Pineville Baptist

It’s Saturday, and me and Junior are sittin’ up at the bar at the De Drop, chewin’ on religion and pretzels.  Right now he’s talkin’ about Temptation – religion-wise, not pretzel-wise - and how many times you can give into it before you exhaust St. Peter’s patience, is the way he puts it, and he – St. Peter – condemns your sin-ridden soul to Aitch E Double-L, like Aunt Mary says, and pokes the down button on your eternal elevator.

 Theology’s on Junior’s mind today – as opposed to his normal day-to-day paganism – because his probation officer, Sheriff Badger’s niece Peggy Sue, havin’ exhausted all her other remedies in order to get him straightened out, is makin’ him go to church on Sunday.  All just because she happened to be drivin’ by Pineville Baptist and the sign – Brother Billy advertises his sermons every week – says in big bold letters that he’s gonna be talkin’ on Temptation come Sunday.

And temptation, Peggy Sue tells him, is exactly what you, Junior, need to be hearin’ a sermon about, and she don’t mean maybe, mister.  So that was that.  You don’t quibble with Peggy Sue, you just placate her if you can, is Junior’s unequivocal policy.  But it don’t mean he has to like it, which he don’t.  So it’s no wonder he’s drinkin’ and swimmin’ in unfamiliar holy waters today.

 He takes a broody sip of his Dr. Pepper Jack and puts on what you might call a thoughtful-theology-scholar face.   

“A certain amount of backslidin’ due to overwhelming temptation is natural, because to err is human, ain’t that right?”

“Yep,” I go, bein’ up on my Alexander Pope.

  “Plus,” he says,   “preachers need job security, right?  So the Almighty allows for a certain amount of public backslidin’ so they’ll always have plenty of people to save.  That makes sense, don’t it?  But the question I’m gettin’ to is how far is too far?  How much is too much?” 

“How deep is the ocean?” me and Irving Berlin go.   

“The biggest problem ain’t the temptation part of it,” he goes, ignorin’ Irving and I and fixin’ to throw open his theological throttle.  Tom Aquinas, right here in Pineville, you know, havin’ a drink on Saturday afternoon.  

“Nobody can help a possibly improper idea poppin’ into his mind.  It’s been goin’ on ever since Adam eyeballed Eve, am I right?  I bet you even the Pope gets tempted now and then.  And let’s face it, since he’s the Pope, the dude can get away with anything.  Unlike me…”

One time Junior borrowed – he’s always contended he intended to take it back, so I give him the benefit of the doubt - Mayor Grifter’s brand new lemon-yellow Lincoln Continental convertible out of his driveway so he could squire Donna Sue Suggs in style to the Lynard Skynard concert.  Everything was goin’ just fine, but when they pulled into the parkin’ lot, who was directin’ traffic but Sheriff Badger, wearin’ a Sweet Home Alabama t-shirt and a badge.  The Sheriff quick ID’d the stolen property,  havin’ been for a nice ride in it the other day, and so he busts Junior right then and there and  handcuffs him to the sewer line right next to the ladies bathroom – Sino-Pineville water torture, you know -  and took Donna Sue in and enjoyed the show.    

“So why do we get temptations in the first place, but when we act on ‘em we’re automatically breakin’ the rules or the commandments or the sins or whatever it is?  It’s like wavin’ a carrot under your rabbit’s nose, but when he opens his mouth to take a bite you quick snatch it away from him.  What’s fair about that?  From the rabbit’s standpoint?”

I know what he means.  Just last week, I’m sittin’ out on the porch readin’ War and Peace – those Bezukhovs, Bolkonskys,  Rostovs, Kuragins and  Drubetskoys  sure do get into some scrapes – and here comes Dorita Lynn Rushmore turnin’ the corner, you know her, she’s a Puma cheerleader, the reignin’ Miss Crawdad, and powerful pulchritudinous – if that’s the right word – to boot.  She’s wearin’ one of them tanker top deals and lookin’ like a sack of jellied coconuts walkin’ down the street.     

Now – and this is a stark confession - one of my particular occasional deadly sins is havin’ what Sister Elizabeth at St. Gregory’s used to refer to as impure thoughts.  Which, if I understood her right at the time, were bad things of some kind or other and I shouldn’t be havin’ em.  So far so good, I’ll be on the lookout for ‘em, is what I’m thinkin’.  

But in sixth grade when Eileen Applebottom walked into Religion class, I started high-tailin’ it down Perdition Road – it started with one teensy weensy lil’ impure thought and snowballed from there - and before you know it I was hooked like a rainbow trout in a fishin’ tournament.  But it ain’t Sister’s fault, she did the best she could with what she had to work with, as they say.  

When Father Flannigan used to ask me have I sinned, I always went yep, impure thoughts again Father, and he slaps a prayer on me.  The prayer absolves – forgives, you know – you for yieldin’ to the impure-thought temptation, is the way I understand it.  So that’s why when I seen Dorita Lynn walkin’ down Pinecone, I exulted out “Holy Mother of Jehosaphat!”     

  Yep, Dorita Lynn’s the hottest lil’ tamale in El Pineville, and she’s sashayin’ down the sunshiny street sportin’ a lil’ bitty way-up-to-there skirt and the aforementioned tanker top – a refreshin’ break from the Bolkonsky girls – and well, you know how it is, those pesky old impure thoughts start wormin’ their way in once more, whistlin’ Heigh Ho as merry as can be.  Now, if there was a psalm or somethin’ for resistin’ a temptation like that, I might try it.  But even so, I doubt it would work, because it’s a fairly well-ingrained deadly sin in me and I’ve grown fond of it.  Besides,  Matthew, Mark, Luke and John – none of ‘em - ever saw Dorita Lynn walkin’ down the street on a hot day, so I doubt there’s a prayer powerful enough for it in the first place.         

“And whatever happened to that church and state deal…”  Junior’s decryin’ out, shakin’ me out of my clichéd, yet thoughtful reverie.  He’s lookin’ up to velvet Elvis on the wall, as if The King might have an answer, but of course he – The King - just sneers back.

 “Where they can’t intermingle ‘em up together?  She’s the state, ain’t she?  It’s a church, ain’t it?  Well, if I remember my Declaration of Dependence right…”

But, sad to say, Junior’s just a pawn in the game of First Amendment Rights Erosion, and he knows it.

  So after a few Dr. Pepper Jacks, he’s finally resignin’ himself to havin’ to go to church but, like I say, mopin’ and grousin’ and not especially likin’ it.  He’s also startin’ to get what you might call morbid – it happens when you drink sometimes - about what effect his present way of life might be havin’ on his eternal soul in the infernal hereinafter.    

 He tells me he’s been tryin’ to tote up in his head all his lifetime several deadly sins, but he keeps losin’ count of ‘em, even with a pencil and piece of paper.  He’s about come to the conclusion, he goes, that it’s gonna be real tricky to connive – let’s call it what it is -  his way past St. Peter’s golden gates in the face of such empirical evidence arguin’ for the alternative.   

Junior’s had so many transgressions in his checkered career – like they say in the taxi business – that he’s tryin’ to quantify ‘em all up and get ‘em sorted out into the major ones – the K-Mart Diaper Truck Heist comes to mind - and the minor ones, like filchin’ the food stamps from the orphans that time.  Ah, for the days of stealin’ pies out of windows before he reached the Age of Reason and wasn’t legally responsible for his actions, he’s reminiscin’.  Those were some pretty dang halcyon days. 

Well, I’ll tell you, if I had Junior’s conscience, I’d be drinkin’ and wonderin’ what happens when I bite the ultimate bullet too.  He’s been busted so many times – that don’t mean he’s stupid, just prolific and unfortunate, he’ll tell you – that he knows all the courthouse secretaries by name and sends ‘em cards on their birthday.  Speakin’ of which, you might remember a couple years back the time Pay-More reported the brazen theft of two dozen cartons of American Greetings cards from their loadin’ dock in broad daylight?  No perpetrator was ever arrested for that, but ever since then Junior’s social graces, in terms of rememberin’ birthdays and holidays and stuff, is above reproach.       

Last September after he broke the Pine County record for lifetime breakin’ and enterin’ arrests, the Sheriff cemented a gold star inscribed JUNIOR ESTES in the sidewalk right there outside the jail.  But, to the puzzlement of all, it was purloined that night and although there’s a person of interest in that case, the Sheriff says obstructionist lawyers – he’s referrin’ to Hiram Socrates Peabody III of course – are harborin’ fugitives and shacklin’ the law.

But Junior will tell you it ain’t his fault, it’s how his daddy raised him, and his daddy and his daddy before him and so on.  Junior Senior, before he retired, was the best source of auto parts in three counties, even the Pep Boys went to him when they needed somethin’.  But he retired a few years back like I said and the only things he steals now – keepin’ his hand in, you know - are eggs from his chickens. 

Junior Senior’s daddy, Grandpop Cecil Estes, he’s out at the old folks home now, and whenever somethin’ turns up missin’ – Theodore Hogg’s sparkly TV Guide cover last week, for instance – all eyes, naturally, turn to old Cece.  He’s behind the black market in Viagra at the home too, Junior told me.  Props up the community spirit, he says.

So he’s averrin’ that it’s in his blood, and comparin’ himself to a cow who needs a salt lick every now and then.  Junior says he needs a lick of pilferin’ from time to time to keep him regular too.

“Why don’t you ask Hiram to try that salt lick defense next time?”   

Chloe brings us another round and Junior takes a sage, jurisprudential gulp.

“I’m thinkin’ about a modified Robin Hood defense.  You know, ‘Now listen Pete, you’d be the first one to say that distribution of the wealth to the Christian poor is a good deal, right?  And …’”

“And Pete, if I ain’t a poor Christian who is?” 

So all this goes on for a while, and pretty soon we’re tryin’ to figure out which of his indiscretions involve Commandments, which ones are just Deadly Sins, and which ones are mere laws – he’s plannin’ to argue the First Amendment if St. Peter raises that issue – and he’s strugglin’ to remember anything good he’s ever done.  Nonetheless, he’s in the hole – the Hellhole, as it were - pretty deep and he knows it.

Plus, he wants me to show up at church tomorrow too so I can vouch to Peggy Sue that he was there in case she don’t believe him, non-belief bein’ her usual first reaction to anything Junior says.  Well, I’m thinkin’ how hard can it be to find a witness in a Baptist Church? 

But that’s why, I eventually realize, he invited me up to the De Drop in the first place.  He figures if he treats, I’ll be obligated to go and vouch for his privateerin’ butt in case Peggy Sue checks up on him, which she will.  Me, I guess bein’ the most reliable of Junior’s acquaintances, which what does that tell you.  Well, I may be cheap, but I’m not that cheap.  It’s gonna take three, four treats at least.

Speakin’ of which, Chloe slaps down another round and Junior goes to ponder the porcelain, thus providin’ me with the opportunity to pull a scene switcheroo on you.  Just imagine a fade-out up there and a fade-in down here.       

But wait, before I tell you about what happened to Brother Billy in his own struggle with Temptation last week – Yep, I got an actual plot for this story if I ever get around to it - I got a disclaimer deal to put in right here.  I’m tryin’ to be careful talkin’ about the Baptists because first, they’re all the most wonderful people in all the world, and second, I got to live here in Pineville with ‘em, so I’m just tellin’ the facts – an author’s sacred, constitutionally-protected duty, you know - with malice aforethought toward none just like Lincoln or somebody said.  So don’t take it personal if I annoy your sacred cow.   

Speakin’ of which – and I’m talkin’ to my Hindu readers here – you may just want to skip on ahead here because Buddha don’t necessarily want you readin’ about some other religion that don’t tolerate idolatry or eats cows.  But no malice aforethought intended, we were taught at St. Gregory’s to have respect for all other religions, no matter how insane they appear to normal people.  And I’m certainly not castin’ the first stone, because I myself live in a glass house, and I’m content to leave your sleeping dogs alone if you’ll let mine.  I won’t eat your personal cow, is what I’m sayin’, and Hare Krishna to you.  Besides which, I can hardly write – about Pineville Baptist, I mean - without  touchin’ on some aspects of the Baptist dogma or whatever they call it as practiced in Pineville.  So if that don’t suit you, I don’t know what to tell you.  Maybe go read your cow scripture. 

Well, like they do – I’m jumpin’ ahead to the next day here now - a beautiful Sunday morning dawned in Pineville, the kind of day that almost, but not quite, makes you want to get up out of bed and go to church.  Yep, Junior finally talked me into it, so up I get, rummagin’ around tryin to find my church pants and irritatedly musin’ that they didn’t just get up and walk away. 

I smell old lady Armbruster’s pancakes – or waffles, I’m not sure – waftin’ in the window, we got a cool breeze swooshin’ in, I hear the birds twitterin’ away outside, and it’ll be a glorious day for football after I get back from bein’ saved.  So eventually I’m takin’ my pre-church shower, croonin’ Rock My Soul in the Bosom of Abraham in what you might call the Sinatra/Riddle west-coast groove, and figurin’ if the secondary resists the temptation to lay down and stick their feet up in the air like usual, the Chiefs might have a chance today.    

I’m also projectin’ a few random evil thoughts at Junior – un-Christianlike of me, I know – for makin’ me get up at this ungodly hour, but I really don’t think bein’ wishful that somebody’d get hit by a truck sometime is that bad of a Commandment-breaker.  To be brutally frank with you, I don’t know my Commandments all that well in the first place anyway.  I know there are ten of them, Sister Elizabeth drilled that much in, and I saw the movie.  But after that all I can do is nod my head in a sort of hazy recognition whenever somebody mentions one. 

Conversely, anything you want to know about how Eileen looked in her lil’ plaid jumper in sixth grade Religion Class, just ask me.  

But givin’ it the benefit of the doubt – which I ought to do, St. Peter might see this sometime – goin’ to church may have some real benefits.  For one thing, all the bright and shiny Baptists – they slick up real good for church – are a sight to see, and maybe some Baptist Wholesomeness will rub off on me, which Aunt Mary – she can be critical at times - would say I could probl’y use some of.  Plus, most of the Baptist gals are real good-lookin’ when they clean up.  So that’s a plus. 

The Baptist music is real good too.  The Ladies Choir – it used to be the Mixed Choir until there was a schism – sings all the good old gospel songs with a heap of heavenly fervor and when they get all exaltated up everybody starts wavin’ their arms in the air,  hollerin’ out “Hosanna!” and you can cut the rapture with a  butter knife.  Your toe-tappin’ gospel, we got it right here, is what I mean.  Plus they got a couple of electric guitar players at the five o’clock service so the youth’ll pay attention to the Word too.

Pineville Baptist’s kind of a cross between the Grand Ole Opry and the Sermon on the Mount, if you can picture that.

    But, like Junior, I’m not all that lookin’ forward to what it is Brother Billy has to say on Temptation, because I’m forebodin’ that it’s gonna run opposite to the well-oiled system I already got in place – e.g.,  temptation + impure thought  ∕ prayer = salvation.  No muss, no fuss, it don’t need tweakin’ right at this point, and in all candor I ain’t that receptive to a harangue on the deal.  

Who knows, though, I might learn somethin’.  But I doubt it.  The raw fact of the matter is I’ve grown accustomed to my favorite temptations, they almost make the day begin sometimes, and I’d rather exercise ‘em than exorcise ‘em, so to speak.  But the entertainment in church I’m all for, and I can handle an hour’s worth of fellowship and singin’ the praises as well as anybody as long as I can get home in time  for kickoff.  And, of course, I’m happy to cooperate with the county probation people as well.

       

You know you’re gettin’ close to Pineville Baptist when you start smellin’ Dial soap and Ban deodorant.    

PINEVILLE BAPTIST CHURCH

Services Sunday 10:00 AM and 5:00 PM Rev. Willard Grimes, Pastor.

“There hath no temptation taken you but such as is common to man”

Come find out what that means

 Pot-Luck-dinner and raffle after 5:00 Service every Sunday

But I’m afraid I got to digress for a while here - so if you’re anxious to get to church, just skip on ahead, you won’t miss much - because who do I see standin’ out on the front steps, greetin’ everybody and slingin’ bible quotes like St. John himself was payin’ ‘em twenty bucks an hour?  Burt and Sydney Sue Zing, Pineville’s main Christians, that’s who.  If I haven’t already told you about them – frankly, I don’t remember if I have or not, but a good editor will fix that up for me – I will now.

Burt and his precious wife Sydney Sue’re just smack-dab full o’ Jesus all the time.  You got to be on the lookout for ‘em or they’ll corner you, too.  Sydney Sue got Aunt Mary in the beauty parlor couple months ago, tellin’ her that her beautiful hair reminded her of Solomon’s flock of goats descendin’ down Mt. Gilead.  Which I guess is a compliment comin’ from a Baptist.  But I’m thinkin’, you got to be real careful comparin’ a woman’s hair to a bunch of goats in the beauty parlor – I myself wouldn’t try it – but bless her holy lil’ heart, Sydney Sue means well.   

 When Burt catches you he starts quotin’ the scriptures and prosetylizin’ deadly sins, which, after about five minutes of it, brimstone comes oozin’ up from the ground at you.  Missionaryin’ to the unsaved like that can be tricky, though, because everybody’s got their favorite deadly sins and people can be a lil’ defensive about ‘em, you know.

  One time Burt followed Frank Franklin, Pineville’s fattest man – if you call three hundred and eighty pounds fat - all the way down Fourth Street firin’ the Word at him and remindin’ him how firm Luke was about gluttony. 

Finally Frank, flummoxed, wheels around and hefts Burt up and stuffs him head-first in the mailbox at Fourth and Fir – Burt’s a skinny lil’ dude, about the size of a large package - and leaves him there with his feet stickin’ up makin’ an upside-down bicyclin’ motion and hollerin’ out damnations to all the first class mail down below.  They finally had to call the volunteer fire department to come and pry Burt out – even though he’s saved, he’s stuck, so to speak - and now he just crosses the street when he sees Frank lumberin’ at him.

Another time at K-Mart, Sydney Sue espied a beleaguered-lookin’ frump who’s herdin’ a motley-lookin’ gang of grimy brats around, and they’re all whinin’ and snifflin’ and grabbin’ at the shelves.  She’s yellin’ “Butchie, shut your lil’ trap up,”  and “Spike, keep your grubby paws off the toys,” and “Darlene, if you don’t stop that I’m gonna blister your bottom right here in the store and I don’t mean maybe, dammit, missy!”  The gal’s nerves are about as frayed as the welcome mat at the De Drop. 

Well, Sydney Sue, feelin’ blissful because K-Mart had put  light bulbs on sale just when she was needin’ some – thank you, Jesus – plus she’s full of righteous Baptist goodwill to begin with, well, she trots right on up to the lady and goes  “Well hey there darlin’, don’t the just that walketh in simplicity leave behind precious children, praise Jesus?”

The fact is, this said frump had been self-commiseratin’ all mornin’ long, wonderin’ how she got here in crappy – her word, not mine – K-Mart with these spoiled rotten snotty brats and that good-for-nothin’ drunk of a husband back home when, it seems like only yesterday, she was Second Runner-Up Prom Queen in the back seat of Art Snavely’s daddy’s Chrysler Imperial, and she could have – should have - married him.  Art owns his own insurance agency now, drives a blue Cadillac, belongs to the country club, and never had children.  He took his wife Dorabell on a Mediterranean cruise last year.

Well, she gives Sydney Sue a piercin’ look, like she’s Mrs. Herod confrontin’ her Pharisee neighbor over the fence about her snails, and tells Sydney Sue she can mind her own freakin’ business and that for two cents she can take the ugly lil’ trolls – Butchie, Darlene and Spike - on a silver platter and she can have her good-for-nothin’ barfly husband too while she’s at it.  Serpent-tongued, you know.  

She turns and wheels off burnin’ shopping cart rubber and heads for the wine aisle, towin’ her three lil’ snivelers behind.  Sydney Sue just smiled beatifically and remembered what the Corinthians said about bringin’ purity to even the grubbiest of souls.    

            Anyway, that’s the Zings, and like I said he’s up on the steps, beamin’ down at me like I’m his long-lost prodigal son or somebody.  I can see he’s anglin’ to elbow his way over and sling a psalm or somethin’ at me, so, naturally, I quick sidestep and butt in the conversation between Beatrice Beavers and Rhetta Calhoun, which I wouldn’t do normally, but like most folks in Pineville, I  pretty much go to any lengths to avoid Burt and Sydney Sue.  For my lady readers, in case you’re wonderin’,  Beatrice was offerin’ to trade her Leviticus’ Tuna-Noodle Casserole recipe for Rhetta’s famous Paradise Oatmeal-Raisin Cookies recipe, but Rhetta ain’t havin’ none of it.     

            Well, Pineville Baptist goes back to about the 1880’s or so – Grandpop Estes’ pappy knew somethin’ about the bricks - and it’s one of them grand old tall churches with the fancy colored windows and an apse – brings ‘em closer to heaven, the flock’ll tell you and give you a lil’ wink – and big old wood pews on both sides of the aisle goin’ all the way up.  Those pews’ve seated seven generations of Baptist butts, and there’s a certain lingerin’ residual rectitude that comes over you when you walk in the place.    

Out in the lobby they got your normal drinkin’ fountain and holy pictures and bathrooms and racks of tracts on deadly sins, which the sign says they’re free but a donation, however modest, would be mighty welcome.  There’s a couple of deacons or elders or whatever they are – Harry Pigeon and Vernon Lester to be precise - handin’ out programs to the congregation and pouncin’ on newcomers.

 Way up front on the stage, there’s enough guitars and microphones and amplifiers to have a Doobie Brothers concert, but they only do that – the newfangled hippie service, the old folks call it - at five-o’clock so as not to irritate more conservative Baptists who like their savin’ to be more on the Mom-Apple Pie side. 

     

What you always want to do at a Baptist church is to get a seat behind somebody real big, so I go on in and settle down in back of Howard Baggerly, he’s sittin’ there with his wife Bernice.  Howard’s got his little radio tuned to the pre-game show and fiddlin’ with his earplug, havin’ a lil’ problem with his church reception.   

Between Howard and Bernice, that’s about 500 pounds of solid Baptist in front of me, so I can slouch down in my pew if Brother Billy tries to make eye contact with me.    I learned this the hard way couple years ago when I’m sittin’ there listenin’ to him – Aunt Mary asked me to take her one day so she could catch up on all the Baptist gossip after church – and he’s jabberin’ on  and I wasn’t payin’ all that much attention, you know how you get in church.  You drift, is what I’m sayin’, perhaps sneakin’ an inconspicuous ogle over at Donna Sue sittin’ over there in her tight lil’ red church dress which - I already know, you don’t have to tell me - is playin’ with fire.  Say what you want about the lil’ scarlet harlot though, she does go to church every Sunday.   

 But anyway, all of a sudden I look up and out of the clear blue sky Brother Billy’s starin’ at me – right there in front of God and everybody – and he points his bible at me and shouts out “Will you forsaketh your wicked, evil ways today?”

He says it rhetorically, if that’s the word I want, to the world at large, you know, but he happens to be starin’ straight at me.  That, and he’s lookin’ at me with what you might call triumphant expectation, like my personal salvation depends on my answer and there can’t be but one true answer and he knows what it’s gonna be.  So naturally everybody cranes their fool necks around to see what I’m gonna say about forsakin’ my wicked, evil ways – and, well, you know me, I’m not quite to the point where I want to necessarily do that right now.    

It’s like when you’re eatin’ dinner at somebody’s house and they proudly pass around Mama’s famous Brussels Sprouts with Cheese and pimentos.  You don’t want to be rude and say you wouldn’t touch those things with a ten foot fork, but on the other hand, you don’t want to hurt anybody’s feelings either. 

Well, I can’t hardly clear my throat and tell him – right there in front of

God and everybody - that I appreciate his mentionin’ it and that I’ll look into it and get back to him some other time.  So, with everybody in the place lookin’ at me, I had no choice but to jerk my dang head up and down like I’m a Galilean and Jesus’s just said somethin’ real bang-up.  Tellin’ a silent bald-faced lie right there in church, of all places.  

The raw truth of the matter is that I didn’t – and don’t - have any intention of forsakin’ anything except - now that I’m thinkin’ of it - temptation sermons.  Why Brother Billy picked on me that time I don’t know.  I’m just sittin’ there mindin’ my own business and tryin’ my best to fight off impure thoughts about Donna Sue.  But anyway, that’s why, to make a long story short, I always pick a fat man to sit behind in the Baptist Church.      

I see Junior a few rows up, he’s moppin’ his brow and squirmin’ in his pew and behavin’ like a schizophrenic heretic.  He’s gawkin’ all wide-eyed first one way and then another, then over his shoulder and back again, like he’s expectin’ Moses to come sit down next to him with a copy of the Ten Commandments.  But at the same time - you know Junior, it’s in his blood - he’s calculatin’ up how much all the guitars and microphones and amplifiers might be worth and wonderin’ how secure the back door is and if they got a camera back there.

John the Baptist, up on the wall, is starin’ straight down at him, makin’ eye contact, which Junior thinks may, on the one hand, be a message from Jesus to quit his thievin’ ways and come get washed in the blood.  Or, on the other hand, he’s realizin’ a nice picture of John the Baptist like that would probl’y get five, maybe ten dollars at the pawn shop in Elm City.  He’s just like a thief hangin’ up on a cross and wonderin’ how much he might could get for all this lumber.  

     

Well, at the crack of ten Mildred Strawberry shuffles on out.  You know Mildred, she was the town piano teacher for sixty-seven years but had to retire when she fell down and broke her hip chasin’ a deadbeat check-bouncin’ piano student out of her house.  She’s been out at the home ever since, but they bus her in with all the other old folks on Sundays to bang the Lord’s ivories.  She puts her pillow on the bench, smoothes it out, nestles down on it – the new hip don’t work like the old one did - cracks her knuckles, and starts playin’ Does Jesus Care,  throwin’ a lil’ ragtime in it like her Pappy used to do.   

     Out swooshes the glorious Pineville Baptist Ladies Choir, all eight of ‘em,  and they’re lookin’ as harmonious as all get-out in their blue and white robes – Pumas colors, you know – and I especially notice Glenda Lou Applebottom, who’s lookin’ as angelic as Aitch E Double L – if you’ll pardon the blasphemy - this mornin’.

 You know Glenda Lou, she’s Glen and Aquanetta’s oldest daughter, and there ain’t a sweeter potato in Pineville with the possible exception of Dorita Lynn on a swelterin’ day.  Glenda Lou’s what you might call a statuesque lil’ thing too, and I ain’t referrin’ to Francis of Assisi out in the Meditation Garden.        

I peek out over Bernice’s shoulder and see Brother Billy – lookin’ like a cross between Conway Twitty and Jesus – clenchin’ his Word real tight and he’s got a devout, faraway gaze, as though he’s just spotted the Kingdom over yonder.  Naturally, I follow this devout gaze – never havin’ seen a Kingdom myself - and who, not what, he’s devoutedly gazin’ at is none other than Glenda Lou too.  And she, unless I’m developin’ myopia or whatever it is, is gazin’ just as devoutedly at Brother Billy as he is at her.

Hmmm, I go.

Well, I don’t know if you’ve ever been to Pineville Baptist or not, but what they do is, first the choir swishes on in and sings a song – that’s where we are right now -   and after that Brother Billy gets up and says howdy to all the bright and shiny faces and thanks the Lord for such a fine mornin’ and asks for money.  He sits down and the choir sings again and then he gets up again and thanks the Lord some more and talks about the church supper tonight, asks for some more money, and sits down.  The choir sings again, and he springs up and delivers his fiery sermon for the day – thankin’ the Lord like all get-out this time - and he eventually calls your attention to the convenient debit card option on the tithin’ form handily located in your pew. 

Then Harry prances up the aisle snaggin’  up money in his broom-handle  basket – I hope he’s got the good sense to watch Junior real careful when it comes his way -  while the choir sings Jesus is My Guard Against Selfishness.  

Well, I’m easily distracted in church so I don’t have a lot of facts to relate to you about all that went on – songs and things is all it was, though, that is, until 10:30 – I checked my watch because kickoff’s at 11:00 and I’ve got to stop and get potato chips -  when Brother Billy spritzed a lil’ Chlorophyll  down his golden throat and stepped forth, clutchin’ his King James and girdin’ his loins for the unenviable task of tellin’ Pineville to get a grip on our temptations.

            Baptist preachin’ is the best preachin’ there is, if you ask me, and when Brother Billy starts exultin’ out the scriptures and prancin’ back and forth, wavin’ the Word in the air and exudin’ an shipload of sacred sincerity, the Devil in you just wants to go hide under the bed, he’s that good. 

The key to Baptismal preachin’, you might know, is speakin’ with a boatload of fire and conviction combined with judicious finger pointin’ and eye contact.  Because if you just stand up there and drone on – like Father Flannigan, he could put an alarm clock factory to sleep – nobody even tries to pay any attention to you.  But when Brother Billy, wound up in the Spirit like he gets, starts exhortin’ you, you know you’re bein’ exhorted and I don’t mean maybe.  

Plus, on the Preacher’s Personal Charisma Scale-o-Meter, he’s way up there too.  Kind of like John the Baptist meets Dale Carnegie meets Conway Twitty meets the Car Salesman of the Year. 

Well, I know you’d like me to relate the high points of Brother Billy’s sermon  to you – you may be strugglin’ with a temptation yourself - but, the naked truth is that, well, you know me, I’ve got a lot on my mind, and  I find myself driftin’ away from time to time.  Thinkin’ of this, thinkin’ of that, you know. 

  

But he’s up there wavin’ his bible in the air, and – I’m paraphrasin’ here - goin Matthew this and Luke that, blah blah blah and flee also youthful lust and pursue righteousness, blah blah faith, love, peace with those who call on the Lord out of a pure heart lest ye temptation Satan blah blah.  I’m not meanin’ not to be disrespectful, I just don’t remember everything the man said and I didn’t take notes.

I do notice, though, he seems to be makin’ sure Glenda Lou over in the choir gets the message.  I wonder if anybody but me’s noticed he’s tossin’ not only a truckload of eye contact but also what you might call occasional dazzling liturgical smiles in her direction, and that she’s smilin’ just as liturgically back at him, and even more dazzlingly.  And she’s either winkin’ a lot at him or she’s got a gnat in her eye, I’m not sure which.

Well, finally, when you’re feelin’ that you can’t be much more saved than what you are now, Brother Billy winds down and exhorts out his last few tips for resistin’ temptation, and the choir starts in  doin’ their lush three part harmonies – reminded me of the Marvelettes, if you remember them - to the glory of the Lord.

Does Jesus care when I've tried and failed

To resist some temptation strong?

Naturally, drawn by the heavenly sounds of the choir, I gazeth upon them, and somehow, my gaze happens to meander to Glenda Lou, who’s standin’ there in her shiny form-fittin’ choir robe blissfully singin’ the Temptation song through what I now notice are full, moist, red lips.  The kind of lips that men desire.  The kind of lips that…whoops!  Excuse me.  

Anyway, she’s smilin’ directly at Brother Billy through those parted full moist red, red lips – I’ll be the next Danielle Steele if I keep this up - and so I gawk over to Brother Billy and then back to her and then back to him like I’m watchin’ a couple of  saints playin’ tennis.  She’s lookin’ at him she’s Eve and she’s wonderin’ if he’d like a lil’ bite of this here candy apple.  Brother Billy - finally exhausting all my similes for it – is lookin’ like a shepherd who, while watchin’ his lambs frolickin’ in the lea, is firin’ up the Weber and lickin’ his chops.   

Well, at the end of all Baptist masses -  or whatever they call ‘em -   comes the Invite Deal, where Brother Billy says anybody who’s heard the Word and wants to get washed in the blood can come on down the aisle right now and we’ll fix you up.

“Jesus waits to welcome you, will you come, will you come?

Arms of love outstretched to you, will you come, will you come?

Gospel choreography bein’ what it is, the Marvelettes all had their arms stretched out and their bosoms thrusted up, and one – even an objective observer like me -  couldn’t help but notice how downright divine they all looked.  No wonder Baptism is so popular, I’m thinkin’.  Look how they advertise it.   

But after an hour of church you start to get rubbed sort of raw with religion, at least some folks do.  Saving’s a fine thing, you can’t question that, but you don’t want to overdo the thing, either.  No offense to the Baptists, if it was up to me I would have stayed for another hour, but everybody’s lookin’ at their watches and squirmin’ in their pews and wishin’ Brother Billy didn’t have to take so long to say so long.  

Mildred cracks her knuckles again and rips into Take Me Home, Jesus, coincidentally echoin’ my exact sentiment and givin’ me a good eight minutes to get chips and get home.  Howard, in front of me, takes his earphone off and turns around – and it ain’t all that easy for Howard to turn around – and tells me that if the secondary holds up, the Chiefs might have a chance, but, as you know, I already knew that.

  So we all get up and start shufflin’ out.  Except for Junior, that is, who Sidney Sue’s got treed in his pew.  She’s lordin’ over him, wavin’ a Temptation tract in his face and tellin’ him that Jesus doth provideth for his lost lambs like the dickens and if he likes pie, he ought to come to the pot-luck tonight. 

 Junior, fresh from bein’ stunned at havin’ Temptation blasted at him from close range for forty minutes, plus he’s always on the lookout for a free meal, well,  he scratches his head and asks Sydney Sue is there’s gonna be free beer?

 Well, askin’ a Baptist for a beer is like askin’ a Hindu if he’s got any steak sauce.  She purses her lips at him and pats his hand and tells him she wants to tell him a story about the irresolute drunkard Ephraim, and don’t worry, it won’t take more than a half hour and sits on down next to him.

It’s a Baptist rite that you have to stand out on the steps after church and tell the preacher how much you enjoyed his sermon – even if you didn’t - and meet and greet your neighbors, practicin’ good Christian manners and lettin’ your Ban earn its keep.  That time I was here with Aunt Mary, we were walkin’ home afterwards and she’s tellin’ me how Beatrice had on the most hideous dress she ever saw in her lifetime and that that blind opera singer man – she didn’t remember his name -  wouldn’t  be caught dead wearin’ it. 

“But Aunt Mary,” I go, “I was standin’ right there when you told her how much you admired it.”

“That don’t count,” she goes, lookin’ at me like I was born in a barn yesterday, “it’s church and you got to have good Christian manners.”

Well, speakin’ of good Christian manners, Brother Billy’s out on the steps too, beamin’ at everybody and God Blessin’ ‘em all over the place and askin’ about their mamas and stuff.  But I also notice he’s sneak-peekin’ out of the corner of his eye to see if he can see espy Glenda Lou, if I ain’t mistaken.  And I ain’t.

Because here she comes, sashayin’ and bee-linin’ right on up to him.

 “Why Brother Billy, I do swear I enjoyed your sermon this mornin’ and I reaped a bountiful harvest from your inspirin’ words.”  And then, speakin’ of bountiful harvests, she peels off her sweater.

Peerin’ into Brother Billy’s mind for a minute – let’s call it literary license -  he’s thinkin’ how Saint Paul tells us that a woman’s outward adornments ain’t got nothin’ to do with the inner life of their heart.  But he’s findin’ it a little hard to concentrate on that due to the sheer ampleness of her outward adornments.  

“I feel a powerful rising spirit within me, Glenda Lou, honey.”

 

“Why, thank yew, Brother Billy!”  

“I’m so thankful you spread yourself open to receive the word today.”  

            “Me too, Brother Billy!”

            “I’d be gratified to inject all of Jesus’ love into you, darlin’.”

            “That’d be peachy, Brother Billy!”

            Well, I’d like to tell you all what happened after Glenda Lou met Brother Billy in the parking lot of Red Lobster about seven o’clock, and how cute she looked in her red cowgirl shirt with the top three buttons undone and a lil’ gold cross danglin’ there in the bosom region.  Plus, how they enjoyed a marvelous feast of fish and two bottles of Mogen David, got in his Corvette and went back to his trailer where he put Elvis’ How Great Thou Art album on. 

I’d like to tell you all about that - I think I’ll call it The Last Temptation of Brother Billy – but unfortunately I ain’t got time right now.  I’m busy, you know, and have other things I got to do.  Chores, you know.

Besides which, I believe I see Dorita Lynn turnin’ the corner.

            Let us pray.