and that glossalalia equaled vision. They believed the first law of motion, that things remained pretty much the same without external intrusion, and that eating everything on their plates aided hungry children in India. Nevertheless, each had reached a point where they were unable to straddle the yawning crevasse between Christianity and the biblical Jesus. For a time they tried to find a church that could accommodate science and religion, gospel and dogma, history and Jesus. Christianity had survived for centuries by ignoring Jesus’ teachings or by declaring that mistakes had been made by scribes and Pharis-er-translators. Jesus, who had lived in a simpler time before the miracle of capitalism, had been quoted as saying things such as “Blessed 63

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are the poor.” Christians knew that it was a mistake to help the poor because they became dependent on money and wanted Social Security and medical insurance instead of depending on God to take care of them. Poverty was not only a crime against industry, it was a sin that stained the truth of television ads and the financial promises of religious capitalism. Jesus said that the greatest of his followers would be their servant but Christians knew the greatest among them was the one with the most power. And you didn’t get power on your knees; you got it by seizing it in any way you could. Your ambition showed God, and everyone else, that you had God’s permission and his blessing. Christians knew that the Beatitudes, like fancy bath towels, were for decoration not application. The scientists had drifted from church and slowly found each other, linked by the desire to have Jesus, as represented by the church, resemble the Jesus of the Bible. Powerless to change Christianity through prayer or Bible reading, they determined to reconcile the schism between Jesus and Christianity through science. And God, through science, had delivered the solution into their hands. They would clone Jesus who would rectify his preaching in order to write an improved Gospel more in keeping with Christian values and traditions. Atop the highest of the sacred mounds, the scientists agreed to find a sample of Jesus’ DNA in relics such as the true cross or the Shroud of Turin. Then, using modern technology they would create a Jesus embryo. The embryo would be placed in the womb of a carefully selected teenage virgin with a target birth date of December 25. Or maybe Easter. When Born-Again Jesus was born he would be placed in a good Christian home, raised in a Christian community and educated in church schools far from worldly contamination by hunger, disease, and the Bill of Rights. When he was grown Born-Again Jesus would preach the gospel the church and other Americans believed. As a side benefit, it was possible that by ameliorating the biblical Jesus’

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demands they could make America, for the first time, a Christian nation. A further benefit was that Born-Again Jesus would encourage not only the reading but also the quoting of the Truly Inerrant Gospel. Christians tended to quote only those Scriptures that they agreed with. The scientists called themselves, “The Disciples of BornAgain Jesus.” Thus ended the first council known as The Council of Medicine Mounds. The Disciples returned to their schools to gather more than seven-thousand thorns from the true crown, three rooms of splinters from the true cross, five chests of threads from the true robe, a truckload of lachets that John the Baptist had loosed on Jesus’ sandals, seven Shrouds of Turin, two bags of burial cloths, three cartons of swaddling clothes and forty-three bales of straw from the true manger. With DNA taken from those relics they had successfully cloned three sheep, a flight of pigeons, two dozen chickens, a deaf-mute Czech, an Italian priest, an Egyptian camel driver, and a Korean billionaire. They had also devised a plan for two Protestants or Unitarians, whichever was handiest, to slip into a Catholic church and take Mass. One would wax his tongue before receiving the consecrated wafer and quickly and surreptitiously slip the wafer into a Ziplock bag concealed in his handkerchief. The other would practice opening a Ziplock bag inside his mouth. Once he had perfected the trick he would catch consecrated wine in the Ziplock bag and surreptitiously remove the bag from his mouth. From the body and blood of Christ they would clone Jesus. One faction of “Disciples” wanted to clone a Protestant Jesus and a Catholic Jesus for easy identification and to avoid theological argument and godly warfare. A smaller faction wanted a Protestant Jesus, a Catholic Jesus and a Mormon Jesus. Some Mormons and Catholics left the group to clone their own Jesus. Most knew it would take more than three clones of Jesus to reconcile Baptists to each other.

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At first they corrected the Gospels by e-mail with little discussion. “It is easier for a rich man to enter heaven than for a needle to pass through the eye of a camel.” “Take no thought of what you shall eat, or what you shall drink, or what you shall wear and you’ll deserve to die in a ditch.” “Whosoever will be chief among you, let him be your C.E.O.” “Whosoever looketh upon a woman to lust after her, except as a mother, maid, and Sunday School teacher, has committed heresy in his heart.” “Be sure and perform your religious duties in public so that people will see how pious you are. If you do these things to be seen of men you will have a good chance at public office.” Factions first appeared when some Disciples wanted the scripture corrected to “By this will all men know that you are mine if you rule others.” Some preferred “By this will all men know you are mine that you seek federal funding to love one another.” Others lobbied for “By this will all men know that you are my followers, that for everything that goes wrong you assign the blame to someone else.” Another group pushed “Not everyone that saith unto me, Lord, Lord, shall enter heaven; but he that applies for federal funding and receives a government grant to do the will of my father in heaven.” The decision to include all the corrections brought complaints that the amended Gospel was redundant as though written by a committee. The scientist who had received a Pulitzer for Explanatory Reporting pointed out that Holy Writ was redundant. Agreement returned with “But I say unto you, love your enemies unless they are also Christians, bless those who revile you unless they use the Bible to do so, and pray for damnation on those who persist in error after you have corrected them.” “Wherever two or three are gathered together in agreement as to what I said, there I am also. If there be no woman of authority among them.”

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“Be alert to all kinds of greed for a man’s life consists in the abundance of things that he has.” “What God has joined together let no man put asunder” grievously needed correcting as gays claimed it also pertained to them when God did not want them to be joined together but wanted Christians to put them asunder. They reached agreement with “What heterosexual males God has joined together with heterosexual females let no gay man put asunder.” The committee struggled painfully to reach a consensus on altering Jesus’ statements about women that were out of step with church practice. Jesus said that all over the world people would remember one woman when all she did was waste oil. How many men who had died fighting for oil had been forgotten? He told another woman that great love for him showed that many sins were forgiven. That would mean those church leaders who were most pious were the greatest sinners. However, the woman problem would require prolonged study and a meeting in some place like Las Vegas. After voluminous e-mailing, Disciples took no action on a proposal to adjust the scripture to “Beware of false prophets that come to you in judges’ robes,” because some would erroneously apply it to Justice Shady of the Supreme Court, others to Justice Murky. Everyone agreed that turning the other cheek was possible only when you were a CEO or Superpower. Then you could turn the other cheek when employees sent personal e-mails during their lunch hour or when other countries accused you of economic terrorism. They agreed upon, “Turn the other cheek when you have the upper hand.” Dissension first appeared when vegan Disciples wanted five loaves and two olives and pointed out that the apostles had forbidden Christians to eat blood. Omnivorous Disciples said Jesus ate fish when he couldn’t get lamb. The vegans pointed out that at the Last Supper Jesus broke bread, not fish nor flesh, and said bread represented his body. For Christians wine was to substitute for blood. When Jesus fed the

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multitudes, the Biblical representation of the hungry world, he used five loaves but only two fishes, demonstrating a preference for bread over fish and for fish over flesh. The omnivorous pointed out that Jesus was the Good Shepherd, not the Good Farmer, and that God favored Abel who raised sheep and offered the firstborn lambs and the fat thereof to God. The vegans countered that the task of the “Born-Again Jesus” was to address the problems with Jesus’ sayings, not those of the whole Bible. To resolve the dispute the “Disciples of Born-Again Jesus” agreed to meet in some place where they would be inconspicuous in the throng of religious and scientific groups. Dissension next appeared over whether that place would be Roswell, New Mexico; Waco, Texas; or the White House.

j The second plenary of “The Disciples of Born-Again Jesus,” that came to be known as the Council of Sedona, met among the rich red rocks of the Arizona town famous for scenery, spirituality, and sangria. Most of those from the Council of Medicine Mound were present but a research scientist from Texas Tech University in Lubbock had instead chosen to attend the Ontological Conference on Aliens in Roswell, New Mexico. Business, political, and religious leaders were also present. They required that their discipleship be anonymous but generously paid all expenses. The vegan dispute was tabled for religious lobbyists who wanted to redress Jesus’ harsh statements against religious leaders. Jesus, who had been born into hypocritical times, could not have known how little sanctimony would be found among his followers or how modest, gentle, submissive, and unassuming their leaders would be. The bishop in Rome, the bishop in Lynchburg, the bishop in Virginia Beach, Bishop Bob formerly of Dallas, were numbered among the humble, the modest, the meek of the earth.

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Since Jesus’ intention was to reproach the arrogant, contentious, and haughty the religious lobbyists argued that it was the duty of the Disciples to emend the Scripture so that condemnation was directed at the fierce and sanctimonious. “Woe until you gays and lesbians, hypocrites! for you devour widow’s houses, and for a pretense make long prayers.” “Woe unto you, gays and lesbians, hypocrites! for you tithe mint and anise and cumin, and have omitted the weightier matter—heterosexuality.” “Woe unto you gays and lesbians, hypocrites! for you shut up the kingdom of heaven against men; for you neither go in yourselves, nor allow those who want to enter to go in.” “Woe unto you, gays and lesbians, for you love the uppermost seats in the synagogues, and greetings in the markets.” Dissension began with, “Judge not until you have received all the lobbyists and their gifts.” Political lobbyists argued that literalists would interpret it as applying only to the justices of the Supreme Court, conservatives would say it pertained to all judges, and liberals would claim it had reference to all politicians. The politicians wanted a scripture that would apply to all Christians, “Judge not lest ye be certain you are heterosexual.” There was quick agreement on, “Blessed are churches who work with the poor for they shall inherit government handouts,” “Blessed are the unmerciful for they shall see that justice is done,” and “Blessed are the peacemakers for they shall have nuclear assistance.” Disagreement surfaced with, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you, except for gays.” Religious lobbyists wanted to except gays, blacks, and working mothers. Political lobbyists argued that Jesus didn’t die for homosexuals, but he may have died for blacks and working mothers. Business lobbyists pointed out that in the increasingly secular world, loving one another could mean regulations that prevented intentional harm to workers and consumers in order to increase profit. Start down that slippery slope and Christians might be forced

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to sit next to someone in church whose lifestyle, color, or economic circumstance interfered with your freedom of worship. The discussion was tabled to deal with more urgent matters. Some Christians had come to believe that Jesus preferred sinners to those paid to condemn them. That wasn’t grace; that was nonchalance. The story of the woman taken in the act of adultery was emended by having Jesus say, “He who has not been investigated by an independent counselor, let him first cast a stone at her. And when her accusers left one by one, Jesus said to her, ‘You got away with it this time, but next time I’ll throw the first stone.’” Business lobbyists complained that “Come unto me all you who labor and are heavy laden and I will give you riches,” could be interpreted to include coal miners, migrant workers, and adjunct professors when it referred to CEOs, entrepreneurs, and religious hustlers. The Disciples closed that loophole by writing “Give to a televangelist who begs from you, and do not refuse a politician who would borrow from you if he promises to do your will.” Jesus had healed a man on the Sabbath. Conservative members of the council wanted Cloned Jesus to confess his sin. Liberal committee members argued that Jesus couldn’t confess his sin because Jesus was sinless. The literalists contended that Jesus sinned because he broke one of the Ten Commandments, and it wasn’t the only time; he permitted his disciples to grind out kernels of wheat on the Sabbath and said it was okay for David to eat the show bread in the temple. If Born-Again Jesus didn’t confess, then biblical Jesus practiced situational ethics. The liberals believed authorized interpreters could declare that it was not situational ethics but compassionate orthodoxy. The majority adopted the conservative position that Jesus should tell the man to come back the following day if he could. If not, he would have to stay as he was because it was a sin to work on the Sabbath. There was intense pressure from the political lobbyists to correct Jesus’ statement on public prayer and the Disciples complied. “A prayer said on the Hill cannot go unheard.”

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The Disciples were in complete agreement that Nicodemus was a ninny. It was far easier to be born again than it was to sell all you had and give the money to the poor. After intense lobbying by the politicians the council agreed to “Go and sell all you have and give it to a Political Action Committee that will lobby Congress to provide money for your church to give to the poor.” That opened the floor to debate on charity. Some wanted the Scripture to say, “I was hungry but had a job and you dropped your opposition to a minimum wage and food stamps for my family. I was sick with an acceptable disease, not HIV or STD, and you dropped your opposition to my partner carrying me on his insurance policy. I was in jail for a white collar crime and you visited me and invited a donation to the building fund. I was naked because of the dictates of fashion and you allowed your children to imitate me.” One political lobbyist wanted to debate how God would punish those countries that did not require taxpayers to fund Christian charity in Jesus’ name. Fire or flood? Natural disaster or human caprice? Another political lobbyist said that if Christians got federal funding to behave as Christians, then Jews, Muslims, and Buddhists would want it too. Maybe even Wiccans and Unitarians. But would they behave as Christians? No. A business lobbyist admitted that Jesus had largely ignored Caesar but Jesus had no idea how useful Caesar could be. The Gospel was adjusted so that those who hungered for bread thanked Baptist Charity sponsored by the GOP. Those in jail thanked Catholic Justice sponsored by the Democrats of America. Those who thirsted after clean water thanked the Unitarian Universalists sponsored by the Green Party. Those in jail for attempting to preserve historic trees, sacred rivers, and pristine wilderness thanked the Wiccans sponsored by the Green Party of California. “How can the church have a prophetic voice in the government if it is a part of the government?” asked a woman who claimed to be a scientist and a church official. A southern politician said his faith-group had defended slavery, opposed child labor laws, integration, equal rights for

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women and minorities, health care for the poor, free school lunches for hungry children, a safe environment for workers and those in prisons. They had supported wars of aggression, terrorist activities, and genocide against the indigenous people of the Americas, even into the 1980s. His church couldn’t lose a prophetic voice it had never had, he argued, so why shouldn’t it ask taxpayers to pay for church charity to those the church would otherwise avoid—out-ofwork dads, single mothers and orphans, children with learning or emotional difficulties, homeless veterans, and those who spoke with an accent, had funny names, color in their cheeks, or clothes that could be purchased at a discount store. Revealing his Marxist roots, a scientist from Cal Tech said that Jesus’ original statement that his true followers fed the hungry, clothed the naked, cared for the sick, visited those in jail should remain unaltered to challenge Christians and those who followed Christ. The southern politician pointed out that if mothers stayed home with their children the way God intended there wouldn’t be any hungry children. Not until they were old enough to eat solid food. Child labor laws had been a mistake; children no longer got enough exercise. And food stamps and free school lunches were making them as obese as their pastors. Religious lobbyists argued that if churches helped the poor, church members would have to sacrifice playing fields, bowling lanes, gyms, snack bars, retreats, resorts, maybe stained glass, air-conditioning, and cushioned pews. Or practice tithing. “The poor feed off the largess of the rich and they give nothing back. Nothing.” “They provide minimum wage work in unhealthy environments and fight our wars to prevent trade competition,” a business lobbyist pointed out. “They pray a lot,” the Cal Tech scientist pointed out. “That’s why I think it is important to discredit the poor in a way that will make it more difficult for them to get handouts except from Christian charity, and then, only when supported

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by federal taxes,” a religious lobbyist said. That was one more reason Jesus should be cloned as quickly as possible, before the poor turned on Christians who oppressed them. The woman “scientist” stated that safe working conditions cut workers’ deaths in half. “Yes, but at what cost to industry?” the business lobbyist replied. “Employers aren’t Santa Claus. You have to make charity profitable. When Christians make millions, they give their mites.” “Jesus said his followers were to give Caesar his due and Paul admonished Christians to pay their taxes,” the woman said, quoting scripture. “Jesus and Paul were governed by Rome where taxes went to support the Roman Legions. In return, the Legions came home with booty, spoils, and slaves. The U.S. military is a dead expense,” the southern politician said. “When was the last time war was profitable?” That raised a clamor from scientists supported by research in medicine and drugs, or in nuclear, chemical, biological, and missile defense, and those whose schools were funded by petrol dollars. “The Indian wars,” someone shouted. “Well, yes, the Indian wars gave land, timber, gold, silver, oil, movies, ski slopes—” “The Civil War,” someone else shouted. “Yes, carpetbaggers made fortunes, but some like John D. Rockefeller and Margaret Mitchell were Christians.” “World Wars One and Two,” someone else shouted. The problem of government supported churches proved too big to address so late in the plenary. Before adjourning, the lobbyists persuaded the Disciples to adopt a resolution stating that the battle for the soul of America was between God-fearing, Bible-believing Christians, international businessmen and defense contractors, and the poor around the world who wanted our bread, our freedom, and the safety of our shores. If Jesus wanted to help the poor and oppressed, the White House was the place where he had to go. The Disciples would

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meet Jesus there—perhaps the first meeting where science and religion had agreed since Galileo recanted. Still some were troubled that when Born-Again Jesus was twelve he might ask his teachers why they wanted to rule the kingdoms of this world when biblical Jesus rejected such temptation.

Wednesday Night Prayer Meeting at the Baptist Church j

Wednesday night meant prayer meeting at the Chillicothe Baptist Church. Before praying together, Baptists tried to reconcile themselves to one another over ham hock and lima beans, with ice tea and peace cobbler. First, Brother Wachel announced that he felt pretty good for someone who had a funeral that morning. Next, he identified the larger concerns of the whole church so that folks could pray about it. One of those concerns was the building fund. “Due to the increased activity of our young people we need to enlarge the nursery,” he said. No one laughed. No one listened. Another concern was that Brother Elroy was not fulfilling his role as deacon in charge of visitation. Some of the pew racks did not have visitor cards and some of the pencils in the racks had not been sharpened. The pencils were used by visitors to write their names and addresses on the visitor cards so that the pastor might visit the visitors, usually at mealtime. Brother Wachel was concerned because some church members used the cards to write notes to each other, prepare grocery lists or share recipes. Teenagers used the pencils to write hymn titles on the cards adding “between the sheets.” “How tedious and tasteless,” “Blest be the tie,” “Fight the good fight,” “With happy voices ringing,” “There is a wideness” . . . between the sheets. Another prayer concern was that some church members came to church with their Bible in their pocket or purse, or carried a Bible that was disguised to look like a book. Brother 75

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Wachel asked the more devout church members, those who attended Wednesday night prayer meeting, to admonish their errant brothers in the name of the Lord. “We want God and the Methodists to know that we are a Bible-carrying church,” Brother Wachel said. Brother Wachel also asked prayers for the church’s new computer although he didn’t like computers. He preferred secretaries. When something went wrong he yelled at the secretary until she confessed that it was her fault. Computers never admitted it was their fault. Prayers for the church secretary had not worked. The woman could not spell. When in an excess of Christian love the Baptists had agreed to mention special events at the Methodist Church in the Baptist Bulletin the secretary had written that organist Tootie Wells was having a rectal at the Methodist Church. One Order of Worship listed the sermon title as, “His Yolk Is Easy.” Another sermon title, “My Rock—My Redeemer,” was changed to “Mr. Rock—My Redeemer.” The special music was “Hair in the G-String by J. S. Bach.” Words looked stranger to her every day. “God is Over All” became “God is Overall” and Methodists snickered for days that Baptists worshipped blue denim. The church had bought the secretary a computer but the woman, home schooled by her Church of Christ parents, believed in the inerrancy of the spell checker. When she wrote in the Baptist Bulletin that the Dorcus Sunday School Class would host a Fajita Party as a mission fundraiser the computer did not recognize fajita and substituted vagina. Brother Wachel asked the church to pray that God would personally speak to those complaining, including those who had complained to James Dobson’s Focus on the Family; that God would smite the ridiculers until they removed the Bulletins publicly displayed at the VFW hall and the Fire Station; that God would heal the computer’s spellcheck since no one in the Baptist Church knew how to do it; and that God would do it before the men announced their Enchilada Dinner with frijoles and salsa.

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Brother Wachel also asked the church to thank God for the Dorcas Sunday School Class’s Fajita Party that had set a new record in attendance. Viola Vernot, who as president of the Women’s Missionary Union had a sick smile, gave the sick report. “Nonie still has the diarrhea. Can’t sleep at night and keeps her husband awake. Also ruins his breakfast. You know she went to that ecumenical dinner in Wichita Falls where ethnic foreigners brought different dishes and she ate Dalmatian cuisine. Then somebody told her Dalmatian was a dog. “As most of you know, Slim Sawyer died last week. When he got bad they called a cold blue on him but he died anyway. He used that botox on his face and had no wrinkles and no expression. In his coffin he looked just the way he did out of it. I always thought he had what they call peacock paranoia. He thought people were watching him and he liked it. “The Colemans had three hospitalizations and three wrecks in the family last week. Danny had a wreck coming back from Oklahoma. I don’t know why he was in Oklahoma, but folks who saw the wreck said there was beer bottles all over the highway. Maxine was driving to Matador and a deer came through the windshield and landed in Maxine’s lap. Maxine said she praised the Lord that it wasn’t a cow. Winnie went to Wanderer Creek to feed the ducks and someone backed into her and damaged her rear end. “Mary Chambers’ niece threw her back out in Oklahoma. She’s Presbyterian and they dance. That happened the same week Mary fell at home and was not discovered until her husband came home from his AA meeting. Am I supposed to mention that he goes to AA? I’ll make a note of that. She had to have hip surgery, which is hard on someone her age, which I believe is seventy-six. Does anyone know if that’s correct? She was seventy-six last year? We’ll just say seventy-seven and she can correct us if she ever gets back to church. “Dean’s sister’s grandchild is bad sick in Comatose. I think that’s over in Arkansas. Do they have hospitals in Arkansas?

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They thought she caught a virus at school. You know what public schools are like. They let anyone in these days, carrying all kinds of diseases from who knows what country. Her uncle is a vet and he treated her but she worsened and they rushed her to Comatose. Dean said when you read the Scripture in her presence she squeezes your hand like she can hear the voice of God. Dean said they didn’t know whether it was God in heaven that was talking to her or God in the Bible. “Nick Norwood is still in the nursing home. I saw him last week and he is pathetic. His roommate said Nick has information of the bronchus. He also said Nick has something that he would like to return that he got at the church picnic. Nick didn’t know what it was but it seemed to be one of the food groups. “Erma Walser is still in the hospital. She was expected to die last week but the family said she pulled through. I haven’t heard any more so I guess she’s not going to die this week either.” As a child Erma had been a flower girl and after dropping flowers down the aisle, she turned around and picked them all up. She screamed until they let her keep them. Her husband, who decided she would be buried beside his mother, already had “Ditto” carved on his mother’s tombstone. “Birdie Blanchard’s cancer has come back. You know it lay door mat for awhile.” Chillicothe was the last place on earth Birdie wanted to be so her husband made sure it was the last place on earth she was. “Thelma Collins—she was a Bryant,” Viola said, raising her eyebrows, “Thelma wants the church to pray that her son gets lighter. He spent the summer working in California and got so dark that every time he drives through Quanah the police stop him. Marva Harkins wants the church to pray for her daughter’s eighth grade class that laughed at her. You know the daughter I’m talking about. What kind of dress has a strap that breaks when you’re doing pushups? “Pearl Parker said that Norma, not the bootlegger’s daughter, the other Norma, said she needs help. What she really needs

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is soap and water. If anyone has any of those motel bars you might leave them on her porch on top of the washing machine. Lora Carr’s nephew has a mysterious ailment and the doctors can’t help him. She has asked the church to pray that someone rich gets the disease so that doctors and drug companies will look for a remedy. “Myrtie Calhoun wants you to pray for Diablo, that Mexican dog of hers. She said it had become attracted to a German shepherd next door. Their previous Chihuahua was too smart but this dog never had that problem. JoJo Duckworth wants the church to pray for her brother Len. I think that’s the dirty one. “Juliette Jones, some of you call her Jew but I just can’t do that in prayer meeting, Juliette wants you to pray for her husband. You know he had a heart attack during prayer meeting last year and vowed to never come here again.” After Green Bay beat the Dallas Cowboys in the Superbowl, her husband had been seen celebrating in the street. “Martha Goetch wants you to pray for her husband, Herman, the one they call Herman Gotch-eye. She said a misguided sense of honesty causes him to say every thought that passes his mind. You know the shape his mind is in.” If the house caught on fire, while Martha was trying to save things, Herman had a list of what he was going to throw in the fire— the sheet that never fit and always wrinkled up under his butt, the shirt that he hated that she insisted he wear with the suit that he liked only when he didn’t have to wear the shirt with it, the picture of her mother that overlooked their bed. “Reba Cole wants you to pray for peace in her family; Elmer is mad at her again. I’d tell Elmer he could get glad in the same clothes he got mad in.” When Elmer answered the phone one day, the caller said, “I have two hundred nipples for you.” Elmer was describing his disgust and his preferences when the caller said, “Is this the Methodist Day Care Center?” Elmer believed someone could mistake him for a movie star, but believing he was mistaken for a nursery required a leap of faith.

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“Unless someone here knows of someone I haven’t mentioned, that’s the list and I know those people covet your prayers,” Viola concluded. Brother Wachel asked if anyone had any special requests for prayer. Lonnie Lloyd said the men’s Broken Drum (can’t be beat) Sunday School Class was raising money for their annual fishing trip and asked the church to pray for their success in selling the popular Tomb Clock. “The one where the stone rolls away and Jesus comes out to announce the hour and tell you to repent while there is yet time.” Myrtie Lance, who for years had kept unsuitable books out of the hands of high school teenagers, cared for the church’s library, consisting of a complete set of Matthew Henry commentaries, a backless dictionary, a complete set of “Left-Behind” books, a mystery series about a cat that solved crimes, Why the Bible is Literally True by W. A. Criswell, and several books of prophecy. Myrtie asked prayers for Lettie Bramell, a retired English teacher. Both Myrtie and the pastor had spoken to Lettie and prayer seemed to be the only way to stop her from marking errors in the library books. Nate Barker asked the church to pray for his tire rolling contest to interest boys in Sunday School. Nate had won such a contest when he was a boy and he had been coming to church ever since. Nate had a coffee enema every morning. Joyce Clower requested the church to pray that God would tell her sister she had to help take care of their mother. “Every time I ask her to take Mama for a few days she says she’ll pray about it, and the Lord always tells her no. He never tells me no. I don’t think he should tell her no either.” Her sister was a Methodist but some people thought they ought to pray for her anyway. Alexia Wells asked the church to pray for her daughter who was dating a witch. Her husband tugged at her sleeve. “What?” she whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear. “She said she was dating a Wiccan, and that’s a male witch. What? That’s just the redneck pronunciation of Wiccan.” Henry’s whispers were

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quieter than hers and the church waited in silence to see who won the argument. “Never mind,” she said. “Henry says he’s from Waco.” “I saw Brother Leggett in Wichita Falls,” Mona Frazier said, “and he looks real bad. I didn’t recognize him at first. I said, ‘I know you. You’re either my dentist or my gynecologist.’ He said, ‘I used to be your pastor, someone else you never looked at.’” They had let Mona in the bell choir and she couldn’t even ring the bell at the right time. “This is not really a prayer,” Jo Nell Parker confessed, “but could anyone tell me what oleo is? I got my mother’s recipe book when she died and there’s a recipe for oleo and the store doesn’t have it.” Jo Nell had red knees and it wasn’t from praying. “My sister’s husband is still seeing another woman,” Maisie Green said. “I told her to move out of that house but she went to her pastor and he advised her to cleanse the inward parts. Please pray that the Lord will straighten that man out. Her husband, I mean.” Maisie sent her children to Sunday School for cultural training. “My sister, Clo, had a skin graft from behind her neck to replace cancerous skin on her nose,” Gertrude Turner said. “Hair grows on top of her nose and she is unable to shave it or pull it because the graft is so sensitive, and she refuses to go to church with hair on her nose. I ask you to pray that she will stop looking in the mirror when she comes to see me.” Gertrude had teeth so long that her husband said kissing her was like kissing a skull. Sue Ellen Woods asked prayers for her son-in-law, Cletus Harvey, who escaped from a penitentiary in Arkansas. “No one blames him for that,” Sue Ellen said, “but please pray that he doesn’t come back here.” Cletus had a low reputation since high school when he took one girl to morning worship service and another to the evening service. Cyndi Hughes asked for the church’s prayers because she had to appear in the Beauty Bowl football game because any

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girl who didn’t show up couldn’t claim she was a beauty. Any girl who did show up had to face Maida Hampton who was two axe-handles wide, went to the Church of Christ, and grew hair on her back. Oma Brickhouse said her niece over in Oklahoma went to the picture show last Friday and was shot in her seat and has the bullet in her yet. “Remember her in your prayers.” Lissie Dunn and Ruby Waldrip whose children had married asked prayers for them because they were getting a divorce. “I told David not to marry a girl whose best friends call her ‘polar bear,’” Lissie said. “I brought Luann up right,” Ruby said. “I taught her how to be a lady and to beware of a man’s animal ways. I warned her not to marry a boy whose friends called him ‘diesel emissions.’” As prayers rose from the Baptist Church, contentment and something like satisfaction came to rest in the souls of those who believed in a God they could be comfortable with.

Onan Comes In From The Cold j

When John was born, his mother said, “It’s a boy.” When Roybal was born, she said, “Another boy.” When John was a child, his mother told friends, “He’s a good boy.” When Roybal was a child, she told strangers, “I wanted another child but not this one.” In Chillicothe Middle School, John was called Big John. John liked being called Big John. Roybal was called Roybal and boys stretched it out and accented the last syllable— Royyyy-bullllll. Roybal hated his name although his mother said he was named after a movie star. When he got to college where there was a library, he discovered the movie star was Royal Ballet. In high school Big John made good grades because he was an athlete with boyish charm and joked with his teachers. He never did homework because he was too busy chasing balls, girls, or a good time. He scored high on exams because the smart kids passed him the answers to win his smile. Roybal made bad grades because he was smarter than his brother or anyone else in his school but he wanted to be liked and the smartest kid was never liked. He never did homework because he already knew all that stuff. He aced exams but his teachers gave him bad grades because they thought he cheated. In the faculty lounge, teachers agreed that if over-achieving but ethically-challenged John used his charm to solicit favors from others until he was powerful enough to obtain favors for others he could become a high income lobbyist and/or Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. If he found a heart and soul he 83

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could be a movie star or own a chain of grease bucket fry joints. “Big John couldn’t find hell with a whore,” the principal said. The teachers agreed that if Roybal continued his abject isolation he would spend his life in jail or a homeless shelter. If he used Big John’s charm and relied on Big John’s ethical deficiency he could become a land developer or insurance adjuster. “Roybal couldn’t get to heaven if he had wings,” the principal said. In college Big John flunked out the middle of his sophomore year because he spent his days telemarketing financial security and his nights selling romance. Roybal found college to his liking. Intelligence was accepted, even admired. Study was encouraged, even required. Others wanted to be his lab partner or in his study group, even girls. Some of them invited him to study over coffee in the student lounge but Roybal left campus alone. Roybal had detached himself from others so completely to escape rejection that he no longer knew how to make contact. He had avoided looking at or listening to others so long to elude ridicule that he didn’t notice their smiles or respond to their greetings. “If he gets married he’ll have to hire a best man,” classmates said. “If he gets married he’ll have to buy a bride,” lab partners responded. Roybal shared an apartment with his brother because he usually didn’t have to talk to the women Big John brought home and because it was free. Big John shared an apartment with Roybal because on tax forms he claimed the apartment as his office and Roybal as his secretary. And, because to Big John, DVD was miraculous. Also the dish washer, washing machine, computer, and microwave. He prayed to them almost every day. John was a selective eater. A quiet romantic restaurant when he was with a woman, a grease grill when he was with Roybal. Roybal was a sure eater. When John said, “You want to eat here?” Roybal said, “Sure.” Roybal was John’s best friend. Whoever John was with was John’s best friend. Or the only woman he had ever loved. John

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was Roybal’s only friend. Roybal set the DVD, loaded the dish washer and washing machine, logged Big John on the internet, printed and faxed Big John’s contracts, recovered files Big John had lost and microwaved Big John’s breakfast. John didn’t take Roybal for granted. Big John didn’t take anyone for granted. Until he no longer needed them. He needed Roybal and he needed Roybal to be happy. Big John did not like being around unhappy people. That’s why, when he made a big sale on insurance, junk bonds, or aluminum siding he bought a new cell phone. He did the same if a woman called him more than once; he’d talk to them when he wanted to talk to them. When Roybal’s study group had failed to complete a paper because they couldn’t agree on a definition of antisocial without Roybal’s opinion, Roybal said he would take the paper home and complete it himself. When he returned to the apartment, Big John was praying. “I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. It will never happen again. Just give it back to me for a few minutes and I’ll never do that again. I swear it.” John was powerless before galvanic gods. When Roybal recovered the deleted file, John punched him on the shoulder and said, “Thanks, bud. Just for that I’m taking us to dinner tonight. Four of us. I got a couple of hotties lined up and one of them is yours. Get dressed while I go get them.” Usually when he had a date, Big John told Roybal to vacuum the bathroom, make John’s bed, and wash the dirty dishes. He had never seen John attempt to do something for himself before. Roybal untangled the clothes that had the washing machine walking across the floor, took the dirty dishes from the oven where John had put them out of sight and placed them in the dishwasher, and set the DVD to record the TV sit-coms Big John liked to watch. The bathroom had been cleaned to the fine line between acceptable and masculine; John’s bed was made but looked like he had pulled the covers up to his chin and slipped out

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the side; and papers, cups, and other objects had been removed from the middle of the living room floor. Roybal slumped to the couch. He could not again disappoint one of John’s rejected girlfriends by pretending to be an acceptable substitute. The woman, confused at finding another woman present and embarrassed when told she was now Roybal’s date, usually reacted by humiliating Roybal. Then John was angry because Roybal had failed to play the role he had been assigned. Roybal did not want to be there when John returned with two women, but where could he go? He couldn’t afford to stay in a dorm. He could go back to Chillicothe and live with his mother or he could share an apartment with strangers. Neither choice was acceptable. He would have to drop out of school to stay with his mother. If he stayed in school he would have to sleep on the floor with five or six other unpopular, smelly guys in an efficiency apartment with an electric grill for a kitchen and a bathroom with body hair for a rug. He would have to pick up aluminum cans to operate washing machines, maybe have to ask Big John for money. It was hopeless anyway. He wanted to be an archeologist, a career that like psychology required an advanced degree, and that like art required patronage. Roybal had no friends, no patrons, and not enough money to get through two years of community college. Why did he continue the pretense? No one would miss him. Roybal completed the study group paper, defining antisocial as an allergic reaction to futility, changed the towels in the bathroom, straightened John’s bed and removed paper plates, cups and other objects from under and behind the furniture in the living room. He wrote instructions to John about getting on the internet, loading the washing machine, operating the microwave and who to call about the study group report. John would have to get a roommate to operate the DVD. Roybal didn’t want to make a mess that John would have to clean up; that eliminated swallowing aspirin and going to bed.

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He might throw up. He didn’t want to worry his mother; that eliminated cutting his wrist in the bathtub. She would worry that he had died naked or that he had ruined his good clothes. He didn’t want to embarrass his study group; that eliminated jumping from the college bell tower. Every time they passed, somebody would say, “Wasn’t that idiot who fell off the tower in your study group?” He looked around the apartment. Nothing that would hold his weight if he hanged himself. He could roll himself up in the carpet and suffocate on the dust. He could put a plastic bag over his head but John had used all the bags to carry trash from the apartment and drop in someone’s dumpster. The refrigerator. Dark, quiet, alone. He couldn’t ask for more than that. He looked in the refrigerator. Beer. Beer. Microwave pancakes. Microwave sausage. Beer. A bottle of jelly that was crusty around the top. A bottle of chartreuse mayonnaise. Roybal took everything from the refrigerator, including the shelves, and put it on the counter. Then he put the beer in the crispers. When John got a beer for lunch the next day and discovered him peacefully asleep, he would need the beer to think things over before notifying the police. He scribbled a note “beer in crisper” that he taped to his outside shoulder, crawled inside, squatting sideways, and closed the door.

j Big John sat at the bar surveying the room. Unable to find his way into a chat room or to a dating service over the internet, he had by telephone contacted several women through dating services. He had told each woman to come to a tavern at the same time assigning each a different color. Big John loved his brother. In school Roybal had explained things John didn’t understand like semi-colons and the difference between to, two, and too, and he had not allowed others to tease Roybal when he was around. Unfortunately he was three years older than Roybal so he wasn’t around much. At

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home he had been Roybal’s Big Bud, explaining why you had to wrestle with girls and how to get their mother to bake Roybal a birthday cake like she did for John. After Roybal came to stay with him, when John grew tired of a woman he gave her to Roybal. As a favor. But no matter how carefully he coached him, Roybal always offended the woman some way and that made her angry with John. Roybal could not handle the high-class babes Big John preferred. He had to find a scaled down model for Roybal, a woman who could bring a little life to Roybal’s life, a little fire to Roybal’s wood, a little up to Roybal’s down. Now he had to pick the right too, no, two—one for him and one for Roybal. He began by eliminating the fat and tall. No fat woman for him; no woman taller than Roybal for Roybal. Next he eliminated the successful and shy. No successful woman for him; no shy woman for Roybal. Then he eliminated the ugly and the pretty. No woman so ugly she was scary for him; no woman so pretty she was scary for Roybal. Three women were left. One was beautiful and looked like she had been kicked around by men. One was cute, bright, and talked to everyone within earshot. One was attractive, casually dressed, and comfortable sitting at the bar with a soft drink. Beautiful and kicked around was perfect for Big John. Chatty would talk Roybal into hibernation. Modest and Roybal would probably read the telephone book together but it was the best he could do. Beautiful’s name was Tami and when he asked if she would like to meet his brother and another woman for dinner she said, “That spins my wheels.” Modesty’s name was Karen and he had to explain the proposal to her three times and she still had questions. “Is this a pickup or a blind date?” “I’m a pickup, you’re a blind date,” Tami explained. “Why did you give your name to a dating service?” John asked. “I didn’t.”

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“You’re green and brown.” She wore a green silk shirt over khaki pants and boots, with what looked like little lawnmowers for earrings. “I just came from work.” John said his brother was a college student and was going to be a famous archeologist and Karen went along until they got to the apartment building. “You name the restaurant and we’ll meet you there,” she said, reluctant to go into a strange apartment even with another woman present. “My brother is shy. He spends all his time studying. It’s better that you meet him privately.” Karen balked again at the apartment door. “Why can’t he come out here? There’s no one in the hall.” “Roybal,” John called. “Roybal, come here.” “Is that his name?” Tami asked. “What kind of name is Roybal? I’m getting crawlies myself.” “It was our mother’s maiden name. ROYBAL. She saved it for her favorite son. ROYBAL. He must be studying archeology. I’ll get him.” Tami followed John into the apartment. Karen followed until she was inside the door that she left open. John returned. “I can’t find him. He must have stepped out for a surprise something for you ladies.” “You two live alone?” Tami asked. “This is pretty clean for a man’s apartment. This mayonnaise should be thrown away.” “Right,” John said. “You ladies have a seat and I’ll get us a beer.” He opened the refrigerator door, looked inside and closed it. “We’re out of beer,” he said. “I don’t believe it,” Tami said. “Are you sure your brother didn’t drink it all and pass out in the bedroom?” She walked to the refrigerator. John stood in front of it. “Roybal’s not like that. He’s a college student.” “You must have something liquid. Open the frig and let’s see.”

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“Uh . . . uh . . . I think I hear him in the hall.” The women turned to look and John opened and closed the refrigerator. “Nope nothing. I guess that’s where he went.” “What’s going on here?” Tami said. Reaching around John, she opened the refrigerator door and quickly closed it. “What the . . . What is that?” Karen who had been sitting on the couch stood with her hands clasped at her waist. “What is it?” she asked, backing toward the door. Tami slowly opened the door and looked inside. “What is that?” “That’s my brother. Roybal.” For the first time he saw the note. “And the beer is in the crisper.” He pulled out the vegetable drawer and took out three beers. Karen edged closer for a look in spite of herself. “Why is he in the refrigerator?” John swallowed half his beer. “He—” He paused to burp. “He . . . Roybal likes to be alone,” he said, nodding to show that he agreed with himself. Karen touched Roybal. His skin was cold but his eye opened to stare at her. “He’s cold. You have to get him out of there.” “Okay, the jokes over,” Big John said. “That was a good one you pulled on us. Come out now. Here, I’ll get you a beer. He keeps me laughing all the time.” He got a beer for Roybal and another for himself. Roybal was cold but his face was on fire. He was sure that in another minute or two he would die of embarrassment. Besides, his muscles were so cramped and cold he couldn’t move. “Get him out,” Karen demanded. Tami stood to one side drinking her beer and watching. “Show time,” Big John said. He put his arms around Roybal and lifted him out but when he tried to set him on his feet he had to bend down to place Roybal’s feet on the floor. Roybal toppled over. John got himself a beer and one for Tami and the three of them watched as Roybal slowly uncoiled like a larvae emerging

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from a cocoon. Karen went into John’s bedroom, pulled the spread off the bed and put it over Roybal. “We might as well sit down,” John said. He and Tami shared the couch. Karen sat in a kitchen chair. “So what do you do, Karen?” John asked. “I know Tami is a beautician.” “I’m studying landscape architecture,” Karen said. “What’s that?” Tami asked. “Designing landscapes, campuses for schools, corporations, government buildings.” “You mean like shrubs?” John asked. “I want to have a yard some day,” Tami said. “And you know what I want in it? Leprechauns. You know those little ceramic leprechauns? I want one under every tree and in every flower bed. I have six in my apartment now. But you don’t see them all at first. You have to look. They’re really cute. I may show them to you some time,” she said, smiling at John. “Are you Irish?” John asked. “Swedish. I thought about trolls but they are so ugly.” “Are you feeling better?” Karen asked Roybal who was trying to slide out of the room unnoticed under the bedspread. “I guess introductions are in order,” John said. “Roybal this is Tami and Karen. We’re taking them to dinner. You ready for a beer?” It felt so good under the cover that Roybal wished he could stay there forever. Courtesy demanded that he meet the women. “Hi,” he said, extending a hand from the cover. Tami said “hi” but Karen kneeled beside him and shook his hand. “Are you feeling better now? Your hand is so cold. Don’t you know it’s dangerous to hide in a refrigerator? If we hadn’t come when we did, you could have died. You didn’t want to die did you?” Roybal sat up, still wrapped in the spread. He put his hands over his ears to warm them. His teeth chattered. He may have chattered “yes.”

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Karen removed one hand from one ear so he could hear her. “Granted, your brother may be reason enough all by himself. Do you like living here?” Roybal may have shaken his head no, but he was shaking all over so Karen couldn’t tell. “Tami and I have decided to go to ‘Jive Alive,’” John said. “That way we can eat, drink, and dance at the same place. You ready, Roybal?” “Isn’t that awfully loud?” Karen asked. “How can you talk in a place like that?” “Tami and I have already talked. Now we want to have fun.” “Do you want to go to ‘Jive Alive,’” Karen asked Roybal. “He shook his head no,” she said. “He’s been shaking since he got out of the ‘frig,” Tami said. “Does he get in there and drink beer a lot?” “Hey, no fair,” John said to Karen. “Ask him if he wants to talk.” “You guys go ahead,” Karen said. “We’ll join you later.” “Sounds like a proposal to me,” Tami said. “Or was that a proposition?” She laughed, showing white teeth. “Are you sure you don’t want to go with us?” John asked. “Maybe you could go and Roybal could join us—Nah.” He gave up that idea. “We’ll get a table for four.” He gulped the rest of his beer and pulled Tami to her feet. “Later,” Tami said. “Let’s get you up and you can sit on the couch and I’ll fix you something hot to drink.” Karen helped Roybal to his feet and still wrapped in the spread, Roybal plopped on the couch. Karen scoured the kitchen. “You don’t have any coffee, tea, chocolate?” “We eat out a lot,” Roybal said. “Okay, I’m going to microwave you a glass of water and then you are going to sip it and tell me the most interesting thing you saw in the refrigerator?” “It was dark.”

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“I know it was dark. But you were in there for a reason. What was the most interesting thought you had?” “How long is this going to take?” “Are you asking if I’m going to ask more questions? Or were you having second thoughts?” Karen said. “I thought about hundreds of years from now someone digging up a rusty refrigerator and finding a body inside. Would they think it was a religious burial, a local custom, a murder or a suicide?” She handed him a glass. “I don’t think this will burn your lips or throat but sip it slowly. It’ll warm you inside. Do you want to send out for pizza?” “Sure,” Roybal said. He went to the computer. Karen punched in the numbers on the telephone. “The works except for anchovies,” she said into the telephone. She turned to Roybal. “Go ahead and do what you were going to do on the computer.” “I was going to order pizza. I don’t use the telephone much. John gets a lot of business calls.” “Your brother said you were studying archeology.” “I’m going to a community college. They don’t have a lot of classes in archeology. They have a great ancient history professor, though.” “But you’d like to be one.” “Everybody would like to be one. It requires a lot of study— and I don’t mind that. It also takes a lot of money.” “But you could go and work on a site. Help them dig, or sort, or something. Wouldn’t that be exciting to find a piece of pottery that might have been touched by a pharaoh, or part of a sword that might have belonged to one of Alexander’s soldiers?” “I’ll probably work for my brother. Bookkeeping, computer stuff.” “You could teach history. Dig in the summer. What I told your brother—about being a landscape architect? That’s my dream. I run a yard service and go to school part-time. Botany,

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chemistry, taxonomy, geology. At the rate I’m going, I may be forty or fifty before I can even start as an architect. If I end up with a yard service I’ll be the best yard service in town.” “How did you know you wanted to be a landscape architect?” “I was going to be a music major. I love music but even if I knew I could be the greatest pianist in the world, I couldn’t be indoors practicing eight hours a day. I used to detour between classes to walk through the botany department greenhouses to look at the experiments and smell the humus and fungal particles. “I like being outdoors. I like working with plants, seeing them grow, arranging them so that they look natural but also flow with man-made objects like sidewalks, streets, buildings. Corporations hire a landscape designer so their campus is lovely and outside the fence they have created a slum. I’d like to extend the design of the campus into the neighborhood. You don’t have to have a big house to have a nice house. You just have to respect your neighbors. I’d tear down the corporate fences that say this is mine and I don’t care what it does to yours. Beautify warehouse areas on rivers or railroad tracks with trees and gardens.” “You really care about aesthetics.” “We don’t have to live with ugliness. We just have to care about ourselves and others. My dream is to create healing gardens for hospitals and places for the mentally ill with . . .” The telephone rang. Karen looked at Roybal. “It’s usually for Big John,” he said. “It may be the pizza place.” When Roybal didn’t pick up the phone she did. It was John; they were ready to eat. “We sent for pizza,” Karen told him. “You guys have a good time.” She turned to Roybal. “If you want to go I’ll wait in the hall for the pizza and take it home with me.” “I’d rather eat—” he wanted to say “with you” but couldn’t shape his mouth—“here. Would you like a beer?”

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“Maybe with the pizza. Have you looked for a job? I can give you one. Minimum wage but you can choose your own hours.” “Do you live with Tami?” Roybal asked. “I met her just before I met you. I should be home studying but I can’t take an art history class I need next semester, I took on two new clients, I had to fire a guy and one of my roommates is fixing dinner for a date. “I live with two other women,” Karen said. “We’re fixing up a run-down house. I couldn’t afford the dorm and I wouldn’t have any place to keep my mowers, blowers and stuff. Look for a place that has regulations and requires you to sign a consent form. Get your own room, kitchen privileges if you want them,” she advised. “There are notices on the boards at school.” “Start checking them out.” “If I worked for you, what would I do?” Roybal asked. “Can you mow a lawn, trim a hedge or driveway? You’re hired.” She handed him a card with her cell phone number. “The equipment is in the garage. I’ll give you the combination to the lock, where to go and what to do. I inspect every job. Do it right and you won’t have to do it twice. Get a tip and you can keep it. Get a referral and you’ll get half of the first payment. Take a new client for yourself and you’re fired.” A knock at the door announced the pizza. Roybal placed it on the kitchen counter. Karen handed him a bill for her half. “I don’t accept gifts from employees,” she said. “I do date them. I’m taking my half of the pizza home. If you want to see me, call me.” She expertly halved the pizza, lifted out his half and closed the door behind her. She was almost to the elevator when Roybal opened the door and said, “Does calling down the hall count?”

Questions Mormons Never Ask j

When we gave up polygamy did we surrender religious principle to secular humanism? Was the fear of jail the beginning of monogamy? Why didn’t Brigham Young keep going until he got to California where polygamy is popular? Mormons would be as entrenched in Hollywood as the Church of Scientology. If marriages made in the Mormon Temple are not until “death do us part” but forever, isn’t that a long time to spend with one woman? Is it too late to reinstitute polygamy? Is being a Muslim martyr out of the question? Do women live longer than men because it takes them longer to get ready for anything, even heaven? If incest is so bad, why did God choose that way for the children of Adam and Eve to reproduce? Why did it take Southern Baptists so long to understand what Joseph Smith knew before he talked to the angel Moroni? Wives are to be submissive. It doesn’t matter whether you are wife number one or wife number ten. When your husband says you are good in bed, does that mean you are number one or number ten? When Jesus said the first shall be last and the last shall be first, was he speaking of Mormon wives? If men are punished for their own sins and not Adam’s transgression, why are women punished for Eve’s temptation of Adam? If work is the cure for want, why is it that the more you work, the more you want? 97

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What if someone found the gold plates revealed to Joseph Smith and they contained the Southern Baptist “Faith and Message?” If “men are that they might have joy,” as the Good Book of Mormon says, why can’t they share a little of it with women? If my life is the only Bible some people will ever see, are they reading the glossed edition? Is our doctrine that it is impossible to be saved in ignorance the reason Rush Limbaugh is not a Mormon? John Ashcroft? David Duke? When the dead are baptized, do they walk in the newness of life? How did Joseph Smith get the keys to the kingdom from St. Peter? Did the pope object? Was the Great Salt Lake formed when one of Brigham Young’s wives looked back or when she took a sip of tea? Instead of sending seagulls to save our crops, why didn’t God sent train tickets to some place the Olympic committee wouldn’t want to visit? If God could send seagulls to save our crops, why can’t he send washing machines to save our backs? Could the teeth of Donnie and Marie be called “The Pearls of Great Price?” When doing the required two years of missionary service, why isn’t Paris, France as efficacious as Paris, Texas? When the meek inherit the earth, will it look like the Great Salt Lake Desert? Is that reserved for the Ten Lost Tribes of Israel? Would God give them California after we have lived here all these years? If the holy garment protects you from physical as well as spiritual danger, why does Orin Hatch always look like he has sand in his shorts?

Testimonial Time in the Baptist Church j

Sunday night meant testifying at the Chillicothe Baptist Church and folks who weren’t Baptists came to see what their Christian brethren had been up to. Testifying gave a whole new meaning to the expression, “No news is good news.” After singing, praying and a short (for him) sermon, Brother Wachel opened the floor to those who wished to bear testimony to what the Lord had done for them. With a husky voice Butch Trulove testified that his mother’s dying words to him were, “Be sure your sin will find you out.” After she died, he tried to drown his sorrow in a whiskey bottle. Late one night he left a bar and a piece of paper blew up against his foot. He picked it up and it was a tract with the words, “Be sure your sin will find you out.” Butch recognized it as a message his mother had sent from the grave. “And that’s why I’m in church tonight,” Butch said. Folks nodded politely but in West Texas sin tracts were as common as cactus. Baptists believed Butch started drowning in a bottle before his mother took sick. Methodists believed turning fifty had cured Butch of more sins than Jesus had. Ruby Waldrip testified that prayer worked. For years she had prayed for patience and last week God sent her a slow maid. Ruby had prize winning flowers in her garden but her children were weeds. Next, Brook Swartz took the stand. Her name was Mildred but they called her Brook because she babbled. “I want to apologize to the people of this church for gossiping. That story about George going to Mabel’s house when her husband wasn’t 99

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there and me catching them standing in the kitchen with nothing but a beer bottle between them—Well, it was true, but I shouldn’t have told everybody and I ask the Lord and the people of this church to forgive me. And pray that George’s wife and Mabel’s husband call off the divorces. I also apologize for what I said about Babs Rollover coming to church with too much makeup and big hair. It makes me ashamed of what I said when I think how long it must take her to get ready for church.” Elmer Watkins testified that his house had been broken into and thanks be to God when the burglars found nothing worth stealing, they left a coffee pot they had stolen somewhere else. “Police haven’t arrested anybody but I think it was that man that moved here from New Mexico. A lot of folks think he had to leave New Mexico because of the law. But that’s just a rumor, so don’t repeat it.” Elmer took family memorabilia to a family reunion and auctioned it off. No one remembered the vase ever being in the family. Barbie Bradshaw couldn’t put her seat belt on because she had just painted her nails and they weren’t dry and the constable, the one who belonged to the Baptist Church, gave her a ticket anyway. That made her realize how big God was to forgive our sins when a constable couldn’t overlook something as small as that. Barbie was generous to a fault as long as it was her fault she was being generous to. Lester Haynes testified that the men’s Brotherhood was sponsoring a Chili Night as a fundraiser. Upon a question from the congregation, Lester testified that yes, the chili was frozen but that Florencio Rio, the one they called Florio, would make fresh tortillas to go with the chili and frijoles. “Don’t eat the first six tortillas. After that his hands come pretty clean.” Lester had never caught on to dressing himself. Something was always askew, out of date, mismatched, or missing. Helen Mayfield testified that her son sometimes ate things that weren’t on the approved list. However, with Brother Wachel’s help he had found the Lord and had forsaken his evil

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ways. “I caught him eating grasshoppers yesterday but he said he was trying to quit. I know what with this drought and all them grasshoppers coming to our irrigated garden he has been tempted beyond what a mortal ought to bear. And he didn’t eat enough to work the wax out of his ears. But with the prayers of you good people, and what with winter coming on, I think he will be able to overcome Satan and his temptations.” Helen’s hair perfected the drenched-dog-left-outside look. “I haven’t been to church in six years,” Lennie Conrad said, “because I didn’t want to see Thelma Vaughn after what she did to the dog I gave her, but she died last week and thank God I can come to God’s house again.” Lennie believed the way to prove yourself better than others was to act like you were better than others. Lela Mae Brown’s granddaughter went back to school to get her I.U.D. and she wanted to praise the Lord for that. Lela Mae was lovely but limited. Pearl Summers just got back from her sister’s funeral in Arkansas and the Women’s Missionary Union had covered her sister’s coffin with a tablecloth and after the funeral they neatly folded it and handed it to her husband. Pearl thought they could do the same thing in Chillicothe. Pearl had never caught on to testifying. Ila Mae Richardson said that some folks complained at the last church dinner because she put only two ice cubes in a glass. “Well, I’m here to tell you more than two cubes is selfish indulgence and I think it’s a sin. Folks don’t need to be pampered all the time. They just need to get right with the Lord.” During the winter Ila Mae wore two coats in the house and testified she was saving heating oil for Yankees. Lucille Dunn, the one they called ’Cil, caught her grandchildren playing with sin cards. “These were not the Old Maid kind, these were sin cards, and I knew who taught them how to do it. I walked two blocks, hot as it was, over to my son-inlaw’s house and I called him everything but a Christian. He picked me up on a broom stick and carried me back home that

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way so all the neighbors could see it. I just want you to know what can happen when you let your daughter marry a Methodist.” ’Cil, with her hen house ways, had never suffered for doing a good deed. Krista Brock was at K-Mart over in Wichita Falls and put Keath’s arm in the blood pressure machine while she shopped so that he didn’t run all over the store. Someone told the manager and the manager called the police and they accused her of abusing her little boy who wasn’t hurt in any way. And his blood pressure was normal for a child. The government was trying to tell her how to be a parent, and that was evil. Krista’s mother, hearing the story for the first time, was shocked. “Did you tell them who you was?” she asked. Krista was a brood mare with a high school diploma. Chloe Campbell testified that what got her through childhood was her red bicycle, her dog Spot, and her friend Betty. Her drunken father ran over her bicycle, killing Spot, and Betty found other friends because she could no longer use the bicycle. “That was when I found God, and I want to thank him for using my drunken father to lead me to Jesus.” Her father abstained from alcohol one month every year to give his liver a rest. He chose February because it was the shortest month. The last time Chloe saw him she was required to attend two more sessions of anger management class. Haskell Howard testified that he had met a Chillicothe newcomer and believed he was going to join the church soon. “He has the same political views we have.” To Haskell a liberal was anyone who had an opinion he disagreed with but couldn’t dispute. Joe Don Dixon, who said he was a few months past sixty until you asked how many months and he confessed to onehundred-and-eight, thanked the Lord for his wife who had died earlier in the year. Henrietta had been a wonderful cook, gave him four sons, Jerry Don, Billy Don, Bobby Don, Michael Don; made his shirts, brought him water when he was working, canned, sewed, cleaned house, and mowed the lawn. “I sure miss

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her cooking, but I got a new roof on the house, replaced the soiled carpet in the living room and had a hernia operation.” Joe Don also had more teeth than he used to have and they all showed when he smiled. The church had a secret pal program. All Joe Don’s pals were secret pals. Danny Newhouse sat with his elbow on the back of the pew and his head propped on his hand to show that he had broken three fingers in Friday night’s football game. He wanted to thank the Lord that God had helped them win their game with Crowell when they were behind twenty points at halftime. “That game should be an inspiration to all of us who believe God can snatch victory out of defeat,” Brother Wachel said. “What did coach say to you boys to so lift your spirits?” “Do you want me to leave out the profanity?” Danny asked. “Yes, please.” Danny frowned trying to remember the coach’s exact words. “He didn’t say anything.” “I want to thank the Lord for sending me a colored man to take me home when my car broke down,” Maggie Bell said. “I know the Bible says those folks are to be hewers of wood and carriers of water and that I shouldn’t ride with strangers but the Lord looked after me. And the man had a button down shirt.” Maggie used the Bible and the Sear’s Catalog to rationalize her prejudices. “My son is over there flying missions for his country,” Druscilla Mays said, “and I just want to say, thank you, thank you, Jesus, every bomb hit its target.” Like a good pilot, Druscilla was always looking for a place to land. “Them doctors wouldn’t give me but fifteen more years but the Lord give me thirty-three,” Bunny Brickfield said. “I want to thank the good Lord for that. Had cataract surgery a while ago and when they took off the bandages and I looked at my plate, I said, ‘what are them black specks in my ’taters?’ I hadn’t seen pepper in so long I forgot what it was.” Bunny’s slip ranged from two to six inches below her dress.

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“Them folks that knock on your door to talk about religion,” Sarah Mayhue said, “they come to see me. They mix a lot of people but they didn’t mix me. I quoted the scripture right back at them, two verses for every one of theirs and I followed them out to the car and shouted scripture at them as they drove away.” To Sarah the “Blessed Assumption” was assuming that God favored her above all others. Wanda Cummings testified that she had almost drowned in the swimming pool and she wanted to praise the Lord that he saved her when no one else did. She almost drowned because everyone at the pool knew her and thought she was pretending to be Ester Williams. Besides, it was the shallow end of the pool. Lloyd Kennedy testified that he had gone to that church in Fort Worth, the one that everyone talked about, and he had jumped up three times to open the door for the woman before he realized they let women usher men into the church. “I just want to thank God that we’re still Christian here.” Lloyd had always been light in his loafers. Sue Bell Terry wanted to thank the Lord that her children allowed her to drive them to school although they still weren’t speaking to her. She wasn’t feeling well on Sunday but she got the kids ready and sent them to church promising she would pick them up after church if she could. Feeling better, she drove to the church and parked in the shade until she saw smokers coming out of the church, the first sign that the service was nearing an end. When she saw her kids she couldn’t get the car out of reverse and had to back around the block to get them, causing a traffic jam between the Methodist, Baptist, and Church of Christ and embarrassing her children as she yelled back at people while backing home. When she turned forty, Sue Bell thought she had made most of her mistakes. She hadn’t. Goldie Hankins wanted to thank everyone, especially Jesus, for their kindness when her husband died, and to invite everyone to come by and see the photographs she had taken on their vacation. They had gone to Lake Possum Kingdom and Ardell

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had tried to swim across the lake to impress her. She looked up from her book to see him waving at her. She waved back but he kept waving so she got the camera and took his picture when he came back up. He liked having his picture taken. She took three pictures before he disappeared for good. They found his body the next day but she didn’t get a picture of that. Aunt Sis had to hold on to a pew to stand in her out-ofstyle shoes but she was determined to speak. “Brother Wachel come to see me last week and asked why he hadn’t seen me at church. I told him he hadn’t seen me because I hadn’t been there. I been kinda bad lately, got to where I can’t hardly get around. Can’t see good, can’t hardly hear at all, can’t sleep at night, can’t stay awake in the day, and my memory is about as good as the day I was born. I don’t remember anything about that day either. I said, ‘Brother Pastor, why don’t the Lord just call me home.’ He said maybe the Lord had something he wanted me to do. I told him, well, I wasn’t going to do it. I have done everything for the Lord I intend to do. And that goes double for that grandniece of mine who put a ring in her nose. And other places.” The heel of Aunt Sis’s hose was on the top of her foot and her ankle looked like it had been caught in a taffy machine. Before Lithium, Valium, Ritalin, Zantax, Prozac, Paxil, or duct tape, testifying brought a spell of calm to Chillicothe Baptists, and wonderment and apprehension to the rest of the community.

The Rest of the Story j

In New Testament times paper was expensive and writing laborious. It is for that reason that some stories in the Gospels seem truncated. Today you can learn The Rest of the Story.

The Good Sheep, Matthew 18: What will a man do who has one hundred sheep and one of them gets lost? He will leave the other ninety-nine grazing on the hillside and go to look for the lost sheep. When he finds it, I tell you, he feels far happier over this one sheep than over the ninety-nine that did not get lost. The Rest of the Story: And when the shepherd returned the lost sheep, behold the ninety-nine were nowhere to be seen, each having gone its own way. “Well,” each sheep thought, “if he cares more for that sheep than for me, I’ll show what I think of him.”

The Good Family, Mark 6 Jesus said to them: “A prophet is respected everywhere except in his home town, and by his relatives, and his family.” The Rest of the Story: And Simon Peter said, “My mother-in-law is like that. She wants me to come home and settle down and be a husband to her daughter.” But James and John said, “Mother respects us.” James said, “She thinks we’re the greatest thing since leavened bread.” And John said, “She said ‘Since God turned unicorns 107

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into donkeys.’ You said, ‘You mean lachets on sandals.’” “I was there,” James said. “I know what she said. And you said, ‘Since saddles for camels.’” John replied, “I said, ‘New wineskins for new wine.’ You said, ‘Bushels for lampshades.’” And Jesus left that place.

The Good Neighbor, Luke 10: A certain Samaritan who was traveling that way came upon him, and when he saw the man his heart was filled with pity. He went over to him, poured oil and wine on his wounds and bandaged them; then he put the man on his own animal and took him to an inn, where he took care of him. The next day he took out two silver coins and gave them to the innkeeper. “Take care of him,” he told the innkeeper, “And when I come back this way I will pay you back whatever you spend on him.” The Rest of the Story: But when the authorities came and asked who had beaten and robbed him, the man said, “It was that Samaritan pig. They hate us. They beat us, they rob us, they take whatever we have and then they try to pretend they are neighbors. They hate us. They want to marry our daughters. They are nothing but filth. But I’ll pay them back. Seven times what they did to me will I do to them. Yea, seventy times seven.”

The Good Seed, Mark 4: The Kingdom of God is like a mustard seed, the smallest seed in the world. A man takes it and plants it in the ground; after a while it grows up and becomes the biggest of all plants. It puts out such large branches that the birds come and make their nests in its shade. The Rest of the Story:

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The disciples began to say among themselves, “What does this mean?” And Thomas said, “Who wants to live under a bird’s nest?” And Simon Peter said, “Who wants to belong to a kingdom that has many branches?” But John said, “The story isn’t about the birds or the branches but about the shade. Nothing can grow in the shade except evil plants like poisonous mushrooms and deadly nightshade. Therefore, do not stand in the shadow of the kingdom. Or you could become a Scientologist.” “What’s a Scientologist?” asked James. “I won’t believe Scientologists until I see Science in their hands,” said Thomas. “What’s wrong with Scientology?” asked Judas. And Jesus went into the desert to be alone.

The Good Life, Luke 12: A rich man had land which bore good crops. He began to think to himself, “I don’t have a place to keep all my crops. What can I do? This is what I will do,” he told himself; “I will tear my barns down and build bigger ones, where I will store the grain and all my other goods. Then I will say to myself: Lucky man! You have all the good things you need for many years. Take life easy, eat, drink, and enjoy yourself!” But God said to him, “You fool! This very night you will have to give up your life; then who will get all these things you have kept for yourself?” The Rest of the Story: And after the fool was buried, his son said, “My father left me many things. How can I honor him? This is what I will do. I will finish building the barns and fulfill his dream. Then I will say to myself, Lucky man! You have all the good things you need for many years. Eat, drink, and enjoy yourself.”

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The Good Son, Luke 15: The older brother was so angry that he would not go into the house; so his father came out and begged him to come in. “Look,” he answered back to his father, “all these years I have worked like a slave for you, and not once did I disobey an order of yours. What have you given me? Not even a goat for me to have a feast with my friends! But this son of yours wasted all your property on prostitutes, and when he comes back home you kill the prize calf for him! “My son,” the father answered, “you are always at home and everything I have is yours. But we had to have a feast and be happy, for your brother was dead, but now he is alive; he was lost, but now he has been found.” The Rest of the Story: Afterwards the brothers shared a short-rib behind the barn. “The old man is awesome,” the younger son said. “So forgiving. I’ll never forget that. I’m going to work harder than I have ever worked before.” He ground the short-rib beneath his sandal that had lost its lachet. “And as soon as I can get the money together, I’m going back to Damascus. They had the most amazing bazaar. But this time I’m coming back before I eat with the pigs.” The older brother went to his father and said, “Give me now my share of the property.” And to his brother he said, “I’m going with you. What do bean pods taste like, anyway? Were the pigs really, really dirty?”

The Good Meal, Luke 9: Jesus took the five loaves and two fish, looked up to heaven, thanked God for them, broke them, and gave them to the disciples to distribute to the people. They all ate and had enough; and the disciples took up twelve baskets of what the people left over. The Rest of the Story:

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The disciples began to argue among themselves over what should be done with the baskets of left over food. Judas said they should take the food to the market and sell it. “We’ll have to pay a tax if we do,” said Matthew, the tax-collector. Peter drew his sword and said, “I’ll cut off the ear of the tax-collector who tries. No offense, Matthew, but we’re not going to pay confiscatory taxes.” Thomas said, “How do we know it will still be good if we take it to the market? What if the fish spoiled?” James and John said to Jesus, “Give us the baskets and we will decide how best to dispose of the food.” And Jesus wept.

The Good Deed, John 9: Jesus spat on the ground and made some mud with the spittle; he rubbed the mud on the man’s eyes, and told him, “Go wash your face in the pool of Siloam. So the man went, washed his face, and came back seeing. His neighbors then, and the people who had seen him begging before this, asked, “Isn’t this the man who used to sit and beg?” The Rest of the story: The following day, the man came to Jesus again, and said, “You have ruined my life. I can’t read or write. I don’t recognize numbers. I have no skills. And now my neighbors know I’m not blind. How can I beg? Are you going to let me starve?” And Jesus spat on the ground again.

Good Riddance, Luke 8: As Jesus stepped ashore, he was met by a man from the town who had demons in him. He had gone for a long time without clothes, and would not stay at home, but spent his time in the burial caves. When he saw Jesus he gave a loud cry, fell down before him and said in a loud voice: “Jesus, Son of the Most

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High God! What do you want with me? I beg you, don’t punish me!” He said this because Jesus had ordered the evil spirit to go out of him. Many times it had seized him, and even though he was kept a prisoner, his hands and feet tied with chains, he would break the chains and be driven by the demon out into the desert. Jesus asked him, “What is your name? “My name is ‘Mob,’” he answered—because many demons had gone into him. The demons begged Jesus not to send them into the abyss. A large herd of pigs was near by, feeding on the hillside. The demons begged Jesus to let them go into the pigs—and he let them. So the demons went out of the man and into the pigs; the whole herd rushed down the side of the cliff into the lake and were drowned. The Rest of the story: And the man said, “Wait. Not all of them. I need some of them if I’m going to be a success. Call back ambition, avariciousness, pride, competitiveness . . .”

Next Year in Oberammergau j

Winnie Wofford accompanied high school friends to Oklahoma to see the Easter Pageant that began at midnight and ended at dawn, and Winnie was so offended she never went to Oklahoma again. It had gotten bitterly cold in the hours between the baptism of Jesus and his arrest, and Millard Moore offered to share his blanket with her. She accepted because Millard went to the Chillicothe Baptist Church the same as she did. However, crossing the state line had deranged Millard’s mind and he wanted to cross another line right when Judas betrayed Jesus to torch-bearing Roman soldiers who arrested him. Jesus, that is. She arrested Millard, or at least his intention. She told everyone in the car, she told her parents, she told the pastor, she told everyone in school that she had arrested Millard. When they said she didn’t “arrest” him she went to college and returned to Chillicothe as an English teacher to prove that she did “arrest” him. And when Millard ran for the school board, and the city council, and when he was nominated as a deacon in the Baptist Church she told them again. Her only regret was that she didn’t have the police arrest him. After promising her parents she would stay awake all night to watch the Easter Pageant, she had locked herself in the car to avoid Millard and never got to see the best scene of all, Jesus rising into heaven. Everyone agreed it was spectacular but she said she had missed it so that she didn’t have to arrest Millard again. Although it was less than a hundred miles from Chillicothe to the pageant she never went again because Oklahoma had been ruined forever in her memory. Instead, she spent her life teaching school and saving money for an Easter Pageant in Chillicothe. 113

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And it was going to be indoors because she didn’t want anyone to be affronted the way she had been affronted by Millard. Winnie had never married because it was a lie that two could live as cheaply as one, especially on one income. If she married she would have to submit to her husband; the same way Millard wanted her to submit, of course, but a husband might also require her to stop teaching or to give her tithe to the church instead of saving it for her dream of a Passion Play in Chillicothe. Her funds multiplied over the years but never as fast as the price of lumber and labor. Although she watched and prayed over her account the way she would if she had a baby that languished, it did not thrive. When retirement loomed on the not too distant horizon she realized she could not achieve her dream without help. She turned to Millard. Millard, who became a deacon because Baptists were more willing to forgive his manly passion than to forgive her for not giving a dime to the church since she had gone to Oklahoma, owned the lumber yard. Millard hadn’t been back to the pageant either. He had avoided Winnie as much as possible in a small town where both went to the same church and both sang in the choir. He ran for the school board so that his children would not have to sit in Winnie’s class. Millard was elected to the school board, his children sat in Winnie’s class, and Winnie told them their father was a bad man but kept the specifics to herself. She had told everyone in Chillicothe that he was a bad man (his wife had left him although that may not have been the only reason) so he had nothing to fear from Winnie Wofford. Still he avoided meeting her eyes in choir practice and spoke only a formal greeting when they met in the street, to which she never responded. Regardless, when Winnie showed up at the lumber yard, Millard was afraid. He invited her into his office, careful to leave the door open. “If you’ve come for another apology, Winnie, I’m sorry.

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And touching your breast was not an accident as I claimed at the time.” “I’ve come for help,” she said. She told him again how she had not seen the spectacular conclusion of the pageant with Jesus rising to heaven bathed in light, how she had saved for years to present an Easter Pageant in Chillicothe, and how she realized no matter how long she worked she would never be able to afford it. “What do you want me to do?” he asked. “Donate the lumber.” “How much lumber are we talking about?” he asked. “I can donate the lumber for a stage.” Winnie insisted that the stage must be indoors, and he knew why. Together, their heads almost touching over the desk, they drew a rough floor plan so that he could estimate the size of the building and the cost of the lumber. As a deacon, perhaps he could encourage the men of the church to donate their labor to the building and the women of the church to make the costumes if he explained that she had been saving her tithe for this religious purpose. Because she lived frugally there had been speculation about hoarding, an illegitimate child sheltered in another state, illicit drugs, support of feminist and other unpatriotic causes. “When you say ‘lumber’ you mean foundation, beams, braces, fittings, appliances, plumbing, roofing, and incidental screws and nails.” “Yes,” she acknowledged. She had researched the cost of lights, lighting board, sound system and a fly system so that Jesus could rise into heaven. She could provide those and perhaps a bit more. “Why do you need a sound system for a building this size?” Millard asked. “Because you can’t train a rooster to crow on cue and I want thunder, lightning, an earthquake and the songs of angels. No one in Chillicothe can sing like an angel.”

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“If I do this, is my debt to you paid in full?” “Yes.” “All of it. Done. Finished. Over. Fini.” “Yes.” “Give me a day or two to come up with some numbers.” Easter came early that year, spring was wet, and because the work was voluntary, no one except Winnie became desperate to finish it. The women worked steadily and indoors but the men worked when it was pleasant to be outdoors, it was too wet to plow, and there were no interesting sports on TV. The building had also been delayed because as it became a reality, Winnie was inspired to alter the plans—a mountain peak behind the audience where Isaiah could prophesy the birth of the Messiah to represent the past just as angels appeared on stage right and lights revealed the manger on stage left, a real baptistery painted to look like a river so that Jesus could be baptized by John exactly the way he would have been in the Baptist Church, a trap in the center of the stage so that Satan could rise through flickering red lights and a puff of smoke to tempt Jesus, and a glass wall on the east side so that the audience would be lighted just as the sun broke, the stone of the tomb rolled away and Jesus emerged into the new day. There was no time to paint the theater, inside or out, to Millard’s relief. He had no money for the paint. Winnie had given her money to him, keeping just enough to engage an amateur theatrical group from Wichita Falls to present the pageant. Because the stage was still under construction, the actors had time for only one rehearsal. The workers laid planks over the beams for the stage floor and pushed the scrap wood into the pit center stage where the trap would be constructed when there was time. Winnie sat down to watch the technical run-through, without lines, to set sound and light cues and practice getting set pieces on and off the stage. During the nativity scene she saw that Mary and Joseph were black, which was all right, but the troupe had brought no baby actors. They planned to use a doll instead as

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dolls did not soil themselves or cry during scenes. That was all right, too. But the doll was white. That was not all right. Winnie conferred with the director. She was not prejudiced but a black Mary and Joseph and white Jesus would look ridiculous. She knew her audience; they would laugh at the beginning and that would spoil the mood for the entire pageant. “If you want a black doll then find one,” said the director who had more problems than time fitting the scenes around the unfinished stage with a hole in the center of it. There were no black dolls in Chillicothe. She called Childress, Quanah, Quitaque—that was really reaching—Wichita Falls. There was no black baby closer than Burkburnett and its mother declined her invitation. However, she recommended a neighbor whose baby was older but small. That mother demanded a speaking part for her child. “Maybe something to one of the wise men.” Winnie went back to the director. “Joseph and Mary will have to exchange parts with the shepherds,” she demanded. “You mean roles?” the director asked. “The shepherds are all women since there is a scarcity of female roles in biblical pageants.” “Then they will exchange roles with the Wise Men.” “The Wise Men have speaking parts but one of them could be a Wise woman.” Winnie pondered the doctrinal dilemma. The Bible said Wise Men so it might be offensive to some for one of them to speak as a Wise Woman. Winnie did not want anyone to be offended by her Easter Pageant. On the other hand, Joseph was not the father of Jesus so if he seemed small, even effeminate that would be less likely to offend. The director was willing to concede anything, even leaving the pit open for Satan because the trap door had not been installed. With the audience waiting outside since there was no lobby, Joseph and Mary exchanged clothes with the shepherds, and volunteers nailed down as much of the stage floor as possible, throwing trash and scraps of wood into the pit of Hell.

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Winnie did not have time to change clothes or rest although she was too nervous to sit down. The excited audience filled the seats and aisles although the fire chief told Winnie she was in violation of fire codes and ordered Chillicothe’s one fire truck and one other paid fireman to stand by outside the door. Isaiah prophesied, the audience tried to locate him, an angel descended above the shepherds and angelic music played in the background. Methodists applauded, Baptists shouted “Amen” and those from the Church of Christ frowned at the theology. Even the Methodists applauded the baptism of Jesus. A few Baptist men and Methodist women slipped out for a cigarette, boys and old men ducked behind cars to relieve themselves because there was no money for plumbing, a few of the elderly dozed, but mostly the audience was rapt as the drama unfolded. They gasped in awe as Satan emerged in smoke and swirling red lights to tempt Jesus. Wait until they see Jesus ascend into heaven, Winnie thought. She had missed Jesus’ ascension into heaven in Oklahoma but she would see it this morning. There was the faintest hint of dawn on the horizon and she knew the opening of the tomb was going to be right on schedule, to be followed by what she had waited for since high school. On stage, Roman soldiers carrying torches of burning oil searched for Jesus to arrest him. One of the soldiers stepped too near the pit, and trying to regain his balance tilted his torch spilling burning oil down his back. Another soldier tried to beat out the flames, dropping his torch that singed the hair of another soldier who dropped his torch to beat at his head. Both torches went to hell. Trying to get out of the way, other soldiers splattered fire across the stage, then tried to stamp it out, losing the hair on their bare legs. Disciples ran to dip water from the baptistery. Judas, seeing the wood scraps on fire in the pit, jumped in to put it out but had to be hauled out by others with the latchets of his sandals smoldering. Jesus came to the rescue only to set

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his robe ablaze. Hiking the robe above his knees, he jumped off the stage and ran up the aisle. Some of the disciples followed him. Others joined the soldiers who dropped their torches and ran for the exit back stage. The fire chief grabbed the hose from the fire truck but was unable to get in the door because of people trying to get out of it. Costumed actors merged with the audience or emerged from the backstage entrance. The firemen pumped water on the outside of the building to keep the flames from spreading but there was no hope of saving the building. The last out of the building was a wet Millard half carrying a soaked but reluctant Winnie. “My dream,” she cried. “Let me burn with it.” The bare and hairless legged soldiers shivered in the cold until the director ordered the actors on the bus for the trip home. Some deacons stayed to stamp out tufts of dry grass that ignited but most men waited until the building collapsed in an explosion of flames and then went home with their wives. The firemen stayed to contain the blaze. Millard and Winnie each sat on an arm of Pilate’s throne, one of the few set pieces that had been saved from the fire. They watched dawn break. “It was going to be a glorious resurrection,” Winnie said, not sure whether she was laughing or crying but maybe both. “I did the whole thing so that I could see Jesus rise into heaven and now I’m never going to see it.” “They do a Passion Play in Germany.” “I could have gone there,” Winnie said. “I could have gone there twice, three times and still have had money for orphans and widows.” “I can’t do it now but in a couple of years I’ll have enough money to send you,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to go by myself. Not now. Not at my age.” The silence hung between them while the last embers were hosed down and the firemen took the truck back to the station. “Winnie, I wasn’t trying to take advantage of you when I . . . back then. I loved you. I shouldn’t have touched your . . . you. I didn’t plan it. But I guess it wasn’t an accident either.”

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“We hadn’t even dated,” Winnie said. Millard shook his head. “I should have left Chillicothe years ago but I didn’t because of you. I shouldn’t have married but I thought . . . and so did she.” “I shouldn’t have let you kiss me. I shouldn’t have kissed you back. Not the way I did. When you touched my breast I thought you assumed I was . . . what I thought I was. What I had demonstrated myself to be. Because I liked it.” “No, Winnie. No. I loved you. I have always loved you. I hadn’t dated you because you were so . . . untouchable. And I was . . . the coach asked me to give my uniform to someone else because I was useless to the football team. How could I ask a girl like you. . . . You had won the Bible sword drill in Chillicothe and then in Wichita Falls. You wrote an essay that had been published in the Baptist Standard. Everyone knew who you were. The only reason I went to the pageant was because I knew you were going.” “I thought you dared to . . . touch me because you thought I was beneath insult after the way I behaved. It was so cold, and you were warm and your lips were warm and—” She couldn’t go any further. She had humiliated herself enough for one night. “I’m sorry about your pageant.” “I’m sorry about your lumber. And all the work—” “I’m not sorry if this has brought us together.” “We’re old.” “I figure I’m good for twenty more years, maybe thirty. My first marriage was less than that. However long it is, it’s a lifetime.” “Your first marriage?” “I’d like there to be a second.” “I’ve lived alone for a long time,” Winnie said. “Too long?” “Yes.” “I know there’s a lot of hurt and resentment but if you’d let me try to work things out—” “I don’t mind you trying . . . us trying, after we marry.”

Mission to Mexico j

I In Chillicothe, the Baptist Church was pastored by old men on their way to the cemetery or young men on their way to the seminary. Bruce McCoy was on his way from Jerry Falwell’s Liberty College to Southwestern Baptist Seminary with a layover as pastor of Chillicothe. McCoy was so young he could make it through an entire Baptist service, including an invitation to join the church accompanied by every stanza of “Just As I Am” repeated twice, without going to the bathroom. He was so new to the ministry he hadn’t learned to hate the sinner and envy the sin. He was so innocent he thought oral sex was a greater sin than corrupting the Supreme Court, even if the sex partner were as eager to be corrupted as the Supreme Court. When he was eight-years-old, Bruce McCoy was mightily moved by the story of Nathan the prophet branding King David, “Thou art the man!” From that moment, “the real McCoy” as he liked to be called, fantasized about condemning his parents, teachers, and the principal. Later it became sales clerks, fast-food employers, and those who worked in college admissions offices. By the time he got to Liberty College, Bruce McCoy lusted after the authority to point his finger at a senator, president, or pope and say, “Thou art the man!” McCoy had learned that only three professions offered such power. Judges had the most authority—“by the neck until dead”—but that meant law school, years of seeking experience in an unsavory business, and pandering to special interests whether the judgeship was by appointment or election. 121

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Doctors made the most money—“$10,000 or die”—but that meant medical school on some offshore island with suspicious food, and catering to those who were disgustingly sick, bored, or wealthy. He didn’t mind the handwashing. He washed his hands after touching anyone. Preachers had the easiest path from decision to denunciation—“thou art the man—” four years of Bible drill at Liberty College and ordination by his home church. He had often thought of being a minister but his church had only two offices for ministers—business managers who were called pastors and entertainers who were called evangelists. There was no need for theologians because everything that could be written without heresy had already been written. Anything new raised questions and caused doubt. Ordination required more of McCoy than college, not because of the questions he had to answer correctly, but because other ordained men placed on his head the hands that had caught coughs and sneezes, tied shoelaces dragged across lawns and parking lots, and scratched pits and crotches. He dodged congratulations to bolt home and scrub his hair with disinfectant shampoo. He was chosen; he didn’t need their blessing. Ordination gave McCoy the authority to quote God when denouncing those with whom he disagreed; he was unencumbered by a wife. It wasn’t that he lacked interest but the girls he liked preferred doctors and lawyers. Baptist preachers, like sopranos, never got the girl. The first month in Chillicothe, McCoy had condemned those present for not attending church, for not protesting television programing, and for not demanding that creationism be taught in public schools, pointing a finger at the congregation and shouting, “Thou art the man.” The result had been startled deacons jarred from their dreams of sugarplum virgins and tittering choir members who watched the dozers lurch out of sleep. No one had confessed their sins or repented of them.

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Brother McCoy turned his attention to the youth who were easier to intimidate. Young people no longer risked for the Lord, he declared, they no longer suffered for righteousness. He pointed his finger at the three boys and four girls who were the young people, and shouted “Thou art the man.” The youths proved to be no readier to confess their sins than their parents. To rouse them from their lethargy, McCoy announced that he would take them on a mission to La Vida, Mexico. They would travel in Born Again, the ancient Suburban a member had donated to the church in lieu of two years of tithing. In Mexico they would sing, he would preach and together they would deliver Mexicans from Satan. The young people were delighted, their parents were agreeable, the deacons grumbled about the youth using the church vehicle that was needed to convey folks from the retirement home to the Baptist Church. Every Sunday Born Again brought two sisters who noisily worked the same crossword puzzle during his sermon. Every Sunday they shuffled down the aisle in pink house shoes to join the church they had been members of for sixty years. Brother McCoy had learned patience with the sisters, no longer explaining they were already members or convincing them they were “lost in their sins” and needed to repent. He had already baptized each of them twice. He was learning forbearance with the deacons, explaining that the young people would depart on Monday and return on Saturday so that he could be in the pulpit on Sunday, and Born Again could be used to transport the two sisters from the retirement home to the church. Where they could quarrel over whether solicit had one or two ells while he was trying to preach. “Will we have to change the oil first?” one deacon asked. It was a long day’s drive from Chillicothe to La Vida, McCoy explained at the limit of tolerance, and the Suburban required a quart of oil every two hundred miles. The oil would already be

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changed and Born Again could make the four blocks round-trip from the retirement home to the church before a filter change. Learning to be tolerant with the young people was even harder. He was older, he was ordained, he was the pastor. They were supposed to listen to him. They did listen before telling him what they wanted to do. Reluctantly, he agreed that Beatrice Trevino could be one of the mission group, but he determined that would be the last time he compromised with them. And it was a compromise, not a surrender. Beatrice was not only a member of the church, she had completed one year of high school Spanish and could interpret his message of love and salvation to anyone in Mexico who didn’t speak English. He had been reluctant to take Beatrice, not for fear she would desert, but because Beatrice would take up one row of seats by herself. Beatrice had recessive jeans. They retracted in the closet overnight. They had to be forced on by her mother and three sisters tugging with hay hooks, and exploded rolls of fat when she bent over. Loading her in the van required pulling by the boys and pushing by the girls until her rear axle disengaged. Once they boarded Beatrice, one girl clung to the seat beside her and the other two crowded into the last row of seats with two boys. The girl beside Beatrice was changed at every stop. Luggage was tied atop the van and held in laps. Excel Coleman, who had driven more tractors than cars, folded himself into the driver’s seat. He and McCoy would take turns driving. Excel, who had been named after his mother’s Sunday School Class, was tall enough to be a basketball player but couldn’t dribble with either hand. He had bulging eyes, a voice that covered the field between thirteen-year-old boy and seventy-year-old soprano, the enthusiasm of a Cocker Spaniel at a picnic, and the mannerisms of a frog with Tourette’s Syndrome. McCoy sat in the passenger seat with luggage on his lap and told Excel how to drive over the traffic-less but familiar blacktop ranch roads past mesquite-trimmed red earth. McCoy

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took the opportunity to instruct the young people, pointing out that Virginia had trees that all looked the same—round, brown or green, growing straight from the ground like Christian soldiers at attention. That was the way God intended the church to be. “Preaching in the cracks of life,” it was called at Liberty College. Students were told to hold loud conversations about their love for Jesus or to stage conversions while standing in line at fast food restaurants, grocery stores, and movies. The students did not attend sinful movies but waited in line so they could serve God and neighbors with their holy conversations. Texas trees looked like Satan’s guerrillas, McCoy continued. There were no two alike, some bent, others twisted, some green all year, some brown except when it rained, growing out of earth, rock or asphalt. “Diversity is of Satan,” Brother McCoy said. His voice changed when he quoted God. “Before we can save others for Jesus, we have to make them like ourselves.” He voiced his approval of Beatrice, whose ancestors had lived in Texas when it was part of Mexico, because except for her name, and her skin, and her thick hair, and her lack of height, and her abundance of girth, and her addiction to tamales, tacos, enchiladas and other foods, she seemed as Texan as anyone. “But ideally, Catholics should stay in Italy, Mexicans should stay in—” He would have preached more but Beatrice was so moved that with her deep and husky bass she burst into “One door and only one,” and the others joined in, “but yet the sides are two. Inside and outside, on which side are you?” McCoy directed them from the front seat, asking Excel not to sing. Excel’s eyes bulged and his tongue flicked out of his mouth when he sang. Brother McCoy’s vision, as explained to parents and deacons, was that whenever they stopped the youth would sing, when a crowd gathered he would preach, and some charitable Christian would pay for their meal. It was a strategy he had learned at Liberty. At their breakfast stop they were given free fries and asked to leave.

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For lunch they stopped at a state park and sang to attract a crowd, with Excel taking the high notes and Beatrice the low ones. A park ranger told them they had practiced enough; the picnickers had complained. “We’re singing Christian songs,” McCoy explained. “It wasn’t the words that offended them,” the ranger said. For dinner they stopped at an “all you can eat” taco house. They seated themselves at a table and, with only a hint of grace, began packing away platters of tacos in a manner that kept the waiter running. After the first hour Brother McCoy knew they were going to be too stuffed to sing, gorging themselves on tacos and beans with Beatrice leading the way. Deep into the second hour a large hairy-armed man came to the head of their table and said, “You have had all the tacos you can eat.” With that he picked up their plates, placed a bill on their table and left. The mission group departed in a huff leaving for a tip a religious tract that extolled the born-again life of grace and charity. McCoy had intended to draw more moral messages from the landscape but as they approached the border he couldn’t see the brush for the billboards. There were ads for tequila, milagros, night clubs, and gambling in La Vida, just across the Rio. They stopped at the border town of Contrary, Texas where they spent the night in the gym of Contrary Baptist Church.

II McCoy spent a restless night with the boys sleeping under one basket and the girls under the other. He occupied the center circle and tried to sleep with his eyes open but the only movement was the rumbling of Beatrice’s stomach. The next morning, the women of Contrary Baptist Church provided them a breakfast of coffee and oatmeal. Afterwards they met the pastor, Harold Jimenez, who had been born across the river. After a few years as a street urchin, he had waded the river, changed

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his name from Xavier to Harold, learned English, became a Baptist and declared himself a Texan. One day carrying the redletter, fake leather Bible he was given upon baptism, he was caught in the rain. The Bible bled red on his hands and shirt. No power on earth could get the shirt white again. Harold was about to discard the Bible when he saw people kneeling as he passed. Some reached out and touched the bleeding Bible and their hands also became red. Rather than disabuse their faith Harold promised that for a fee he would provide them with a Bleeding Bible. In two weeks he had a religious radio program and in two years he owned a radio station that he used to present the gospel of love and to sell the Bleeding Bible to those on either side of the border. Two volunteer nurses had come from a Lutheran church in Minnesota to immunize Mexican children and asked for Brother McCoy’s assistance. They needed help to set up a tent, register those coming to the free clinic, and provide the nurses with sterile needles, vaccine, gauze, and bandages. McCoy was reluctant to give up a day of soul-saving to immunize Mexican kids who were going to die anyway, but the nurses begged, the youth insisted and McCoy rationalized that since the kids and any adults who accompanied them would be standing in line, he could preach in the cracks of life. If there was no line he would bless each child, explain that they could die from the vaccination, and ask if the child wanted to immunize himself from hell. Brother Harold, who didn’t cross the border for fear someone would think he was a Mexican, explained that the Lord had called him to pastor a small church with a radio ministry. Their missions program was concentrated on radio station WWJD and their missions in La Vida and “Deep Mexico.” Pastor Jose of their mission across the river would assist with the immunizations. “On the grounds of the mission,” Brother Harold said. The Lutherans wanted the tent set up in the market where it would be most visible and accessible. “How will they know

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that we’re the ones doing it?” Brother Harold countered, straightening his silk tie. “How will they know to come to the mission?” the nurses asked. “Tell Brother Jose to use the sacrificial goat,” Brother Harold said to McCoy. Before they left, Brother Harold requested that the mission group not invite Yankees in sandals, shorts, and tee shirts to his church. God was no respecter of persons but when you went to church you should look like you belonged. Yankees didn’t belong. Brother Harold had invested great amounts of time and money becoming a Bible-believing, gun-toting, boot-wearing, back-slapping, loud-talking Texan and he did not want to lose the authority of that communion. “They don’t understand me over there,” he explained to McCoy. “They speak Mexican, I speak Castilian.” “What’s Castilian?” McCoy asked Beatrice. “A Mexican who marries your cousin,” Beatrice said. Dressed in his seersucker suit to identify himself as a minister of the Protestant gospel, McCoy drove the bus across the international bridge. Atop the highest hill in La Vida was the radio transmitter for Station WWJD. Across the river they were in a barbaric land where English was only one of the languages. Sometimes the English looked Castilian. “Nail’s and Hair” was a sign on one store. “Everything go’s” was the sign on another. “Store Close’s at ‘5’.” “I don’t think they have apostrophes in Spanish,” Beatrice said. “Looks like they have too many,” McCoy said. Brother Harold had loaned McCoy his cell phone so he could call if there were any problems. The first problem was that Pastor Jose, who had a head like an oversized pecan with a fringe of white hair, rejected the sacrificial goat. McCoy called Brother Harold at the radio station but was put on hold. Gospel music entertained him while he waited. “Joy juice” they called it at Liberty College. “Jeszak,” Brother Harold explained when he took the call, the Christian version

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of Muzak. “When you call to complain about our politics you hear the message of Jesus in song.” McCoy explained the problem and Brother Harold said, “Tell Pastor Jose that if he does not cooperate he will be replaced. He is to use the goat.” The mission group took turns dragging a cart down the main street, across the plaza and through the market with a crowd of children following. On the cart, atop a tall stool stood a goat wearing a pink piñata on its head and a sandwich board on its back. The piñata represented raspa, chipped ice flavored with fruit syrup. The board offered free raspa and free inoculations. “How do they keep the goat up there?” McCoy asked. “They nailed its hooves to the stool,” a nurse said. “Pastor Jose’s brain cells are disappearing faster than his hair.” The real McCoy said nothing. After the goat was unnailed and killed for dinner, two boys set up the tent and the girls registered the children while Excel ground ice. Beatrice scooped the ice into paper cups and squirted syrup over it. McCoy preached in the cracks of life. It was after dark when they folded the tent and the nurses continued their journey into the interior of Mexico. The youth were tired and cross. They refused the cabrito dinner the mission had prepared—“We don’t eat them things,” Excel said— but hadn’t planned to pay for their food. McCoy drove the van across the border and stopped at a neon sign, “Steaks-Mexican.” Beneath the sign was a grimy cafe with a menu painted on the wall—chicken-fried steak or green enchiladas. When McCoy asked for the smoke-free section the proprietor pointed at the parking lot. The next morning, Beatrice asked about poverty in Mexico. Brother Harold explained that Mexicans seemed poor but they had free garbage collection. Put your garbage outside the door and during the night it would disappear with the trash bag left for reuse. It was much better than the system in the U.S. where people had to pay for trash collection and workers tried to unionize.

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Beatrice said some of the children wore rags. Brother Harold explained that Mexicans loved their families. Younger children wanted to wear the clothes their older siblings had worn. Older children wanted to wear the clothes their parents had worn. It was better than in the U.S. where a child’s allegiance was to a label and they threw their clothes away when another brand became more popular. “That gives no sense of family, no belonging to anything but merchants,” Brother Harold said. Beatrice said some of the children were dirty. “To you, yes, they look dirty,” Brother Harold explained, “but that is because they run, they play hard. But that is better than in the U.S. where children watch TV and talk on the telephone and never have fun or get dirty.” Beatrice asked about the plight of the Indians in Mexico. “Mexico must do as the U.S. does,” Brother Harold said. “Drop red or drop dead.”

III After oatmeal and explanations the youth returned to Mexico, sang at the plaza, on the steps of the cathedral, and at several city parks. No matter the size of the crowd, when Brother McCoy began to speak, only boys ogling the girls remained. Except on the steps of the cathedral where some tough-looking nuns presented themselves. The toughest looking one pointed a finger at McCoy. “You bring your killer culture and preach to us?” she accused. “You make cars, tires, toys, cribs that kill. You export outlawed chemicals and drugs to poor nations. Killing is your favorite entertainment, innocents killed by evil ones and then evil ones killed by vigilantes acting like authorities or authorities acting like vigilantes—” Although they had won no converts, McCoy withdrew because they all needed a bathroom break. Unable to find a public

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toilet McCoy would use they took the Suburban back to the border and requested urine tests. Relieved, they agreed to eat on the Mexican side where food was cheaper. They stopped at a park where vendors sold roasted ears of corn, tacos, empanadas wrapped in greasy paper, candied pumpkin sticky with flies, raspa dipped out of a galvanized bucket, and strawberries and cream. Beatrice tried it all. The others restricted themselves to salads or tacos. While eating, Brother McCoy decided that if the Mexicans would not come to them, his group would go to the Mexicans. After surreptitiously wiping his hands on a tract outlining the steps of salvation, he gave handfuls of the tracts to each of the youth and drove them back to the plaza. In teams of two the youth were to go into the stores, hand out the tracts, and invite everyone to come outside to hear them sing. He would wait outside to preach to the crowd that formed. After placing tracts on his portion of the scarred bench Brother McCoy sat under the shade of a gourd vine the Lord had prepared for him. He explained to God that he had come a long way, that he had brought seven young people to help him evangelize, and for the good of their souls, and that he expected the Lord to bring some souls to him. The Lord brought one soul. “My friend,” the man said. He spoke English but he could not pronounce the “d” on friend. His face had barely survived a hail storm. “Are you a Christian?” McCoy asked. “Do you know Jesus as your personal savior?” “Jes.” He couldn’t pronounce “y” either. “What denomination are you?” McCoy asked. “Two dollah.” “Say what?” McCoy feared he had encountered a cult member; it sounded like Allah. “Jesus is the way, the truth and the life,” he said.

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“My friend, come and help my friend. Two dollar.” “Your friend belongs to dallah? I’m waiting for some young people but I’ll read the Bible to you.” “My friend. Jes. Come now. Jes.” The man tugged at his sleeve. Perhaps the friend was a true seeker, an unfortunate trapped in the grip of dallah. It was time to separate the shuck from the tamale. Brother McCoy allowed himself to be tugged across the street and inside a semi-dark room. When his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw that it was not the church of his choice but a den detrimental to the cause of God and good order. The denizens lounged in sin. In a corner a woman danced bareshouldered down to her spike heels. McCoy shook his head; that woman should be at home or church scrubbing the floor. He attempted to withdraw fellowship. Three large and fervent believers were trying to get in the door he was trying to get out of. Brother McCoy reasoned that perhaps the Lord had sent him to bring light to these wretches and graciously surrendered. “Bruce McCoy,” he said. “Southern Baptist.” “Juan,” the man said pointing at himself, then pointed at his friend. “Chuy.” Chuy’s mustache had grown into his mouth, and deep in thought he sucked on it. “Kwan and Chewie,” McCoy repeated, a technique he had learned to remember church members’ names. He permitted the Lord, and Juan, to lead him to a dark corner. Chuy had a wild look in his eye and a knife in his hand. The old reprobate pulled out a chair for the real McCoy. “Reverend McCoy,” Bruce said to gain the desired respect. “Southern Baptist.” He spread his handkerchief over the chair before sitting. Chuy held up an empty bottle and carved something into the table. “Two dollah,” Juan said, holding out a handful of crumpled pesos. Did they expect him to give money to a heathen god? “Jesus is the way—”

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Chuy drove the knife two inches into the top of the table. “Tequila,” he said, announcing his religious preference. “You want me to give you two dollars to buy whiskey?” McCoy dissented. “Tequila,” Chuy said. He pointed the knife at McCoy and made a circle. Either they were offering to share the bottle he was to help them buy, or Chuy intended to carve him the way he had carved the table. McCoy remembered what Brother Falwell preached. “Liberty Baptists don’t take guff off nobody.” “I am a minister of the gospel,” McCoy said. “Alcohol is the devil’s brew. I have come to save you from debauchery and degradation.” A third unpleasant man thumped an unopened bottle of tequila on the table. Juan handed him a fist-full of crumpled bills. “Two dollar more,” the third unbeliever said. While McCoy explained the steps of salvation to Juan, Chuy slipped his knife inside McCoy’s seersucker coat and fished out the wallet. He contemptuously showed the contents of the wallet to interested onlookers, skewered two dollars that he gave to the man who still had his hand on the tequila bottle, and placed the knife and wallet side by side on the table. “Gracias,” the base ingrate said. He unscrewed the cap and poured tequila in three shot glasses. “No,” McCoy said. “None for me. This is evil.” He turned his glass upside down, not recognizing blasphemy. Juan and Chuy watched their liquid god spread across the table and fill the holes Chuy had carved into it. McCoy retrieved his wallet while Chuy lapped at the table. “I will not be a party to wickedness,” he said, standing up to return the bottle to the bar. Juan and Chuy followed him, mouths agape in rank disbelief. McCoy marched to the end of the bar. At the end of the bar was a urinal, to speed the conversion to depravity McCoy supposed. “May I have your attention,” he proclaimed. The irreverent crowd ignored him. “Thou art the man,” he shouted. An impious man put coins into a jukebox and kicked it into profane guitar and accordion music. McCoy dropped his head and

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closed his eyes. That accordion should be used in the service of the Lord, not the devil. He thumped the bottle on the bar, splashing tequila. “Amigos,” he shouted, “cabrones.” He had exhausted his Spanish vocabulary but he had their attention. Chuy wiped tequila off the bar with his hand and sucked his fingers. “In the name of God, I command you to cast away the temptation of tequila.” A man came forward to McCoy’s surprise. The Lord was going to deliver them into his hand. The man walked past him to reach the urinal and McCoy had to reposition himself. Ignoring the sounds behind him, the wetness splattering his trouser leg, McCoy again commanded them to repent. No one looked at him. The godless woman danced near the jukebox unprotected by raiment or religion. “Listen,” he shouted, slamming the bottle on the bar. Hearing cracking glass and the moans of hell he turned to see Chuy and Juan trying to scoop up tequila with their hands. When they squatted beside the bar to catch the liquid in their mouths, the real McCoy decided the Lord had directed him to shake the dust from his sandals. Still holding the broken bottle by the neck he backed toward the door, abandoning the unprofitable scene. He had everyone’s attention now so he dropped the bottle to hand out tracts. When Chuy looked up with pernicious intent, McCoy dropped the rest of the tracts and ran. “Born Again, Born Again,” he shouted as he ran across the plaza trying to shoo the youth before him. The youth, loaded with Mother of God piñatas, weeping Jesus painted on velvet, bull’s horns, matador capes, baskets decorated with ribbons and bottle caps, hurried to throw their purchases in the van leaving Beatrice behind carrying a large pot painted with a beckoning Jesus. “Run,” he warned her. “I am running,” she said. Her legs churned, her arms plumped like sausages from the sleeves of her tee shirt that had surrendered in the battle to cover her belly. Beatrice may have started the naked navel fad in women’s fashions.

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A young man on a motor scooter tried to aid the heathen rabble by cutting between McCoy and the Suburban. Beatrice, who was only a step ahead of Juan and Chuy, caught the rider by the collar to speed her progress. The rider ejected from his seat and hit the ground without a parachute. Beatrice waddled past. Juan and Chuy jumped over the fallen rider but tripped over the scooter that spun in the street like a cornered crab. “Let me on first,” McCoy yelled. Too late. Beatrice had wedged herself in the door. He turned and saw Juan and Chuy closing on him, the rest of the unwholesome crowd behind them. He tried to open the passenger door but Excel had locked it and was too frightened to unlock it. “Pull, pull,” he yelled to those in the van. They were pulling but none of the females had remained outside to push. A glance over his shoulder assured McCoy that the Lord thought it was okay in a dire but isolated event to be an iconoclast. He wrestled the pot from Beatrice and threw it at Juan and Chuy who ducked when it exploded at their feet. Another glance assured him that the Lord thought it was okay for him to place his shoulder in the broadest part of Beatrice and push with the might of Samson and the familiarity of Solomon. Beatrice burst through the door and fell inside, McCoy atop her. Quickly he slammed the door and locked it as Juan pounded his fists on the window. Chuy tried to open the door with his knife. “Drive,” he yelled at Excel. “Drive.” “Where?” Excel asked, his eyes popping, his tongue curled in his mouth. “Drive.” As the van pulled away with a shriek of the wheels, McCoy lowered the window half an inch and handed Juan and Chuy a tract, “Doomed to Hell.” “Thou art the man,” he yelled at them. Ignoring the way to salvation the two infidels waved their fists in the air and shouted what might have been curses. No matter, the Christians had escaped. Then the two turned and raced for a car. “Faster,” McCoy yelled at Excel. “They’re following us.”

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In his terror, McCoy had an epiphany. He pulled the cell phone from his pocket. He could call Brother Harold, tell him that they were being chased by drunken sectarians and ask him to notify the Mexican police. McCoy listened to Jeszak for two blocks before he was able to tell Harold he was being pursued by infidels. “Where are you?” Brother Harold asked. McCoy frantically looked for a street sign. “We’re on . . . Here comes a street sign. Derecha. We’re on Derecha.” “That’s ‘right,’” Beatrice shouted. “That’s right, Derecha,” McCoy confirmed. Chuy and Juan pulled up beside the van, Juan driving and Chuy gesturing with the knife. Excel turned a corner on two wheels, sending the girls screaming and McCoy sprawling on the floor with a weeping Jesus. “Wait we’ve turning onto . . . looks like Cally.” “Calle. Street. Turista,” Beatrice shouted lapsing into Spanish. “Cally Street,” McCoy said. “I think we’ve lost them,” Excel said, as Juan and Chuy roared out of a side street trying to ram them. Excel evaded by turning sharply into an opening and redistributed the boys and girls as the van bumped over railroad ties for a block toward an approaching train. Brother McCoy pushed aside the Mother of God and tried to reposition himself. “We’re on the railroad tracks. No, wait, we’re turning onto Avenida.” “Avenue,” Beatrice shouted, as Excel pulled off the track. “Avenida Avenue,” McCoy shouted. The train roared past inches from the rear of the van. “Have you found us on the map yet?” Juan and Chuy had found them. They sped past the van and tried to cut them off. Excel whipped into an open air market toppling fruit stands, sending dogs into flight, chickens skyward, and impaling a barbecued goat on the hood ornament. “Alto,” McCoy screamed into the phone. He screamed to be heard over the honking Mexican drivers. “We just crossed Alto.”

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“Stop,” Beatrice wailed. “Turista.” “We can’t stop now,” McCoy said. “You should have thought of that before you ate my second taco and Excel’s fruit cup.” “We’re back on Cally. Yes, Cally. Well, how many are there? We must be on, what? The third or fourth one. Look for Derecha. We must have crossed it two or three times. Wait, we’re coming up on . . . the intersection of Derecha and Avenida. Look at the map,” he shouted, dodging bull’s horns before being thrown to the floor when the van skipped across an intersection and took a sharp right. “Derecha,” he screamed. “We’re back on Derecha.” Then he realized, the city had been built as a maze. No matter where they turned they always ended up on Derecha, Cally or Avenida. “Turn, turn,” he shouted at Excel. They had found a new street. “I don’t know how to pronounce it,” he told Brother Harold, “but it looks like Izquierda.” When miraculously they escaped Juan and Chuy, the other youth also lapsed into Spanish. “Turista,” they groaned. McCoy denied his urgency to demonstrate discipline and to denounce gluttony. The youth broke into “The B-I-B-L-E, that’s the book for me.” McCoy told Excel to drive to the international bridge. The faithful tugged and pushed Beatrice free of the van and McCoy requested another urine test. When once again the group assembled before the van, Brother McCoy asked where they wanted to eat. “Can we go home now?” Excel asked. “I spent my money on the matador cape and sword.” The others chorused that they had spent their money on souvenirs and it was his fault because he said they wouldn’t need money for food. “You should not have spent your money on junk,” McCoy told them. “I thought buying junk was what we’re supposed to do,” Excel said. “In America yes, but not in Mexico.” No matter how hungry they were he could not take them home and have them confess they had been chased out of

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Mexico. That would be a scandal for the church. “When you confront Satan in his den, he will send his minions to oppose you. Today we have seen the worst that Satan can send against us and we have prevailed. We have to give the people of La Vida one more chance to hear the gospel,” he compromised. “If they do not respond, we’ll shake the dust from our sandals, as Jesus commanded.” The youth groaned but did not argue. McCoy wondered how he could avoid going with them. He did not want to encounter Juan and Chuy again. If he said he had a turista hangover they would claim the same. He would have to find a way to inspire Brother Harold to take his place. He would have to be as frank as a hernia, as earnest as a hemorrhoid.

IV When the real McCoy asked Brother Harold to accompany the youth into Mexico, he declined. Brother Harold feared he might be forced to live in a land beneath his contempt if he were discovered with it beneath his feet. Besides, he couldn’t speak Spanish; he had blocked the language and the people of Mexico from his heart and mind. In that way he had been able to live a prosperous life in Christian America. Instead of leading the youth to Mexico, he had a request for McCoy. In addition to the Bleeding Bible, guaranteed to bleed in humidity above sixty percent, Brother Harold promoted “Elisha Cloths.” On one of his many trips to the Holy Land the Lord had led Brother Harold to the very site where Elisha had sent Namaan to dip himself seven times and be healed of leprosy. When Brother Harold dipped his brown hand into the water, it came up white. When he dipped it again, a painful hangnail was healed. On subsequent dippings the hand was freed from fat, wrinkles, enlarged veins, arthritis, and eczema. Thanking God, Brother Harold had bottled the water and discovered that it also worked outside the Holy Land.

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“Do you have to go to the Holy Land every time you need more water?” McCoy asked. “I have a supplier in Mexico who provides me with all the water I need to wet the Elisha Cloths I send to those who write me,” Brother Harold said. It was true that some listeners used the miracle cloths in order to eat and smoke as much as they liked without gaining weight, clogging arteries or developing cancer, but that was not his purpose. Brother Harold’s purpose was to heal the sick who seven times sent for a cloth dipped in Elisha’s water. Profits from that water allowed him to travel the world in the name of Jesus, to be a spokesman for everything that was right on both sides of the border, and to live a full and rewarding life. Also, to own a silver mine, “Deep Mexico.” The non profit radio station, with a transmitter in Mexico, used its airplanes to fly religious tracts into the interior of Mexico and return with silver from the mine it owned. They also brought back handcrafts made by widows and orphans of those who had died in the mine. Also cheap prescription drugs and duty-free cigarettes. He sold the drugs below U.S. cost to the poor. He gave the cigarettes to those who did business with WWJD. God had richly blessed Brother Harold’s beneficence. Brother Harold had an important meeting that morning with the church’s mission group to “Deep Mexico.” He would ask Pastor Jose to assist the youth in Mexico if Brother McCoy would take his place on WWJD while he was in the meeting. McCoy’s heart surged. At last he was going to be able to shout “Thou art the man,” to the multitudes and maybe even to important people. Before leaving for his meeting, Brother Harold explained to McCoy the purpose of Christian media. “The purpose of secular media is to be rich and powerful so they can buy political gossip, photographs of alien beings, news of the world’s largest cucumbers, and stories of lurid crimes and violent deaths. With those, they divert the attention of the masses from the rules, machinations, and powers that hold them in sway.

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“Photographs of starving children and fashion models sells hamburgers and high fashion, reporting crime sells guns and burglar alarms, editorializing on smut sells swimsuit and panty ads. People want to feel good but first you have to make them feel bad that they don’t have odor-free bodies, disease-free lives, trouble-free cars and value-free music. That’s the way they sell—ideology, iconology, technology, astrology. “Secular media make child molesters famous. They make deviates look glamorous. They publicize the trash of a debased subculture as art. They make entertainers role models for neglected children although neglected children are subject to prosecution and entertainers are not. “In our lifetime, just in our lifetime, we have seen churches become less than omnipresent. And where the church cannot go, God does not go. Christian media demand that true believers vote for politicians who pledge to make the church the center of all of life’s experiences—schools, courts, commerce.” “I thought making religion an appendage to political purpose was blasphemy,” McCoy said. “In theory,” Brother Harold confessed. “In practice it’s evangelism. Our purpose is not to correct individual wrongs or protect individual rights but to save the world for Jesus. To do that we have to have money to gain the attention of politicians, the respect of the law, the envy of the poor, and protection from Satanists. “Are there Satanists here?” Brother Harold folded his hands beneath his chin. “Satanists are more useful than atheists. And they are trying to supplant our story with their chronology, their mythology, and their scientology. God doesn’t want that and if God doesn’t want it, I won’t permit it. That’s why you must encourage believers to support this station and remind listeners that every donor receives a free work of art by Christian artisans at WWJD’s mission in ‘Deep Mexico.’ And answer their questions.” Suddenly, the microphone seemed as scary as Juan and Chuy. “What if I don’t know the answer.”

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“You say, ‘This is a serious question. Please pray with me as we seek God’s will.’ The engineer will play Jeszak until the director finds an answer or a better question. We have selected readings of Nostradamus, the sayings of Jesse Helms, and the complete works of L. Ron Hubbard and Tim LaHaye. Us and them, the good versus the demonic. Quaint stories of us, violent pictures of them, no complicated answers, no dull questions. Is that the only suit you have?” Brother Harold was dressed in a western-cut suit of Italian silk. “It’s hard to ask for money in a cheap suit. Let’s see if anything I have will fit you.” McCoy met briefly the surly young people who wanted to go home; there was nothing else in Mexico they could buy. He told them he was required to remain behind to do the Lord’s business, then pointed his finger at them and said, “You represent not only Jesus Christ and the Chillicothe Baptist Church but the United States of America. I expect you to be brave, honorable, and above all, successful. Let’s pray.” Borrowing one of Brother Harold’s Mercedes, McCoy followed directions to the radio station, parking between protesters with “God hates fags” signs facing those with “God hates flab” signs. The fag haters were pale with thinning hair, the men thin as licorice sticks; the women were overweight, dressed in white shirts, black pants, heavy leather shoes and were between hair dressers. The flab haters had mops of hair springing from their scalps, muscles bulging beneath their cotton tee-shirts and shorts, and running shoes that bore the DNA of no living thing. He got out of the Mercedes to shouts of “Are you a fag?” and “Do you pump iron?” pressed a button and was allowed into the station. While a young lady with blonde hair, blue eyes, and appropriate cleavage buffed his nails, trimmed his hair, and rubbed cream into his face, he looked over the script Brother Harold had given him. It was a sermon he had preached many times before. Since Christians had not been able to convert all Americans, they must require the government to force everyone

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to behave like Christians regardless of whether they believed as Christians. On the air, his words that had resonated in the Baptist Church dropped like pebbles into a bottomless pit. Nevertheless, he accepted questions with the confidence enjoyed by inexperience. The first caller owned an abandoned warehouse that he leased to companies that stored arsenic, DDT, Chlordane, and other products the government would not let them pour in the river. The leaking barrels were sinking into the ground and run-off water crossed school grounds. McCoy reported that Jesus said everything we had belonged to God. Once we acknowledged that, private property was sacred. No one had the right to tell a man what to do with his land, his children, his woman. Only God could stop you from doing what you wanted with your property, even if your hog manure poisoned a city. The caller was pleased with the answer. However, it was a high school, and public schools being what they were these days, one of the girls could be pregnant and the poisons could harm the unborn baby. That was a question that would have taxed Solomon. The absolute right to private property no matter who it harmed collided head-on with the absolute wrong of a woman regarding her body as her property. “I think we should pause and ask for God’s guidance,” McCoy said. Jeszak played softly in the background and a female voice extolled the efficacy of Elisha Cloths to mask the rustling of the pages as the director pointed to the answer. “You must go to the school board and ask them to expel any girls who are pregnant or suspected of being pregnant. And you must support politicians who favor public funding of private schools where Christian children will be shielded from godless theories, diverse populations, and those who cannot afford school uniforms.”

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The next caller had sold property for cash to save money on taxes. He had hidden the money in fruit jars in the yard, coffee cans under the house, stuffed into the pockets of old work clothes, and rolled into the barrels of his shotgun. Then he went quail hunting and forgot about the money when he saw a covey of quail on the ground and opened up with both barrels. Did he have to pay a tithe on the money that disappeared in a green cloud? “Well, of cour—” “I suppose I should tell you I’m Catholic.” “Of course it’s God’s money, but it’s your responsibility to use it wisely. Anyone who supports the ministry of this station will not only help the Lord’s work in ‘Deep Mexico’ but will receive a work of art from an artist at the ‘Deep Mexico’ Mission or a Bleeding Bible.” The next caller said politicians had made it possible for a man to be arrested for lovingly but firmly correcting a rebellious child, disobedient wife, or unfaithful girlfriend. Brother McCoy admitted that the gay agenda had removed the father role from marriage by encouraging wives to seek equality. The fear of the Heavenly Father disappeared when women, children, employees, and deviates lost their fear of earthly fathers. Even CEOs, that God had set before us as an example of an omnipotent Heavenly Father, were no longer able to punish or correct underlings because those who should look upon their patrons with adoration had been given recourse to the court. Family values required an aggressive defense against those who would destroy the family. That included denying equal rights and equal protection of the law to faggoty gays. But in the instance before him, when the husband was released from jail, he should ask his pastor to correct his wife’s misunderstanding of her role and tell her to ask her husband’s forgiveness. If she did not, then the men of the church should demand her public apology to her husband before the church.

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If she refused, the church should dismiss her from their fellowship until such time as she should be converted. The next caller was a woman whose boyfriend tried to do something inappropriate after church. When she slapped him he accused her of being a lesbian and said he wouldn’t see her anymore. She wasn’t a lesbian. She wasn’t even a tomboy. She was more of a bruceboy, a heck-raiser. She wore overalls but curled her hair. She drove a pickup but didn’t climb trees. She drank beer but preferred chablis. She kissed after church but that was it. How could she prove she wasn’t lesbian and get her boyfriend back? It was time for another prayer. The director gave him the answer. Find a new boyfriend to go to church with. The old boyfriend would know she was a sincere Christian and might try to win her back or she might prefer the new one. A woman said her son’s biology teacher had been fired because he dyed his hair. If he would lie about his hair, McCoy said, what would prevent him from lying about creation? A Vietnam veteran had gone to college and the seminary but no church would hire him because they didn’t want a pastor who might embarrass them by using guns, drugs, or crutches. McCoy said that God might have better uses than as pastor for the skills the caller had learned in Vietnam. God had enemies other than in the church.

V While waiting for Brother Harold at his private club, McCoy reached into the nut dish and took a bite of—potpourri. Covertly, he tried to blow crunchies across the room, spat into his handkerchief, and wiped his tongue on his coat sleeve. Brother Harold returned from his meeting and led McCoy into the dining room. McCoy declined the wine and disliked the caviar and the aged sushi; the view and the pressed duck were excellent. “How did you get started in radio?” he asked.

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“Let me be frank,” Brother Harold said. “When the Bible bled on my hand and people knelt in my presence, it occurred to me like a flash of light that I was post rapture. All the good people had vanished. I alone was left, chosen for a special service, to condemn sin and bring listeners to repentance and the humility of poverty. For Jesus said, ‘Blessed are the poor.’” Brother Harold, who had gone from illegal immigrant to naive Christian to cynical salesman without passing through intelligent citizen, had discovered that the secret of financial success in religious broadcasting was anger and power. The more power religion was given, the angrier the religious became. The sources of Christian anger were the failure of the Crusades to dominate the Middle East the way Christians had once dominated Europe and now dominated the Americas, north, south and central; the failure of the Inquisition to wipe out heresy—Christians were divided as to what heresy was but they were all angry about it; and the frustration that the emperor became more eminent than the pope, the government more powerful than the church. That had allowed laity, even non-Christians and women to slip off the bonds of servitude. On the radio, Brother Harold named those whom neighbors reported as illegal residents, homosexual, feminist, corrupt businessmen, or liberal politicians and asked his listeners to visit them in the name of the Lord and reprove them. “I have the most popular show on either side of the border. They’re afraid not to listen, afraid I’ll name them. “What do you do if someone names one of your donors?” “I know my donors. No one ever names them.” McCoy returned to the church prepared to cheer up his dispirited group. The youth were tired but cheerful. Pastor Jose had taken them to the market and offered their services to anyone who needed them. They kept children while the mothers went to the doctor, carried groceries for the elderly, mowed the lawn of an invalid, and helped paint the home of a newly married couple. Then they went to Pastor Jose’s church where his

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congregation fed them and gave them money so they could eat on the way home. “Were there any converts?” McCoy asked. They stared at him in silence. “Then we will shake the dust off our feet and go home.” “Pastor Jose needs us,” Beatrice said. “How can we go home and feel good when right across the river there are people in misery?” “You and I have a right to feel good because God loves America. Those who hate God and oppose his will for America have no right to feel good and as Christians we shouldn’t try to make them feel good when they should feel bad.” “We want to go back and help Pastor Jose,” Excel said. Saying Jose stretched his tongue to the limit. The others also wanted to return to Mexico. “I have to get Born Again back to the church,” McCoy said. “It is leaving in the morning. I hope all of you are on it. The Lord has given me a new mission and I must . . .” McCoy words were drowned out by the youth who broke into “This Little Light of Mine,” but God heard them. WWJS. What Would Jesus Say? He would get the church to pay for radio time, sell the Bleeding Bible, WWJS bracelets, and Elisha Cloths until he could get his own station. Jeszak on the answering machine. Then he would start a mission in . . . Oklahoma and give Indian trink—artifacts to donors. Or Canada. Better place for a vacation and more exotic Indians. Hawaii. “Mission Far Hawaii.” Art made of woven bamboo and coconut shells. This could be big. “Thank you, Jesus,” he said. The Real McCoy had had the message since he was eight-years-old. Now he had the voice. The young people had to donate the rest of their clothing and discard some of their trinkets to make room in Born Again for the water McCoy had bought from Brother Harold.

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Brother McCoy could find no backing for Station WWJS, “What Would Jesus Say.” He called Brother Harold and enjoyed several minutes of long-distance listening to Jesus rock, sung by Christians who believed intelligibility was gay if not foolhardy. When he explained his problem, Brother Harold offered to sponsor an hour-long show on a local station if McCoy would promote Brother Harold’s products in addition to McCoy’s WWJS bracelets. Sales of the Bible that bled red ink had slumped. However, Harold had acquired Bibles that had belonged to heroes and other actors, including the Bible that sanctioned the deaths of more than two hundred German soldiers killed by Audie Murphy, the genuine Gideon Bible that Ronald Reagan included among the weapons he sent to terrorists, the Bible that told Oliver North how to make crime look patriotic, the Bible that belonged to John Wilkes Booth, inscribed with his dying words, “Tell Mother I died for my country,” the Bible that told Martin Luther King, Jr. how to die for his country. The Bible that made Madylyn Murray O’Hare ugly, the Bible that Kenny Boy Lay used to bless Enron’s enterprises, the Bible that George W. Bush used to bless Kenny Boy, the Bible that Saddam Hussein threw away that was saved by a faithful Muslim for use as tobacco wrapping that was rescued by Senator Phil Gramm to honor Big Tobacco. Brother Harold also offered advice. Dogma follows dollars. In Christian media, as in the Supreme Court, consistency was not considered a virtue but profitability was. Never say “United States,” say “Christian America.” Use “right” at every opportunity. People did not want freedom; they wanted rights, 147

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particularly the right to be entertained by religion and to be envied by others. When people bought the Bible that told John Wayne how to be a war profiteer and a war hero at the same time they not only purchased the favor of God, they possessed a trophy that turned fellow Christians into covetous competition. Brother Harold told McCoy to choose his radio persona well. After establishing himself as a White Gospel capitalist, Harold almost gave himself away by asking listeners to provide him with bolillos instead of asking for bread. McCoy spent a week listening to radio and television Pray for Pay religionists seeking his persona. Should he be a Disaster Pastor who threatened his listeners with calamity if they did not agree with him? A Hairy Kristianity colonel who called for a new Christian Crusade backed by nuclear weapons? A Rebel Rev who preached the Old South with enchanting and enchained darkies who sang in the moonlight, chivalrous knights who carried God to the battlefields, genteel belles who were as removed from lust as they were from labor? A-Man’s-Home-is-His-Castle-and-His-Wife’s-Sweatshop Family Values facilitator who preached a gun in every hand, a misogynist in every home, and a prayer in every school? A Bag-a-FagSodom-is-Too-Good-For-Them homopath who was antipathetic to everyone but hated homosexuals more than women? A I-Am-God patriot who would destroy the world to save his pride? A God-As-The-Great-And-Terrible-Fire-Sale huckster who preached that God’s enterprises were financially successful; that’s how you knew they were God’s enterprises? The Padre Madres were beyond consideration for reasons of gender if not prominence. McCoy chose to preach the gospel of give your heart to Jesus and you will never go hungry or get sick and your grown children won’t return home. The government will overlook your taxes, the media will use the good photograph for your obituary and not the one your widow provides, and your fellow believers will forget you were seen in a resale shop.

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With Brother Harold’s money, McCoy bought time on a local station for “Brother Pastor comes to the rescue.” Like Lassie, he would discover their problems and run to fetch help from the Scripture. The first morning, he stated his premise: the Bible said that you had been chosen by God for wonderful gifts. Were you lonely in a luxury of Lutherans? Earnest in an excitement of Episcopalians? Predestined to hell in a pride of Presbyterians? Mouthless before a mob of Mormons? Jaded in the jungle of Jehovah’s Witness? One of God’s gifts could be the boldness you always wanted, the courage to point out the errors of in-laws and others. Having no testimonials of his own, he read those sent to Brother Harold. “I made a list of needs and I put the list in my purse because that was where I needed a blessing the most. Three weeks later I got a new car and I am so happy now and much easier to be around. I am putting a new list in my bed and I am enclosing a check in this letter to you.” McCoy paused dramatically. “God has called me to speak to you of his special blessings for you. When your postman avoids you, your mother won’t return your calls, your friends won’t lend you money, your ex-wife won’t return your tennis trophy that you threw at her, your son won’t give you a ride to the bus station, God has not abandoned you. At this very moment, something is about to happen in the life of someone listening to this program. Is that person you? “If you have a Bible, open it to Romans 16: 25, 26 and place it under your bed. Even as you sleep, God will direct you to honor him through this radio ministry. Remember, one who wagers little gains little, but one who wagers a lot gains a lot; that is God’s jackpot.” McCoy invited listeners to tell him their problems and ask him what Jesus would say. The first caller said that verses 25 and 26 were on opposite sides of the same page of his Bible. Which side should be up?

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The next was a preacher who had been called by God to lobby juries the way others had been called by corporations to lobby government officials. Gifts didn’t influence politicians; they needed lobbyists to clarify complicated issues. He clarified the needs of plaintives or the accused to those who served on juries. Citizens not in jail were as honest as politicians out of jail so the jurors would be as little influenced as politicians were. However, he had been charged with jury tampering. A woman had met Roy in a bar. They had a wonderful weekend together and she had been praying that God would make Roy marry her. But Roy never called and when she tried to find him she discovered that his real name was David. Did that void her prayer? A woman with small shoulders used sanitary napkins with an adhesive strip to keep shoulder pads in place. While in a receiving line at the funeral parlor a napkin fell at her feet. The funeral director asked her where it came from she said she didn’t know. Was that a lie? A women’s mission group rented a booth at the flea market to sell cookies to raise money for missions and a man dressed in an armadillo suit to attract kids stood nearby and sold sticky candy. When the husbands of the women forced the armadillo to another part of the market, they were accused of opposing free trade. Was there a Christian way to handle competition without being un-American? A woman said that she was engaged to a pastor and wanted to know what her duties would be. McCoy explained that the wife of a pastor must be present at every function but go unnoticed. She must have opinions on every subject but be unheard. She must be an invaluable asset to her husband but disposable. The wife of a pastor, in short, should be like any other wife. A firefighter said that he had been called to a fire and had saved a prostitute but she had been more grateful than he had intended. “I think I’m in love with her,” he said. A true believer should examine a possible mate with a clear head, McCoy said. And buy a WWJS bracelet.

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“It wasn’t my head that had enlarged,” the firefighter said. “It was my heart.” A dissenter, probably a Catholic, said that the bell curve demonstrated that for every person with an IQ over a hundred there was on the other side a Southern Baptist. Brother McCoy knew his program had God’s blessing because Jesus said the kingdom of heaven was for those reviled for righteousness sake. Another caller asked when Protestants were going to love Catholics. The Bible condemned factionalism but it was a respectable sin like usury, gluttony, and greed. Every year there were more sects than the year before, glorying in their distinctions that like backaches were visible only to those who profited from seeing them. Some thought the church was so disparate that “Christian” had lost its meaning. McCoy dissented. Some Christians hated Catholics, or Protestants, or fundamentalists, moderates, liberals, Mormons, Moonies, intellectuals, homosexuals, celibates, the poor, the rich, those living at an address higher than 999, those who believed the church had the loyalty of an insurance company but not the ethics, those who believed all religions were simple and it was their leaders who made them simple-minded, those had never heard a silence, those who straightened their underwear during prayer, those with bad furniture, those who enlisted in the Marines to learn manners, those who dictated the proper names for minorities, those who ate with the pest people, and those who said government by corporations for corporations was fashionable rather than Fascist. McCoy wondered if it was too late to change his persona to a Gospel-of-Intolerance proclaimer. There was no hypocrisy in hate. You didn’t pretend to love them and invite them to your church; you didn’t want them in your church. You didn’t pretend to want justice for those you hated; you wanted them bombed, stoned, or starved. You didn’t want God to forgive your enemies; you wanted your enemies to be God’s enemy. You didn’t want them to get an education; you wanted less

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competition for your son when he applied for a job other than frying fat. Hate was refreshingly honest. However, prosperity was equally appealing. Reminding the caller that Southern Baptists were not Protestants but a whole other religion, he said Christians would love Catholics when Catholics admitted they were wrong. One man asked why the Bible didn’t say that women made men impotent? If it wasn’t your mother’s no, it was your wife’s yes. McCoy advised him to buy the Bible that told Bill Clinton how to make sin worse than crime and to read the story of Samson and Delilah. A retired movie projectionist said years ago he left out one reel of a movie to take his date to a dance. Would he go to hell for it? McCoy did not want to condone dancing or movies but he dared not require the recitation of the Lord’s Prayer for fear he would be mistaken for a Catholic. A minister asked how to handle a disturbance in his church by people fighting over a pew Bible. “Were they brothers in Christ?” McCoy asked. “No, they were married.” One caller asked if God punished a man’s sins by punishing the women who sinned with him? Three women had gotten divorces—one was his wife, two weren’t. One woman was a suicide, one died in an automobile accident, one of multiple sclerosis, another of breast cancer. McCoy told the caller to place a Bible in every room to remind him to sin no more. And when he checked into a motel to place the Gideon Bible under the bed. A woman said that her husband broke her jaw, knocked out a tooth, and she had to have eighteen stitches. When she returned home he had emptied the bank account and left. “Why did God do that to me?” she wailed. “Did you call him God?” McCoy asked. “I called him Elmore, but God let me marry him.” Every day McCoy heard callers who seemed as numerous and as mindless as headless Barbies. Knowing what Jesus would say was hard when callers were two begats short of a Bible.

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A woman knew it was wrong to gossip but was it wrong to gossip about a soap opera character? A man said that for years his employer yelled at him because he was too critical of fellow workers. After he was put in charge of the people he used to work with the employer complained that he was not critical enough. Had he suffered conversion without knowing it? At Easter Baptists gave lilies to decorate the church and then the church sold them to help the poor. The caller had donated two lilies and bought one only to discover that it was artificial. The church offered to return the money but that wasn’t the point. “Don’t I have a right to demand that they discover and dismember the person who gave the artificial lily?” A pastor said his congregation was passionate about everything except tithing. Parishioners said it was their money and God could have it when they were through with it. McCoy believed Jesus would say that if they didn’t pay their tithe they might be through with their money sooner than they wanted. A woman tried to kill herself but her dog knocked the pills out of her hand. Was that a miracle? Yes. “It was chasing my cat.” McCoy had been a Christian long enough to accept any answer to prayer. God sent the cat to tempt the dog to save her life and she should show repentance. And buy a WWJS bracelet for the cat’s neck. “I had sex with a dog,” a boy said. Sexually, McCoy was orthodox Lutheran, heavy on substance and sincerity, light on levity and sport. Frantically he signaled the engineer to take the caller off the air. “My teacher said kissing was sex and I kissed my dog,” the boy wept. A woman said a neighbor died and his widow asked if she knew a needy family that could use his all leather chair so she took it herself although she wasn’t a family. Was that a sin? “Do you have a family?” McCoy asked. “Then they can use the chair when they visit you.” Another woman said when her husband came home, he ordered his wife and children around, criticized everything they

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did, then disappeared again. Should she pray that he be home more or that he be gone more? It was clear to McCoy that the family was happier when the husband and father was away but the Bible did not mention happiness as a Christian virtue. Long-suffering was a virtue; therefore, she should pray for her husband to spend more time at home and pray for more endurance for herself and her children. A man said his pastor trained the young people to march and shoot, demanded that the church sing Amen after hymns by Wagner, and wore what he claimed was an academic robe although it was white with a Maltese cross on the back and he had taught sixth grade for one year. McCoy admitted the situation was alarming. Jesus said nothing about robes and singing Amen but they were usually followed by burning candles, mumbled sermons, and speaking Latin. A man who had survived three suicide pacts asked if God would punish him for not keeping his vow when it wasn’t really a vow. Every time a wife said she had rather die on a cross than live another day with him, he told her that if she killed herself he would kill himself. But he didn’t mean it as a pledge; he meant to discourage suicide. An evangelist specializing in ministry to convicts who wrote dirty jokes for TV shows asked if he were following Jesus or enabling TV to pervert traditional values. McCoy said he should minister to the convicts but not listen to their jokes. A woman discovered that with food stamps, public housing, and both parents fully employed, she couldn’t afford community college and was ineligible for financial assistance because her family made too much money. McCoy saw that she was troubled by a familiar spirit. Ambition. He warned her not to attend a college where women were required to adopt a cause before they bought a beanie or learned the school song. A single mother said her husband had deserted her, her four-year-old son had had fever for four days, no doctor would see him, and she didn’t have money for aspirin. “If a man had to guarantee child support before he had sex, there wouldn’t be

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any need for the pill or abortion and the church and the state could concern themselves with something other than requiring women to bear sole responsibility for a mutual act,” the woman said. McCoy, and Jesus, feared that a lazy woman might have five children supported by five fathers and not have to work outside the home. “I thought you wanted women to stay home and take care of the children.” Married mothers, yes. That was family values. Single mothers had to work even if it meant neglected children. That was the American way. A man avoided Vietnam by claiming he was homosexual, had become a member of a Metropolitan church, and he wanted to continue the pretense so that he could be a deacon. However, a gay member of the church had caught a man who had just raped a woman. The police beat the gay man and arrested him for fondling the rapist. He didn’t want that to happen to him. A woman said, “I had to study science because of the Russians, computer science because of the Japanese. Why didn’t I have to study music because of the Germans? art because of the French? poetry because of the Italians?” Liberty College had turned against poetry when they heard John Dean sing. McCoy didn’t know if it was the song about Nixon or George W. Bush. “A Christian woman wants to be what Christian America and her husband needs her to be. We have all the pictures of Jesus we need,” McCoy said. A caller said, “I’m like a cheerleader and like I don’t belong to a church, you know, and if you ask me about religion or anything like that I’m like ‘whatever,’ but the football team got the students to like elect me to like pray before a football game, and I go like ‘Excuse Me.’ I know the governor did it but isn’t that against the law for everyone else?” Brother Pastor answered that Jesus told his disciples not to hide their light under a bushel. “Liberals claim Jesus meant

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‘basket’ but that’s not what the Bible says, and the Bible cannot lie. Jesus doesn’t want you to hide your light under a bushel of court opinions. Jesus wants you to stand in the middle of that football field where your friends and the football team can see you and to pray loud enough for unbelievers to hear.” “Is it okay if I like pray that our team beats the crap out of the other team and like their quarterback breaks his back on the kickoff?” “Whatever you ask you must ask in the name of Jesus. You might want to consider whether or not your cheerleading costume is appropriate.” A bride used the bathroom before her wedding and her veil fell in the toilet. The bridesmaids cut off the wet part and the maid of honor caught the short ends and held them up as she and her husband left the church. Did pretending the veil was unsoiled make her vow invalid? What if she was a little drunk when she made it? What if she didn’t mean it? What if she was just trying to annoy her parents? What if she didn’t promise to obey? What if she had refused to marry him but he had parked his car across the railroad tracks to stop the train and prevent her from leaving and she had been so moved that she agreed to marry him, and after the wedding she discovered it was a borrowed car and he got out of it before the train got close? McCoy envied the Methodist Church whose members were genteel sinners. Employers required unpaid overtime, employees pilfered pens and paper clips, shoppers ate handfuls of grapes in the store, grocers added water and oatmeal to hamburger. The Methodist Church had no sins of passion or righteous indignation. No wife beating. None of their bigots joined the Klan or burned crosses; they told jokes about comfortable shoes. One guilt ridden woman called every day to confess. She had stopped beside the highway to use her cell phone and her little poodle jumped out and was hit by a truck. Was it her fault? No. The following day she called to admit the poodle’s mother begged for food and got so fat she died. Was that her

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fault? No. She had a big dog but it chewed up her shoe so she spanked it and put it in the closet and forgot about the rat poison. McCoy tried to pay attention; she had sent him a check. Before that she had a little puppy that liked to jump up on the couch. One day she plopped down on the couch and crushed the puppy. She had a date and forgot to play with her dog and it chewed into an electric cord and was electrocuted. “Do you think God blames me?” “Yes,” he shouted. “Yes, you killed your puppy. You are a bad person.” “Do you think I will go to hell because my little dog died?” “You will go to hell if you don’t stop calling me.” Christian charity had its limits. At the end of the month “Brother Pastor” was in the black. Talk radio and TV, newspaper and magazine advice columns had become the Protestant Confessional and buying advertised products was the penance exacted. Nevertheless, McCoy was discouraged. He called Brother Harold. Brother Harold had a new item to offer to devout listeners, a tortilla warmer that put an image of Jesus knocking at the door on a tortilla. Space age materials and cyber age technology had perfected a heat element guaranteed to turn every tortilla into a miracle. Also available in Pieta, the Virgin of Guadalupe, and Bleeding Heart of Mary models. A Statue of Liberty model could turn a sacred tortilla into a patriotic one on the reverse side. “Do you know Jebus?” a caller asked. “Jebus died for our sins. Some bad people killed him and made his blood come out and when we wash in his blood our sins are forgiven.” “Have you ever sinned?” “Yes, silly. That’s why they killed Jebus.” “What was your sin?” “I hit my little brother. I had to take him to Sunday School with me and he didn’t want to go and I had to hit him to make him go.” “Did your mother punish you for hitting him?”

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“She said she didn’t care what I did, just get him out of the house.” “Who told you hitting him was a sin?” “The Bible lady. She said if I was a Chriscian, he would want to go to Bible Study so he could be just like me. But he doesn’t want to go to Sunday School and he doesn’t want to be like me. He wants to be a boy.” McCoy told her about a wondrous tortilla warmer that could burn an image of Jebu—Jesus knocking at the door of any tortilla. A woman had saved a fawn when its mother was killed on the highway. Her neighbor shot it when it was coming to her to be fed. She filed a lawsuit against him and he went Limbaugh, two degrees beyond postal, three degrees beyond Falwell. He had the right to shoot anything on his property, including her, he said. McCoy suggested that she take a stack of Jesus at the door tortillas to her neighbor as a peace offering. In return for a venison backstrap. “We’ve been married for fifteen years and always got along until my wife started going to church. Now she says if I don’t go to church I will never have sex again.” McCoy prescribed the Bible that revealed unto Jimmy Swaggart how to make women submissive. “This is Jesus and I’m telling you for the last time”—the man, on spring break from a mental institution, called every day with a list of nonnegotiable demands—“I was not born in Korea.” “I’d rather be gay than be Baptist,” said a weekly caller. McCoy reminded him, “You are gay, therefore you can’t be Baptist. The Bible is very clear about your options. Turn or burn.” Usually the man was cut off before he could describe the acts he wished McCoy to perform. A professor had been charged with lookism. “Looking was the only thing about women that was free and they’ve found a way to make you pay for that.” McCoy told the professor to buy

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the Bible that showed Larry Flynt how to make naked women unattractive, and advised him to avoid looking at any part of a woman that was covered by clothing. A student at Bob Jones University was dissecting a cat and had as a joke dropped the cat’s heart in her lab partner’s backpack. The lab partner screamed that the cat had lived without a heart. Her biology professor preserved the cat as evidence of a miracle. At dinner, the partner looked into her backpack, saw the heart and ran out spewing. The dorm mother thought it was an abortion, flushed it, and sent the girl home. “My lab partner thought they sent her home for what she wrote in her journal. ‘The purpose of religion should be to conceal itself.’ ‘All who call themselves Christian have demeaned Jesus because we have not lived up to his standards; the pope is not the only one who is guilty. He’s just the most obvious.’ ‘Religion is what we give to God in lieu of obedience.’ “If I don’t confess she will have to go to a godless university. If I do confess, Bob Jones will lose a miracle.” A woman said she didn’t want to end up like her friends who had sacrificed careers to be house servants, with husbands who were conversant only with dollar signs, and children whose brains had been numbed by television, rock music, and high school football. “The only satisfaction those women have is that they don’t flinch.” Every day driving home from the radio station McCoy was drained at having to provide answers for the religiously inadequate who had no more substance than a spare rib in an orphanage. However, Brother Harold had discovered a potion made from a rare cactus that had medicinal powers. “Montezuma’s Gift to God” was used by the Aztecs but had been forgotten by the Spaniards who preferred Madeira and the Mexicans who preferred a thread of the cloak of Juan Diego. Montezuma’s gift came with the guarantee of a future Radio WWJS. McCoy continued his ministry to the spiritually handicapped, aware that it was going to be the first day of the worst of his life.

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A woman found a dead squirrel in her yard with a note around its neck. “Died of hunger in a yard full of pecan trees.” They were her pecans; didn’t she have a right to keep squirrels and children from eating them? A sixty-five-year-old widow had been seeing a seventy-one-year-old widower who asked her to marry him. Wasn’t the difference between sixty-five and seventy-one the same as the difference between twelve and eighteen, only in reverse? As malpractice insurance a doctor contributed to the campaign of every politician and judge running for office but his hospital insisted that he also contribute to an insurance company. A mother had prayed that her daughter would be the wife of a timid man and the mother of restrained children but she was engaged to a preacher. A man had to hide from his wife what she called “his toys.” A rifle in the closet, one under the bed, three in the garage, two in the attic, one stored with rifles of other members at the VFW hall, one stored in the armory of the church. Freeze-dried rations were buried under the backyard, under the mattress, beneath the backseat of the car, and with the survival equipment at the church. McCoy decreed the man should buy a Statue of Liberty tortilla warmer for his wife. Every time his wife warmed tortillas she would be reminded what liberty required. And he could demand tortillas as often as necessary. A woman said she had married a stingy man and every time she bought a new dress she took it to be cleaned and asked him to pick it up so he would never know it was new. Was that a sin? A woman’s husband had studied alien life and when he wrote a book about why they had closed the Air Force base in Waco he had died mysteriously. Hanged by his own necktie. David Koresh knew that; that’s why they silenced him. Her husband wouldn’t hang himself with that tie. He hated that tie. It was given to him by her mother. A man said that unlike those in jail who were poor and innocent he was rich, guilty, out on bail, and feared by district

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attorneys and judges whose campaigns he had financed. How could he show his gratitude to God for all his blessings? He could buy for the judge the Bible that showed Clarence Thomas how to make a coronation look like a lynching. A woman ran a halfway house where divorced parents who didn’t want to see each other could drop off their kids for the other to pick up. The children came in the front door and went out the back door. Should she check the children for hateful missives the estranged parents sent each other? What about Bibles with marked passages pointing out the other’s sins? McCoy believed she had no right to intercept hateful messages but some translations of the Bible were not acceptable. A woman said that if God were a librarian there would be no loud noises like wars, cars, and kids. There would be no traffic jams, no Balkans, no one using your yard for their ash tray. Everything would be shelved until you needed it—health, wealth, salvation, career, old age. “God is more like an English teacher,” McCoy said. “You put the wrong verb with the wrong noun, and he’ll get you.” A woman had to get married in a black Baptist Church because a retarded boy set the Catholic Church on fire. The priest said they had to be married in the Catholic Church but it would be another year before the Catholic Church was rebuilt. “I need someone with authority to tell me I am already married.” The ghost of George W. Truett appeared at the annual meeting of the Southern Baptist Convention. He had never appeared before strangers before. What could it mean? On days that looked as forlorn as a carnival the morning afterward, he wished he had chosen to be a doctor, politician, auto mechanic, or someone else who didn’t have to listen to people. He wondered if Jesus had ever encountered the kind of people he had to deal with. Probably not. McCoy was pretty sure Jesus would not have died for them. If not for the dream of his own radio station—crowning proof of God’s favor—he wouldn’t listen to them. Providing an

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answer for every question had sounded like more fun than it was. Could their calls be what prayer sounded like to God? McCoy wondered. Did God sometimes just listen?

Questions Secular Humanists Never Ask j

Since there is no God, who is to blame for the bad things done in the name of religion? If I get my credit card bill and need to express my surprise, whose name do I use? Kurt Vonnegut! Since we don’t have God-words, how will I know if I speak in a religious way? Do humanists have glossalalia? Is John Kenneth Galbraith an example? When humanists go to AA meetings, what higher power do they recognize? Can a humanist be an alcoholic? Why would a humanist be an alcoholic? If I have to take an oath, to whom do I swear? Ted Turner? Betty Friedan? If humanists believe that thinking for one’s self, using reason as a guide, is the best way to serve human interests, why haven’t we tarred and feathered the Supreme Court? The Department of Justice? Congress? If we don’t have a creed, how do I know that what I believe is okay? What about my wife? She has some really freaky ideas. If a “Voice of Reason” can save the world from destruction, why is it ignored as thoroughly as the Sermon on the Mount? When I prepare a casserole that my family won’t eat, where do I take it? Do Christians think we are evil because we use words like diversity and theocratic despotism? Or, is it because we read more than one book? If they think we are evil, do they even read their book? 163

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Is there humanist fanaticism? Is Alice Walker an example? Sir Arthur C. Clarke? If we encourage tolerance how are we going to keep people like Kenneth Lay, Martha Stewart, Dick Cheney out of the Humanist Association? Is service to others enough of a barrier? If humanists can live ethical lives without the need for God, why can’t Christians do it with the help of God? Am I a humanist so I will never have to apologize for Jerry Falwell? Pat Roberson? George W. Bush? If there are more good people than bad people in the world, does that mean good people never vote? What’s the point of being good if there is no heaven or hell? Wouldn’t Rapture of the “real” Christians be rapture for us? At least, a very good day?

Redemption j

Kyle wasn’t ugly. He wasn’t dumb. He wasn’t disliked. He wasn’t anything. That was the problem; Kyle wanted to be someone. He yearned to be admired. What did he have to do to be noticed? He perfected a dumb look to elicit laughter from classmates when asked a question but no one looked when he did it. The only time he acted up in class he said, “Take advantage of it.” Cloyce was the only one who heard him and Cloyce repeated it real loud. Everyone looked at Cloyce and laughed, even Miss Baine who had never smiled at Kyle. They talked about it for days. Kyle was noticed sometimes but not the way he wanted. He was tall and thin as a shadow so others dubbed him “Slats.” His mother slipped grease into his food causing his nose to erupt in snow capped volcanoes inviting others to tag him “Kilimanjaro.” He was the last in school to lose the pompadour because long stringy hair was not acceptable at home or school. When he cut his hair short and parted it on the side a tuft stuck up in the back challenging classmates to pull it and crow like a rooster. Kyle was on the football and basketball teams but when the coach turned to the bench for help Kyle was as likely to be noticed as a discarded towel. He studied hard and turned homework in on time. Outside of class he ran errands for the office, decorated the gym for parties, monitored classrooms in the teacher’s absence and sorted, stapled, and passed out assignments. But he was never elected to a class office or recommended for the National Honor Society. He had perfect attendance in church and Sunday School for three years in a row. He cleaned the church after services, 165

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helped with toddlers and mimeographed and folded church bulletins, but when the church recognized a student it was always the boy who scored a touchdown or the girl elected Homecoming Queen. What talent did he have? Kyle was good at being good. It was a talent that attracted little attention. He was polite to adults, including teachers and his parents, kind to his classmates, even those smaller and less popular than he, and proper with girls. “Properly boring,” they said. Usually he invited girls to meetings or socials at the church or school. That led some to believe he was stingy and gay but he wasn’t. He took dates where there was a crowd because he thought taking them to see where the bobcat had moved was more temptation than they should contend with and maybe more than he could endure. A bobcat had chased a coon up a telephone pole, electrocuted itself and fell across the wires, hanging by the joint of one leg. The longer it hung in the sun and wind, the lighter it became. It became so light that every wind, which was every day, moved it up and down the line between the poles. Some boys took their girlfriends to see where the bobcat was. One girl told him she had never seen it and asked him to take her to see it rather than to P.T.A. meeting. They were the third car to park near the line. “That’s Cloyce’s car,” he told his date. “Hey, Cloyce can you see it? Point it out to us.” There was no answer. “Hey, Marvin,” he called out the other window. “I think that’s Marvin’s car. Hey, Marvin. Can you show us where the bobcat is?” He got out of the car for a better look. When he couldn’t see it, he opened the door for his date and led her over the plowed field until they found it. “There is it,” he pointed out to her. “Those guys are looking in the wrong place.” He watched it for a while. “I’m cold,” she said. He nodded. “I don’t think it’s going to move any more tonight.” He led her back to the car. “Hey, guys you are looking in the wrong place,” he yelled after opening the door for her.

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“It’s over near the other pole.” It was too late to go to the P.T.A. meeting so he took her home. The time he and his date met three other couples at the river, by the time the hot dogs and Dr. Pepper were gone so were the other couples. They had wandered into the darkness to look for firewood and never brought any back. Kyle entertained his date by building up the fire and occasionally hit it with a stick to send a shower of sparks into the dark sky. His date agreed it was pretty. When he took her home she thanked him for being nice and he felt vindicated; she had noticed that he had thought of her rather than himself. She never went out with him again. Whenever he called she had to wash her hair, paint her nails, or help her mother sort clothes. Kyle had almost resigned himself to being non matter when God answered his prayers. Cowboy Coleman was bringing oldfashioned revival and soul-saving to the Baptist Church and if Kyle could not only pack a pew one night, as he had done before, but also could bring to the church and then lead to the altar a distinguished sinner, they would have to notice. He would be the Chillicothe equivalent of Cowboy Coleman. Maybe even Billy Graham. Cloyce Thompson had made an eighth grader pregnant and bragged there had been others. Cloyce had dark greasy hair and said he was going to be a rock star although he didn’t own a musical instrument and no one had heard him sing. If he could persuade Cloyce . . . or Dwight Goodwin who was noticed even less than Kyle until he went to Oklahoma, bought a bottle of whiskey and made two cheerleaders drunk. Or . . . Nelda Nivel. Nelda Nivel was the only child of the Church of Christ preacher. Boy, if he could get her to walk down the aisle and give her heart to Jesus folks would have to sit up and notice that. He bet Billy Graham had never baptized the daughter of a Church of Christ preacher into the Baptist Church. But Kyle might could do it. Nelda had a crush on him. Nelda had written a letter asking the coach why Kyle never played in a game when he worked so hard and she would love

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to watch him play. The coach blew his whistle to gather everyone after they had run laps and wind sprints. He read the letter to them and said, “Kyle’s got one fan which is more than I can say. Okay, let’s see whether we think he deserves to play in a game.” He didn’t mind the hits, even the cheap shots he took that day, but he thought the jokes were unfair. Especially the things they said about Nelda, calling her Nelda Navel and Nelda Nubbins so that he had to say nice things about her when he didn’t like her any more than anyone else did. She owed him. If she was the kind of person he hoped she was, she would become a Baptist to repay him. Kyle glowed as he imagined the wonderful things Baptists would whisper behind his back, probably some Methodists too. The Church of Christers would probably be mad at him but that was better than being invisible. They thought he was a sinner anyway but not enough to get their attention. Nelda Nivel also found it hard to be admired. Nelda was almost fifteen, two years younger than Kyle who was almost seventeen. She was thin and boys debated whether she had breasts. She wore glasses because contact lenses were a sign of vanity. She had bangs and under them her eyes looked big and wary. She had red hair and freckles and her lips might be tempting when she was twenty-three, but at fourteen they seemed too big for her face that was always red from the wind and the sun. Nelda was never invited to parties because everyone knew her father wouldn’t let her go. She wasn’t disliked by the other girls but they couldn’t talk about James Dean with someone who didn’t go to movies or Elvis with someone who wasn’t allowed to listen to hit music, or boys with someone who had never had a date. Boys didn’t ask Nelda for a date because they were afraid of her father whose stern look made him seem bigger than he was. If you kissed her you’d probably have to marry her, Cloyce said,

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whether you liked her or not. Kyle wondered why you would kiss someone you didn’t like but he didn’t ask. Nelda could listen to only religious or patriotic music on the radio. Her father permitted her to listen to “The Vatican Rag” but punished her for listening to “Chimes of Freedom” and claiming it was patriotic. She could watch only religious or children’s programs on TV. The school library was small, due to the efforts of the Baptists and Christians who thought one bad word stained five hundred pages and one sinful thought befouled the work of an author’s lifetime. Nevertheless, four books in the library were forbidden to her—The Scarlet Letter because of subject matter, Huckleberry Finn because of its author, Moby Dick for obvious reasons, and Pilgrim’s Progress because it mentioned sins young people would never think of by themselves. Nelda was a third of the way through Look Homeward, Angel before her father looked inside hoping to find inspiration for a sermon. He was inspired to several sermons, all directed at Nelda. He complained to the school superintendent only to discover Nelda had borrowed the book from a friend. She wouldn’t name the friend. That inspired more sermons and shortened the list of friends allowed to visit her. The only friend she could visit was Nancy, daughter of the Methodist minister. When Nelda’s mother went to the Methodist parsonage to get her she was horrified to discover that the girls had rolled up their pajamas to pretend they were short shorts, padded their bras with socks, taped posters of Elvis to the wall, painted their nails, even their toe nails, and put on lipstick. Her mother had called her a hussy. Nancy’s mother said they were just playing. “They were playing like sluts,” Nelda’s mother said. She ordered Nelda to make herself decent before they left the parsonage. Nelda washed her face free of color, scraped the paint off her nails, put on her blouse and jumper and returned home where her father called her a Jezebel, said she was headed

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straight for hell and ordered her not to see or speak to Nancy until he saw a change in her attitude. Nelda cried all night, torn between rebellion and mortification. When tears escaped during the sermon on Sunday her parents were gratified at that evidence of repentance. Kyle waited for Nelda after school. She walked out alone, holding her books to her chest, her head down, her eyes on her feet. She didn’t see him until he spoke. She looked up startled, then looked around to see who was watching. “I thought I’d walk you home,” he said. “I don’t think you better.” “I wanted to thank you for the letter you wrote to the coach.” He hoped she wouldn’t ask why he had waited so long to tell her. She gasped in dismay. “He wasn’t supposed to tell anyone. I didn’t want you to know,” she stammered, her red face turning redder. “Well, it was a nice thing to do and I’ve been meaning to tell you. The Baptist Church is having a revival next week,” he said without transition. “I wondered if you’d like to go with me.” Nelda had a crush on Kyle because he was sixteen, still polite, and pious enough to pass for Church of Christ. With a little training from her. “I think that would be nice,” she said. “I sometimes hear your . . . music.” She didn’t want to say “piano” because that was the chasm between his religion and hers, a gulf that might mean he could never marry her no matter how much she loved him. The thought made her want to cry of pity for all lovers sundered by the God of love. “I’d have to sneak out of the house.” “Would that be all right?” “If no one knew.” Kyle frowned. If she went to the Baptist revival, everyone would know. That was the point. If they were struck blind and didn’t see her there he would have to tell them. “I’ll call you when you get home,” he said to avoid the subject and to escape the eyes of the whole school.

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“No,” she gasped. “Please don’t call. Can you wait for a few minutes?” He nodded. “I’ll drop my sweater and go home and tell my parents I dropped it and have to come back and get it. If any one is with me don’t come anywhere close.” “I’ll wait in the alley,” he said. She nodded gravely. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Kyle joined some of his classmates who were hanging around watching to see what he was doing. “Got you a girlfriend,” one of them said. “What do you see in her?” another asked. “I bet the only place she is allowed to go is her father’s church and her mother would sit between you.” He endured their taunts unable to tell them of his plan because if anyone from her church heard about it she wouldn’t be able to go. He walked away like he was going home, then circled back through the alley. She waited for him. “No one followed me,” she said, looking over her shoulder. “I’ll go to my room early that night and sneak out the window. Wait across the street. If someone comes by walk away.” She paused. “And come back if you . . .” “I’ll come back,” he said. She looked at him, smiled, and kissed him on the cheek. He watched her walk away, dragging her sweater to pick up grass she could brush off when she got home. Nelda wanted to giggle from fear and excitement. She could hardly believe she had been so bold. She had kissed a boy. She couldn’t wait to tell Nancy although it would have to be a note passed at school. She wasn’t permitted to talk to Nancy yet. She had kissed a boy! She wondered if Kyle would try to kiss her when she slipped out of the house. She wondered if she would let him. She wanted him to kiss her but she didn’t need her father to tell her that would lead her to wanting other things. It was a long week of waiting for Cowboy Coleman. Kyle smiled at her in school, caught her hand once, and once when they were in a classroom alone, he kissed her. It was brief and he hurried out of the room leaving her breathless and redfaced, but it was definitely a kiss. The weekend was the hardest

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because she couldn’t see him on Saturday and she had to be in her own church on Sunday although she could hear the enthusiastic singing as the revival began. On Monday they were afraid to speak but he looked a question at her and she nodded slightly and quickly looked away. It was the longest and most exciting day of her life as she waited for darkness to fall. Pleading a pile of homework she escaped to her room after dinner. She knew her mother would look in on her but she hoped to be back before that. She dared not turn on the radio for fear that unapproved music might unexpectedly be played but opened the window as quietly as she could and slipped outside, closing the window behind her. She stood for a moment in the early darkness, suddenly afraid. What if Kyle wasn’t there? What if she had to climb back in the window without his help? What if she had to knock on the front door and ask to be let inside? Nelda crossed the street, peering in the darkness because she had intentionally left her glasses, and when she saw him she was so relieved that he didn’t fail her that she threw her arms around him. He held her and they bumped heads a few times before his lips found hers. She had forgotten to cross her arms over her breasts the way Nancy had told her and once she started kissing she couldn’t find the right one to quit on. She wondered if he could tell her breasts were small. He told her that she was pretty, that she smelled nice, that she was the best girl in school. She almost cried at that. She didn’t believe he thought she was pretty but she did believe the Baptists didn’t think she was bad. “Kyle,” she said. She wanted to tell him that she loved him, that she was his forever, but she dared not for fear she would frighten him away or that he would ask her to prove her love. “Nelda, I know you’re a good person, and that’s important to me. But being good isn’t enough. You have to believe . . . and . . . uh . . .” She put her fingers to his lips. “I’ll become a Baptist if you want me to,” she said.

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He hugged her tightly and she was thrilled that she had made him happy. She didn’t know what would have happened if they had not heard music from the Baptist church. At least she heard it. Kyle was striving for the terminal kiss, the kiss that would set him free to think of Nelda walking to the altar and surrendering to Jesus. “We’d better go,” she said. Everyone was standing and singing when Kyle and Nelda entered the church, but almost on cue they sat down just as Kyle led her down the aisle to empty seats near the front. Nelda was aware that all eyes were on her. From the corner of her eyes she saw Kyle’s parents and some of her teachers, Nancy and her parents, Nancy looking at her in astonishment. Members of her dad’s church. She would hardly be out of the church before her parents knew. She was frightened by the attention she received, frightened of what she would face when she got home, but proud to be walking beside Kyle. She tried to smile but failed. Kyle was also aware of the attention, the question on his parents’ faces, the winks of fellow students, the curiosity of the adults. “That Kyle,” he imagined them saying. “We invited the in-laws and thought we had done our duty. He went to the least likely place in Chillicothe and got the prize.” He knew his friends would tease him at school the next day but if he could get Nelda to go to the altar and present herself for baptism and membership in the Baptist Church the teasing would be all compliments and envy. And Nelda had told him she would. Nelda joined in the singing with him, her hand against his on the hymnal, and during one of the long prayers her hand sought and squeezed his. His eyes opened in surprise and he saw her looking at him, biting back a smile. He hoped everyone else had their eyes closed the way they were supposed to. The sermon was long, as he expected, and he cringed a little when Cowboy Coleman focused on the fires of hell and the multitude of those waiting for it. He thought Nelda was more

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likely to succumb to a loving Savior than to fear eternal punishment for being Church of Christ. Nelda squirmed inwardly when Cowboy Coleman denounced children who did not obey their parents; she wondered if her parents had talked to him. He followed that with condemnation of women who painted their faces to tempt men. Cowboy Coleman agreed with her father that she was evil and was bound for hell. She wanted to cry; she was not good enough for Kyle. He was so kind, and if he knew the secret thoughts she and Nancy had shared he would never see her again. At last Cowboy Coleman brought his message to a close and began calling sinners to turn loose of their pride, repent of their sins and come to the front of the church and profess their faith in Christ. Kyle could feel the eyes on him again. If he could nudge Nelda into the aisle he would be the subject of every conversation in Chillicothe tomorrow. The Baptists would have put one over on the Church of Christ and folks would talk about that night forever. Nelda was also aware of the eyes on her. They knew her for the wicked thoughts she had but if she would go to the altar and ask forgiveness, they would accept her. Accept her the way Kyle accepted her. They would welcome her into their presence. She could be one of them. Accepted. Not just by God and Kyle, but all the people there. She would make Kyle so happy. She looked at Kyle for confirmation. Kyle basked in the glow of their admiration. His name, and hers, would be on the lips of people he scarcely knew. He would be the Cloyce of the right people, the best people in town. He was so captivated by the images of himself as almost a saint that he had forgotten about Nelda. He glanced at her and saw her waiting for his sign. Go, he thought. She would do what he wanted her to do. Tell her to go. Nod, gesture at the aisle, do something. Some other male would ask her to surrender to his will; ask her to do something worse. She still watched his face, seeking a sign and he quailed at the power she gave him. Power to do her harm.

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She would do almost anything—He sighed in resignation. It wouldn’t be him who asked her. Not now. He shook his head. No. Nelda was confused. She wanted to have a boyfriend like other girls, she wanted to be accepted at school and at church and by adults. And she would be if she just did what Cowboy Coleman asked her to do. She looked at Kyle again, lowering her head as a question. Again he shook his head. She took a deep breath, relieved to escape the attention, a little sad to remain an outsider, frightened that she had failed Kyle. That he had rejected her. There was more singing and more altar calls and finally a benediction. She followed the others into the aisle and out of the church, head down, hoping to be unnoticed, not daring to look at Kyle, not certain what had happened. When they walked outside the church she looked at Kyle for affirmation but he didn’t look at her. Then she saw her father waiting across the street and she caught Kyle’s arm and almost stumbled. Kyle led her slowly to Brother Nivel. He was aware of his parents standing on the church steps watching. He could feel Nelda shrinking behind him. “I wanted to see the kind of boy who would sneak a girl out of her father’s house,” Brother Nivel said. “Did you intend to sneak her back in?” Kyle hadn’t thought that far ahead. All his plans ended with her joining the Baptist Church and him being the center of admiration. He could feel her sobbing against his back. “I intended to walk her home,” he said. “And ask if I could go with her to her church next Sunday.” Nelda pressed against him, squeezing his arm in gratitude. Brother Nivel stared at him. Kyle was sure it was a stare he had practiced on sinners in his church. “Nelda can’t date until she is sixteen,” her father said. “Except to church. If you come you might plan on staying for dinner.” “Thank you. I’ll ask my parents.” That was good, he thought. He hadn’t planned to see Nelda after she joined the

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Baptist Church. Asking his parents made him look dutiful and also gave him a way out of seeing her again. “My parents,” he would explain sadly, “want me to go to their church.” “Thank you for asking me to church,” Nelda said, giving him a shy smile before walking home with her father. By morning Kyle and Nelda had the attention Kyle craved, but it wasn’t what he wanted. Everyone misunderstood. They talked about him sneaking Nelda out of her home. No one mentioned his concern for her soul. His parents scolded him and demanded that he apologize to her parents. His pastor eyed him suspiciously believing he had brought Nelda to the revival as a pretext for less religious exercises. His friends thought his after church plans with Nelda had been disrupted by her father’s appearance. The girls at school viewed taking Nelda to church as practically an engagement and ignored his attempts to flirt. He wouldn’t have to date Nelda if she had joined the Baptist Church. He wondered how many times he would have to go to the Church of Christ before people would stop seeing him as bad, before he could tell Nelda he wanted to date Methodists as well. What if he couldn’t get away from her? What if he became Church of Christ? Gaining approval was harder than he thought. Even harder than being good.

The Church Softball League j

My wife and I visited an aunt and uncle in a West Texas town that is best left unidentified. It was big enough to have two Baptist churches as well as Methodist, Church of Christ, Assembly of God, Bible, and El Sendero churches. It was big enough to have a church softball league, requiring only two churches from neighboring communities. My uncle, whom I will call Roland to protect the innocent, played first base for Second Baptist Church, that loved all people and all churches, and their softball teams, except First Baptist that they hated worse than sin. And they hated First Baptist softball team worse than they hated sin that someone else got away with. First Baptist had brick walls, artificial stained glass, an electric organ, and a steeple with a cross that revolved like a windmill. When the wind blew. And the wind always blew. Their team had real uniforms with First Baptist Church on the front. Second Baptist had clapboard, venetian blinds, and an upright piano. Their team wore blue jeans and tee-shirts with “’round Back Chili” stenciled on the front. I knew that the way you know things when you visit relatives once a year, knowing in a kind of “yeah, I hope you beat them this year” way. Second Baptist had never beaten First Baptist. The weekend we visited was Second Baptist’s chance to lose again but I wasn’t going to spend Saturday afternoon under a West Texas sun sitting on hot metal bleachers. I don’t know why they are called bleachers. After two hours of sitting in the sun you don’t look bleached. My plan was to sit under the air conditioner watching baseball on TV where players could get the ball from the outfield to 177

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the infield with only one throw. That was before another aunt and her husband dropped by. Her husband, whom I will call Earl to protect the guilty, had a reputation for “drinking a little,” which meant he drank a lot. Especially on Saturday when he was off work. While pretending to make sandwiches for lunch the women plotted that I would keep Earl out of the domino parlor in the back room of the barber shop where illicit popskull miraculously appeared “’round back.” I would do that by inviting Earl to accompany me to the ball game. To my surprise, Earl agreed. Earl had already been drinking. Earl stumbled through the grassburs that lined the red clay playing field and while climbing the bleachers fell into a First Baptist lap. A still, small breath of demon rum wafted over a church-bus load of the pure in heart in that hallowed if bucolic setting. I guided Earl past the judgment of the faithful, got him seated some distance from the anointed and he seemed to doze through the warmup. When the first First Baptist batter approached the plate, Earl came to life. “First Baptist? You look like a Unitarian eunuch. Jesus was the first Baptist. Throw that sack of sacerdotal slime out,” he yelled. “Hey crab cake, you’re dangling your bat like it was a participle. Holy enema, you call that a ball? You stupid salvationist, you can’t tell a church house from an outhouse.” Earl attended a lot of church softball games. Each new batter added to Earl’s bile. “Swing you Methodist morphodite.” “Figgy, what fruitcake did you fall out of? You swing like a Presbyterian penis.” When someone yelled that a batter had won four letters in college, Earl shouted back, “Yeah, W-I-M-P. They circumcised him to his kneecaps. I’ve seen ants bigger than his anchovies.” We were close enough to first base that Roland could hear and he seemed to shrink as though trying to hide behind the bag. Despite Earl’s imprecations, First Baptist led by three runs when they took the field.

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Earl called down exotic plagues on the First Baptist pitcher and his firstborn son. Not all the plagues related to gender. “Don’t let that pile of orthodox ordure scare you. He’s got more pimples than he has pitches. He’s colder than an Islamic igloo. He hasn’t got enough spit for a Methodist baptism. He’s shaking like a Quaker in front of a draft board.” Increasingly incensed, Earl encouraged Second Baptist batters, especially those who connected their bat with the ball. “Run, you church lover, run,” Earl screamed. “Run like a Romanist chased by a Bible.” “Scat like a Campbellite who hears a church organ.” “Light out like a Lutheran chasing a beer keg.” “Run like an Episcopalian from a dry county.” When Roland came to bat, Earl prayed loudly for mold on First Baptist walls and shorts in their electric organ. He also prayed for Roland’s success. “Knock that Mormon monkey out of the game. He sucks worse than a Seventh-Day seminarian. Hey pitch, your lipstick is crooked. Ethel, your bloomers are drooping.” When the pitcher dared a look at his tormentor, Earl yelled, “Chunk the ball, you Catholic cunctator.” A believer asked what church we belonged to. While I prepared a diplomatic answer, Earl responded, “We’re with Roland. He’s at bat.” Roland crouched lower at the plate. “Knock the beholden out of the ball. Hit it like it was a bootlegger. A line drive where Baptists don’t go.” In desperation, Roland hit a slow roller toward third base. “Run for King James,” Earl screamed. “Run for a church picnic. Run, for God’s sake.” Roland was out by three steps. Displeased with the manner in which that fact was communicated to Roland, Earl directed his prayers upon the umpire. “Sacred smegma, where was your mother when you were born? Hey, belly rub. Jehovah’s Witless. I’ve got hemorrhoids bigger than your brains. Take off your skirt and come up here and tell me that.”

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Earl invented words and spoke in a tongue unknown to me. I was surprised that folks devoted to church and softball understood the language. Second Baptist didn’t win the softball game but Earl and I won fifty-nine cents at the domino parlor. Wisely, Earl went to sleep before Roland got home.

Chicken Soup for the Damned j

Jesus was born in the biggest house with the finest stable in Bethlehem. His mother was a member of the Daughters of Jericho. His father, Joseph, was a famous hero who drove a stake through the heart of a Palestinian and became CEO of Nazareth Land Development, employing hundreds of carpenters and masons, creating Mt. Tabor Estates, and reducing the Cedars of Lebanon to Shittim Wood. As a boy, Jesus was the best athlete in Galilee, and once, to help his father hide gold while tax collectors slept, with five smooth stones he killed three roosters before they crowed. He also knocked out the eye of a Pharisee’s son but gave the boy a gold coin to replace it. When he became a man, Jesus used the management skills he learned in his father’s office to assemble a team of adherents who would denounce dissenters, punish the poor, and appropriate the sick in order to enrich themselves. Preaching health, security, and prosperity to all who followed him, Jesus found a hearing wherever he went. Once after he had told them the parable of the Ten Bridesmaids who cornered the market on lamp oil, hangers-on followed him until they were faint. Jesus told them to give him their money and he would give them the secret of everlasting bread. His adherents took the shekels to the nearest McEdonia. Upon their return there was a scramble for the bagels and lox. After they had eaten all they could, they bought all Jesus’ lamp oil at inflated prices. Then Jesus told them the secret of everlasting bread was in the lamp oil of Mesopotamia. Afterwards Jesus went to an exclusive desert resort to audition his program and find approval. Sackcloth and ashes were 181

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sufficient for prophets of repentance, he explained, but authority for reform demanded a jeweled crown, and purple robes with ermine trim and gold appointments. Benches or stools were adequate for listeners but habitués would require a climate controlled environment, ergonomic pews, and recreation centers. Locusts and honey would sustain life but partisans needed Starbucks, Ben and Jerry’s, and Krispy Kreme. Jesus passed the test but his program lacked pizzazz. For power he needed pizzazz and pizzazz required crush, flash, lipstick, and big hair. Healing the sick was never ending but a lame man tossing his crutches and walking, a blind woman seeing her child for the first time brought media attention. Calling the righteous to repentance got groans but dazzle, desperation, and deceit gave fame. A cup of cold water could bring gratitude but dirt, demons, and décolletage brought donations. Jesus started to the high steeple tabernacle where he would spar with evil to lure a crowd. On his way, he took a short cut across the Sea of Galilee, absent-mindedly walking on water. He was seen by fishermen who begged him to show them the trick so they would never drown. Instead, he told them he would make them fishers for donations to his ministry. The first to accept would be the last to be laid-off. A young CEO asked how he could become a follower and Jesus said to sell his Jaguar, his two Mercedes, his five houses and three apartments, his two corporations, and his private jet and give the money to him as a tax dodge. In return, Jesus would provide him with abundant luxury. Thus, Jesus became the way to make charity profitable. Jesus preached his Principles for Abundant Luxury and the dumb were made to speak and the wise were commanded to be silent. Also women. “If you follow me you are a builder,” he taught. “A good builder builds houses on sand and when the rains come, and the winds blow, the house will fall and you can sell another house or foreclose on the land.”

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His friend and fellow evangelist, John the Baptist, accused the Great Leader of crimes against humanity and was arrested by John the Bull. When John the Baptist was executed for lack of patriotism, Jesus was terrified. As he had so many times, he went into the Garden and prayed, “Lord, how can I get out of this?” Two of his disciples came looking for him and found him asleep, but in his hand was a message to the Great Leader. “What must I do to be saved?” The disciples took the message to the Great Leader and returned with the response. “Bow down and worship me and we will prosper forever.” Jesus welcomed John the Baptist’s followers, moved into John’s territory, preached follow the leader and became presidential shineboy. After a long and prosperous life Jesus died a happy death and the Great Leader called upon the successful of the world to grieve his passing for three days. After which, Jesus arose in the minds and hearts of all those who cry out, “I believe, I believe, as long as you give me health and prosperity and also to my children.” Jesus’ revival drew sectarians from all over the world, each speaking in his own tongue. And through the miracle of accretion the business continues today.

Desert Duel j

AT RISE: Three astronomers returning from an international conference discuss the meeting they have just attended. Their servants follow offstage leading the camels.

First Astronomer What did you think of the king?

Second Astronomer Kind of ugly wasn’t he?

Third astronomer They all look like that.

First Astronomer I thought he would be bigger.

Second Astronomer He did look common, didn’t he. I thought he would look more . . . princely.

Third Astronomer What did you expect? Some kind of crown on his head? He didn’t even have hair.

Second Astronomer I expected him to be in a better place than that. And that his folks would be . . . you know . . . have presence, bearing, nobility.

First Astronomer I still think we should have gone back by the city. They have cafes and places to stay. Now we don’t even know where we’ll spend the night or what we’ll have to eat. 185

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Third Astronomer You’ll be lucky if you get anything to eat. You ate all the nuts.

Second Astronomer These have been the worst accommodations I have ever seen. Don’t expect me to go back unless they discover a whole new galaxy.

Third Astronomer (An admission.) We went a long way.

First Astronomer (A grumble.) Yeah, for nothing.

Second Astronomer What did we learn that we didn’t already know? I think it was the wrong star. There are lots of stars.

First Astronomer (Agreeing.) We went to the wrong place.

Third Astronomer It was the brightest star. If it was the brightest, doesn’t that mean it has to be the right one? (The other two astronomers exchange knowing looks.)

Second Astronomer What did you think of the mother?

First Astronomer She was a child herself. They are so young these days.

Second Astronomer I don’t think they’re married. There’s something wrong there. The kind of people they were. The kind of place they were in. Maybe he’s the king’s illegitimate son and the king doesn’t want anyone to know.

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First Astronomer The king wouldn’t send a man with her unless he intended the man to kill a pretender to the throne. If he had wanted the mother and child to live, he would have sent her to a better place than that.

Third Astronomer Maybe they were fleeing the king to claim the baby as their own so that he would never threaten the king and could live a good and ordinary life.

Second Astronomer If you were the son of a king, would you choose to live an ordinary life?

First Astronomer If I were a king, I’d choose to live in Rome.

Third Astronomer You are so political. Money and power, that’s all you think of.

First Astronomer Right now I’m thinking a plump chicken would be good. Surrounded by peaches on a bed of couscous floating in butter. (He sighs.) We went to the wrong place. That wasn’t a pretender to the throne. Those two, and their baby, were rejected by their families and no one else would take them in.

Second Astronomer Sometimes that’s the only thing you can do. When you give them every chance and they fail again and again, sometimes you just have to disown them.

Third Astronomer If that’s what happened you have to admire the father for sticking with them. He could have gone someplace else and made a life for himself.

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Second Astronomer Admire him for what? Stupidity? If she was rejected by her father then he should have left her too. Let her provide for the kid the way she knows best.

Third Astronomer The father wasn’t far from swaddling clothes himself. I wonder if he even has a trade. They have no idea what they’re doing. There are a lot of heartaches ahead for all of them. That’s the way life is.

First Astronomer (Agreeing.) You are a wise man.

Third Astronomer The baby may have been a scandal to its parents but I think we followed the right star. He may be the new king. I think dreadful things will come to pass. Those in power will try to stop him from becoming a threat to their power.

First Astronomer What kind of threat would he be? His parents have no army, no money, no position, no friends, apparently no family.

Second Astronomer (Agreeing that only the rich have power.) Riches and power, riches and power.

First Astronomer (Hearing that as a prayer.) And a plump chicken.

Third Shepherd I don’t know what kind of threat he is but he was born under a star. That must mean he is destined for wonderful or terrible things. I think the king fears him.

First Astronomer For what? If the king really feared him, he’d take him into the palace. Shower him with honor, respect, security, fineries and the sweetness of life so that he became dependent on the

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king to fulfill every whim. Then he would be the king’s loyal subject.

Second Astronomer I’d watch him to see if he has kingly ambitions. If so, and others follow him, pervert his ambitions by giving him his own little kingdom. He will be busy trying to hold on to it, and his followers will bicker among themselves over who shall be first, and who shall succeed him. He will never become a threat.

First Astronomer If I were king I wouldn’t worry about him as long as he is in that sorry town and this worthless country. No one need concern themselves with him unless he goes to a country that has bigger shields, better swords, and chariots more terrifying than those of the enemy. Then he will be a menace to the world.

Third Astronomer He’s got a lot of changing to do before that will happen. (They reach a resting place.)

First Astronomer This is as good a place to spend the night as we’re likely to find. (Calling offstage.) Ajib, we will water the camels in the morning. Feed and bed them there, then set up my tent.

Second Astronomer (Calling offstage.) You likewise, Jafar. We will keep the water pure until we depart tomorrow. (Kicking at the ground.) Filthy shepherds. Foul the water holes with their filthy sheep. (Calling offstage.) Jafar, clear off the ground before you spread my tent. (The Third Astonomer signals his servant to do likewise.)

First Astronomer Speak of the devil and he is sure to appear. (He points at the nearby horizon.) Here comes a flock of sheep.

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Third Astronomer There, too. (He points in a different direction.)

Second Astronomer And there. (He points in yet another direction.)

Third Astronomer Quick. Fill the water skins before the sheep get in the pool. (They fill the waterskins.)

Second Astronomer (Calling.) Keep those filthy sheep away from my tent. I will not be liable for any damages my camel does to your sheep. (Three shepherds enter and watch their sheep watering offstage.)

Second Shepherd (To the First Shepherd.) Your flock looks smaller. Did you lose some sheep?

First Shepherd (Tired.) I don’t know. I’ll look tomorrow.

Third Shepherd They could be dead by tomorrow.

First Shepherd I’m paid to lead them to grass and water and that’s what I’m doing.

Second Shepherd Bed down the sheep and I’ll start a fire. (He starts a fire.)

First Shepherd (Seeing the astronomers.) What are they doing here? This is our water hole.

Third Shepherd (Yelling across water hole.) Keep your camels away from the water. This is our water hole.

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First Astronomer Water belongs to whoever needs it. Wise men have always said that.

Third Shepherd We were here first and our fathers before us.

Second Shepherd (To the Third Shepherd.) We can’t deny water to someone who needs it.

Third Shepherd Then let them get their water and move on.

Second Shepherd (To the Third Shepherd.) Bed down the sheep and I’ll begin our meal.

Third Shepherd (loudly to be heard by the astronomers.) I had better not see a camel foul the water. (He and first shepherd exit.)

Second Astronomer How can we eat with that smell?

Third Astronomer Why do you worry? We have nothing to eat.

Second Astronomer How can we sleep with that smell? The shepherds smell as bad as the sheep.

First Astronomer I don’t know about you but I am going to close my tent as tightly as I can tie it. (The Two Shepherds Return.)

First Shepherd What are they doing here? This is our country, our water. God gave it to us and He doesn’t want them trashing it.

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Second Shepherd Remember the laws of hospitality. The stranger in our land is to be welcomed.

First Shepherd He is welcome only if he is one of our kind, speaks our language, and obeys our laws. That doesn’t mean them.

Third Astronomer (Hearing fat popping in the fire.) That smells good. What is it?

Second Shepherd Mutton.

First Astronomer Do you have anything other than mutton? (The shepherds stare at him across the fire.)

First Shepherd What arrogance. They will get nothing from me.

First Astronomer (Mutters.) Ignorant peasants. (To the shepherds.) Have you ever heard of chicken? Beef? Goat? Goat cheese? Bananas? I’ll trade you some dates for a foreleg of mutton.

Third Astronomer You said there were no more dates.

First Shepherd We have dates.

Second Astronomer I have a bit of myrrh left. (The other two astronomers turn and look at him.) I wasn’t going to waste it all, not after I saw what the baby looked like. It would require all the myrrh in Persia to make that place smell good.

Third Shepherd What good is myrrh when you sleep with sheep?

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Second Shepherd What we have we will share with you because you are strangers in our land. Where do you come from?

First Astronomer We are scientists and when we saw the star of the new king we went to Jerusalem to ask where we might examine him. Some preachers and politicians tricked us by sending us to Bethlehem. What we found there was worse than the slums of Baghdad.

Second Shepherd But you found the savior.

First Astronomer We saw two frightened children, an ugly baby, and a mess that decent people would be ashamed of. How can people live like that?

Second Shepherd For a stable, it wasn’t so bad. A little dark maybe. And all babies look like that.

Second Astronomer People like that like to live in filth. It’s what they want. The parents weren’t even married. They had been thrown out of their parents’ homes and no honest person would take them in.

First Shepherd You went to find the king’s illegitimate heir? We went to find the savior.

Second Shepherd We too went to Bethlehem. We found the savior.

Second Astronomer You were tricked just as we were.

Second Shepherd We were not tricked. An angel told us the savior had been born and we left our flocks and went to find him.

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Second Astronomer It’s a worthless shepherd who abandons his sheep. They foul the water holes.

First Astronomer We didn’t see any angels. We saw a star and talked to the king.

Third Shepherd An angel spoke to us and sent us to exactly the right place.

Second Astronomer Superstitious rabble. (To the other astronomers.) I hate these people with their sackcloth and asses.

Third Shepherd (Belligerently.) The angel said, Glory to God and peace to men of good will.

Second Astronomer There’s always peace among men of good will. You don’t have to be a wise man to know that. It’s peace among men who want their own way that’s a problem. Now peace among them would be a miracle.

Third Shepherd An angel spoke to us.

First Astronomer (Taking up the fight.) We saw a star. A special sign that only the wise and learned could interpret.

First Shepherd We see stars every night. We read the stars to determine when to shear our sheep, mark our lambs, what the next day will be like, and when the world will end.

Third Shepherd We spoke with an angel that only the chosen can hear.

Second Astronomer The world is filled with spirits. Angels are just one of many species.

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First Shepherd There are many stars, too. Many times I have tried to count them but fell asleep before I could count them all.

First Astronomer We know the number of stars. We know the stars by name.

Third Shepherd Our angel had a name.

Second Astronomer What was it?

Third Shepherd (Looking at the other shepherds for help.) It was . . . uh . . .

First Shepherd Unless you become one of us you can not know his name. The Savior was sent to save us and we found him. If he wanted to save you, you would have found him. (To the other shepherds.) When will God rid us of these offspring of Satan? How can he allow them in our land?

Third Shepherd Because of our sin. That is why we must strictly enforce the law so that the savior will deliver us from these educated fools.

First Astronomer How is he going to save you?

Third Shepherd He will grow up to be a mighty king like David, deliver us from evil people, foreign ideas, and high taxes, and bring peace to all nations by requiring everyone to honor us and worship as we worship. (To the other shepherds.) And by driving these swine out of our land.

First Shepherd I think he will be wise above all men, like Solomon, and he will prove that those who weigh wool can weigh the law; that those who judge the fat of lambs can determine justice; that those

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who guide sheep can safely guide nations; and that those who every day search the desert for fresh grass and clear water, and every night search the stars for signs of weather find wisdom unknown to scholars, astronomers, and palm readers.

Second Shepherd I think he will be a judge like Samuel and he will see that all shepherds are treated justly, that we get a fair price for our wool and for our lambs, and when we take unblemished lambs to the temple for sacrifice, the money changers will not be able to cheat us.

Third Astronomer If you found such a savior you are truly blessed.

Second Astronomer It is well that we didn’t find that savior because he could do nothing for us. We need a savior who will help us divine the best time to wage war, whether the new year will bring flood or famine, and where to find those who would challenge the king’s dominion.

Third Astronomer Maybe a savior could do all that. (The other two astronomers exchange looks as do the shepherds.)

First Astronomer We don’t want a king or a savior who regards shepherds as our equal.

Second Astronomer Unwashed rednecks. Souls of mud. They are unworthy of our king.

Third Shepherd In like manner our savior will have nothing to do with you or your king should you ever divine one. (The other shepherds laugh.)

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First Astronomer (Loudly.) I intend to sleep late in my tent tomorrow. Perhaps by then the shepherds will be gone and so will the smell.

Second Shepherd Our pride in our nation and its laws requires us to share our meal with you.

Third Shepherd Without regard to your unworthiness.

First Shepherd However, your evil, foul-smelling camels must remain on your side of the water. And you must cleanse yourself according to our tradition.

First Astronomer (Turning to his tent.) There will be no mutton for me.

Second Astronomer You are a wise man. Where are the dates?

Third Shepherd When we have eaten our fill we will throw the remains in the fire and lie down to examine the heavens from which you will protect yourself.

Second Astronomer May I have some of the myrrh? I can still smell the shepherds and their off-spring. (The First and Second Astonomer exit.)

Third Astronomer I will humbly thank you for a bite of mutton while you tell me of the savior you found.

Third Shepherd He is an uncircumcised pig.

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Second Shepherd But we must share with the stranger in our midst.

First Shepherd Okay. We will give him the bones after we have sucked the marrow from them.

Third Shepherd And we will keep the savior to ourselves. If he wants a savior, let him find his own.

Second Shepherd (Spreading his blanket apart from the others.) Take some food, walk with me and I will tell you about the night we heard the angels sing. (Offstage a voice reads Luke 2: 8–18 as they exit. The light follows them offstage leaving the stage and audience in darkness. Then the second shepherd and third astronomer emerge from the darkness bearing candles to light the candles of others.)