From the pulpit, Daddy thundered, "When I was a little fella, I got to where I could take a whipping and then go right back out and do the same thing again--whatever I wanted to do--whatever the devil tempted me with. I knew if I got caught, it would be another whipping, but I got to where I could take it without letting it break my will. And then God called me to preach!”
Somebody shouted, “Glory!”
"I was just a child, younger than my oldest son Randy. Randy, come up here, son, and let everybody get a look at you. Come on. Randy is shy. He doesn't like to be the center of attention. Come on, son."
I walked stiffly to the rostrum and stood beside him, wondering if I had enough Brylcreem in my hair to make it stick up in front like it was supposed to. Was my tie straight? Was my shirttail poked in all around? Did people feel sorry for me? Were they going to talk about me when they got home after church? A motion from one of the boys on the back pew drew my attention. He shot me the bird. Other boys my age and a little older, blew me kisses, made funny faces, pointed, laughed. I tried to focus on the door at the end of the aisle, wishing I were through it, hiding in the dark.
In a way, I was already hiding. I never spoke to any of the pretty girls in church, for example, fearful that they were ridiculing me behind my back like the boys did to my face. Surely, I thought, no church girl would ever be caught dead with a guy whose dad used him as a goofy prop in sermons!
To avoid the possibility of rejection, I avoided the girls. But I kept an eye on them —a seriously close eye, analyzing each girl and young woman with the intensity of an FFA boy grading livestock at the fair. I graded girls on a scale of 1 to 10 as they got out of their parents' cars in the parking lot, as they walked up the aisle to the choir, sang, went to the altar and prayed. Jesus was probably not too happy about my little hobby, but He never said anything about it, so I carried on. This was science. Important stuff. And, being a “writer” since approximately first grade, I recorded my evaluations in the margins of my little black book—the Bible.
I concentrated on my girl-judging in every service, trying to keep the competition fair, seriously evaluating how many points to give for physical stature, best hair, highest heels, prettiest smile. A few years later when I made a campaign speech for a candidate for Miss Youth Camp 1966—a girl named Sherry—I said “Maybe she doesn’t have much upstairs, but man what a staircase!” as if voting for a girl based on her “staircase” was the most natural thing in the world. (And this was years before Sarah Palin.) My joke got a big laugh and made Sherry blush. Fortunately for me, she later forgave me for it and taught me some manners.
Turn about is fair play, as my grandmother would say, so I had no doubt, as I stood there beside my daddy, that the girls in the congregation were judging me at that very moment.
Daddy said, "My mama says that Randy is going to be a preacher, too. God laid that on her heart, the very same way He let her know that I was going to be one. Randy, God hasn't called you yet in an actual audible voice, has he?"
"No sir."
"I hope Randy doesn't have to be blinded like Saul of Tarsus, or laid out in a coma like I was. I hope he’ll pay attention to God's calling when he hears it the first time."
This got another snicker from the boys on the back row. More ammo for them to use against me later: "Hey, Preacherboy, God called. He wants you to go preach." "Hey, Preacherboy, God gave me a message for you"-- followed by a long fart or belch, whichever was ready for delivery.
"I hope Randy would never do the things I did, the things God saved me from-- lying, skipping school, smoking cigarettes, drinking the last drops of beer from filthy bottles I found in the ditch. He also saved me from dancing the shimmy-she-wobble with women, which brings on lewd thoughts and leads to pain and heartbreak and hell!"
Ouch. The shimmy-she-wobble... my favorite fantasy... was going to send me to hell!
Daddy continued, "I thank God, now, for all those beatings my daddy gave me. His discipline didn't always keep me from sinning, but it helped me learn right from wrong. God's Word says, 'Spare the rod and spoil the child!' Have you spared the rod and spoiled your children already? Are they on their way to hell because you didn't fulfill the responsibility God gave you? Well, it’s not too late!”
Whaaaat? He wanted everybody to go home and beat their children to make up for lost time? The more I stared at the boys on the back row, the more I liked it. Not a bad idea. Not bad at all.
He let go of my neck and pointed at the congregation. "Hear me, now, you parents who never discipline your children when they need it. Listen to me, church. Sending a child to his room or making him stand with his nose in a corner is not the same as a good quality leather belt applied to the backside. It is your responsibility to keep your children in line. God COMMANDED you to do this!
"These are perilous times we live in. A Catholic running for President! Godless Communism sweeping the world! Communist agitators telling colored people they don’t have to ride in the back of the bus anymore nor eat in their own restaurants nor use their own public bathrooms!”
Someone yelled, "Tell it, preacher!"
"You know what the Communists are doing in
If the preachers were first, who would be second? Would the families get to watch? Would they film it with Elvis crooning in the background?
He spoke in tongues for a little bit, then back to English. "Mamas and daddies, if you're not scared for your children's sake, you better GET scared! I'll say it again: If you’re not concerned about them listening to rock and roll, or going to worldly places of amusement or reading these filthy books that are right here in our public library--you're losing your own children, the battle for their souls! I tell you now, you better GET concerned!"
He twisted my head to face him. "You haven’t been reading any books like that or listening to Elvis, have you, Randy?”
“Ummm, no sir.”
“Praise God! Go back to your seat now.”
Stepping down from the rostrum, I caught the eye of Mrs. S., sitting close to the aisle on a middle row. She wasn’t a member of our church and I was surprised to see her there. An even bigger surprise was the sight of her daughter, the Goddess Jane, on the very back row, sitting beside a snickering Franky Wayne and his pals. Franky
Several times on that walk down the aisle, I stumbled--I, the boy who walked the rafters of the abandoned warehouse like a high-wire artist, was barely able to walk a straight line on the floor! Feeling an urgent need to look casual, I arched my eyebrows at the Goddess Jane, then looked from side to side and up to the ceiling, sucked in my cheeks, scrunched my lips and chirped like a cricket all the way to my seat--the one immediately in front of her and Franky Wayne. I sank onto the pew and sat with my head down and my shoulders bent for the remainder of the service, trying to shut out everything around me, unaware that Franky Wayne had slipped to the floor, crawled under my pew and tied my shoestrings together—a stunt that I would discover soon enough.
