The Old Preacher

The blond wood table with tile inlays separated us. My mom sat at the head of the table and me on the side, in front of glass block windows. Both of us sitting in cheap peacock chairs. To my left in the living room, a lone wingback chair with arms, covered in silk fabric from the 80s, showed signs of wear. Even though it’s soiled with blood from dad’s thin-blood arms and a waft of urine is detectable as you near, my mother promises they were expensive chairs. It’s the last vestige of the fruitful years. I don’t mention the smell.

Urine and shit accompany us into this world and they’re there at the end, along with blood. Behind the closed door of my mother’s room, blood, urine and shit were prevalent. It had been 6 months since the EMT’s removed my dad’s lifeless body from their bed. Since then, the room remained untouched -- a smelly, stained homage to my father. For now, the door remained closed and that was ok. It takes time.

With death comes honesty and secrets. You learn of DUIs, infidelity, cousins being uncles and painful childhoods. As we sat at the table, I parsed what was new information and what was old. I knew about the mill town where she grew up and the mill where her parents worked the day and night shift. I knew my grandfather gambled and drank instead of watching the children. It was a very southern story, one similar to a John Sayles movie or a Dorothy Allison book.  I didn’t know about her religious background, though, which was quite substantial, given our religious background was zero to nil.

The more you attended church, the more pious you were. It is a competition. If this were the case, my mother started out on the top. Church consisted of Sundays, Saturdays, Wednesdays and everyday for 2 weeks during revival. The latter was jarring. 2 weeks? I questioned:

“Was the revival in a tent?”

“Yes.”

“Why are they in tents when you probably had a church that could accommodate the congregation?

“I don’t know.”

“So, a revival was not open to the public?”

“No, not really, but if an outsider came, I think it would be OK.”

“Man, I had that all wrong.”

And I did have it wrong. A week prior, while visiting in-laws in Michigan, I attended a tent revival. This new information sheds light what I experienced.

Across from Budd’s All Tractors on E. Michigan Avenue in Jackson, Michigan, a patch of grass sloped gently to the road. At the top of the hill, on level ground, a large white tent was erected. A small sign at the foot of the dirt road leading to the tent said “Tent Revival This Saturday.” I made note of it.

Upon returning to my in-laws’ lake house, I announced there was a tent revival on Saturday and that I planned to attend.  Intermittent churchgoers and used to my eccentricities, they were intrigued but not concerned. I don’t think there were private conversations that asked, “Now, why does Greg want to go to a church revival?” Supportive and non-judgmental, they let me do my own thing.

Encouraged by their silent approval, I thought about what to wear. Since I was on vacation, I had a limited wardrobe: shorts, t-shirts, a pair of cotton pants and a button-up short sleeve shirt. I could make it work. The cotton pants with the short sleeve shirt, my nicest sneakers and a straw hat – it would suffice. The straw hat was essential to the outfit. In my fantasy, it would be a sticky-hot revival and all the men would fan themselves with a straw hat or a fedora and women with a makeshift fan. That’s how you did it at a revival.

As I approached the dirt road leading to the tent, I was late, I’m always late. I didn’t really want to do this, —my nerves getting the best of me, but after a pep talk, I pulled into the makeshift parking. Instead of Packers and Studebakers of the past, I got Fords and Chevrolets. Packers and Studebakers were part of the fantasy. I was already disappointed.

The walk to the entrance in the south side of the tent involved more pep talks. Getting in the door was always tough, but once I was in, I was OK. I always assume walking onto a roomful of strangers is similar to walking into a bar in the day, the light from outside announcing your arrival.

From the outside, the twin pole tent was roughly 60’ by 30.’ Draped in a white, thick vinyl with symmetrical translucent windows wrapping the lower half and a series of ropes and sandbags appeared to keep the tent erect. It was a clear, calm day, so it didn’t look like it would take flight from wind and make the afternoon news.

A bearded man in his early 30s was at the door. Dressed in slim, brown corduroy pants, a pressed dressed, a woven brown tie and suede boots, he was not what I expected to see. Because everything was a little flawed and ill fitting, I assumed he got them at a thrift store. This was not due to economics, but a choice. At first look, he could’ve been the touring mandolin player in Mumford and Sons, but his unbridled enthusiasm lent itself to a youth pastor – the guy that drove the bus on retreats and who never got pissed at the teenagers in the back. “ Awe, they’re just young,” he would say.

The bearded man handed me a program, and pointed to an empty seat in the middle back. I took of my straw hat, waved it in front of my face a few times and placed it on my lap. The back of the tent rested against my fold-up chair. It was slightly pitched to the center, rubbing the back of my head, forcing me to slightly hunch. The chair was precarious, at best, so I was careful not to shift weight dramatically. I was already feeling a bit vulnerable, so I wanted to keep the chair intact and me upright.

I let out an inaudible sigh, air flowing out of me. I was here. Let the blasphemous fire begin.

A man in the congregation seated to my left, stood up, walked to the entrance and retrieved two books.  He returned and gave me a bible and a hymnbook. I thanked him and he returned to his seat. I had forgotten my glasses, rendering the tiny type of the bible and the hymnbook useless.  The songs I could pickup. I was a musician and had 6 sporadic months of church-going in 7^th grade, when my parents got religious so I knew I could mumble through the verses and nail the ‘amen’ choruses. Amen, Amen, Amen was my favorite church song. I was hoping we’d sing it.

The bible was different. Without my glasses, I was lost. I didn’t know the books of the bible, the paragraphs, the sub-paragraphs, the verses and such.  When the preacher said “Open you bible to Leviticus, paragraph 3, verse 2,” I panicked. My knowledge of the bible was minimal. I knew it started with Genesis…In the beginning and was comprised of two books: the Old and New Testament – the Old Testament being more violent and used in popular culture when it was about to get ugly. The first 4 books of the Old Testament was the Hebrew bible, I think. The author of the bible, I cannot tell you. I assume it was Jesus or a ghost rider -- maybe a prophet or a close friend. Or it could be God or magic, like the Book of Mormon that came from a drumlin in New York.  I was lost, either way.

I spied my neighbor on the left, the man that gave me the books. He had opened the bible a little more than 3/4s. Leviticus must be near then end of the bible. I did the same, concealing the book close to my face, to discourage wondering eyes. It was blurry but I’d fake it.

As I mumbled verses from the bible and sang hymns littered with Jesus and Amen, I surveyed the crowd. My expectations were hard-living men, farmers and women in house dresses corralling too many children. In reality, it was men in cargo shorts and oversized t-shirts and women in bland dresses and low heels, their head covered in berets or scarves. The berets were the only interesting part of the crowd. It gave it a cult-like appearance or a poetry reading in Greenwich Village in the ‘50s, which was good.

The preacher stood behind a podium in the middle of the rectangular tent. Chairs formed a semi-circle around him, eventually aligning into straight rows. Every seat was taken.

Dressed in brown polyester Sta-Press pants, a yellow short sleeve shirt, buttoned up to the top, and old, scarred wingback shoes, the preacher leaned into the podium, accenting a point with a closed-fist rap in the air. Standing 6 plus feet and sporting a closely cropped flattop haircut, he was long, sinewy and wildly. At 75 years plus, he was the epitome of “dad strength”  -- someone who would rather pop you on the chin than listen to you babble about your ideals. If I visited his home, I would be sure to find a full ashtray in the living and an autographed framed glossy of vintage Clint Eastwood on the wall: “To Verne, Don’t take shit. Love, Clint.” This guy had to be named Vern.

Behind his left shoulder stood a man similar to the person who greeted me when I arrived. Bearded with disheveled hair, he wore corduroy pants, worn, leather shoes and a suit-vest over a dress shirt – very similar to the man at the door. Like Mike Pence standing behind Donald Trump at the State of the Union Address, he was stoic and unwavering and loomed large, floating over the preacher’s left soldier, possibly whispering in his ear, “It’s our turn, Old Man.” He was a player in the church, but, for now, I wasn’t sure how.

The old preacher warned of an angry God, punching the air with every God and Jesus. I scanned the area around him for props. If there were to be pyro-techniques and snakes, there would be flash pots or a wicker basket full of snakes near – even a Bic lighter and a can of lighter fluid would do. Nothing. 30 minutes into the sermon, and there were no snakes, speaking in tongues, healings or fire. I was restless — covertly checking the time on my phone, knowing these things lasted about an hour. An hour was long then enough for pious people, too. I wasn’t alone.

Beard #2 got tired of standing and took a seat. While the preacher veered off topic, going on about a bus trip that he and his wife took in the Fall to see the leaves change, beard #1, who was still standing at the door, exchanged annoyed looks – lots of moon eyes, slight shakes of the head and air giggles. It was obvious that the old man’s sermon was running overtime, imposing on beard #2’s time at the pulpit.

The sermon ended with a fist-pound on the podium and a long, slow survey of the congregation, as if to say, “I’m watching you. Behave.” When he came to me, our eyes locked, my blood pressure rising precipitously. It was awkward and awesome. He was frightening.

The old man introduced beard #2 as the youth minister and took his seat when he got up. Both men did not acknowledge each other. Reading the fidgety room, #2 announced that he had just a few housekeeping points and conceded that the revival was running long, slowly turning his head toward the old preacher and smiling. Some of the congregation laughed. Speculating on their relationship, my heart warmed knowing that teasing was a show of affection. They liked each other…I think.

While the offering plate filtered through the crowd, #2 reminded the congregation to follow and comment on the church’s various social media platforms, much to the chagrin of the old preacher. #2 thanked us for attending and blessed us in God’s name.

On the way out, I stopped at the “merch table,” to return the books. There were bibles and brochures. No t-shirts.  I reflexively picked up a bible and leafed through it, like browsing a magazine in line at a grocery store. No one was behind the table.

I returned the bible and moved toward the exit.

“You can have that if you want,” a man said, walking over to specifically greet me. During the sermon, I received lots of stolen glances. I knew someone would approach me.

“That’s ok, thanks. I’ve got plenty at home.” This was a lie, of course. I was in no mood to tell the truth and keeping the bible out of politeness would be wrong.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“I’m from Oakland, but I’m just passing through town and thought I’d stop by.” Another lie. “Passing through town” was a nod to drifters —lone men wandering America looking for work and salvation. However, this era was long gone. He didn’t question my fantasy.

“Oh, that’s nice,” he replied, not acknowledging my evasiveness. Expecting him to say more, we awkwardly stared at each other.

“Well, thank you and good luck,” I said.

On the way out, beard #1 was still standing at the door, bidding adieu to the congregation. I shook his hand, thanked him and walked to my car.

Among the Fusions, F-150s and LeSabres, my Prius with California plates stood out. I started the car and reflected on what I just experienced, the omnipresent breeze of cold air flowing from the air conditioner; my straw hat resting on the passenger seat.

Two rows over and a few cars, the old preacher sat in a late ‘70s Chrysler LeBaron with white leather seats. Like me, he passively watched the people pass, constantly nodding and acknowledging, forcing a grin. Maybe he was counting the day’s take from the offering plate.

Lost in thought, I imagined the old preacher as a young traveling evangelist minister in the early 1960s, packing up after a day of preaching. After loading the tent, chairs and pyro equipment in the trailer; feeding the snakes live mice and paying off the ringers who spoke in tongues and those who were healed of a physical disability, maybe he stopped at a bar on the way to Chelsea or Ann Arbor or Ypsilanti and blew the take on liquor and women. This was my fantasy. This is what I hoped. The old preacher needed some good memories.

On the way out, I passed the preacher’s car. Still sitting quietly, lost in thought, we nodded.