For Better or Worse

As a fellow who travels for a living, I especially love being home on the weekend. My wife and I usually start each Saturday with a trip to our local Farmers Market. It’s a great venue, open air, with lots and lots of local producers and artisans peddling their crafts and products. Corn, squash, and tomatoes in season, gravy and biscuits, cider, watercolor and wooden bowls. All sorts of things from all sorts of people.

One of the more notable families that show up each week is an Amish looking family. A mom and dad, four or five kids, all in traditional Amish wear. They’re always one of the first vendors to arrive, and they’re always in the same place, right between the bluegrass band and the gourmet coffee booth.

I’ve long been curious about the Amish people. I don’t know a lot about them. They sure do make good apple butter and rocking chairs, but other than that, I can’t think off-hand of a single thing the Amish people, as a whole, have ever contributed to our society. A low profile bunch- they never run for office, don’t think they ever served in combat, and you won’t find one quarterbacking in the NFL. They remind me a lot of hoot owls, hoot owls and prairie dogs. When you can find one, they’re usually flying right below the radar. Face it. They just don’t like to be bothered.

One week I noticed a stack of paperbacks in addition to the usual array of greens, herbs, and jellies the family had laid out. It was a biography, the story of the dad, and his journey of discovery from Amish to Pentecostal. I never really thought about a journey like that so I bought a copy for my reading pleasure.

The story the author painted of this fellow’s Amish Pennsylvanian roots sounded, well almost like heaven. She described big family farms, big family dinners, herding sheep and milk cows, raising chickens, raising corn and hay; all against a backdrop of meadows, running streams, and orchards. The families stayed in cozy farm houses, with big fireplaces, and big wooden barns, wore homemade clothes, they ate well and rode around on horse drawn carriages. Put me immediately in mind of a John Denver song. No drugs, no rap music, just a clean God fearing community. I was surprised to learn the Amish people only held a religious service every other week, and then it was in someone’s home. And the men folk seemed to be in charge of the whole place, had a real strong-hold, a lot more than I had imagined.

As pleasant as it sounded, their history had not always been quite so idyllic. Apparently due to the oppression of other Catholic and Protestant forces, and we’re talking being burned at the stake, or tied up in large sacks and being drowned, and other equally undesirable methods of execution. Anyway Amish families in Europe started heading west to our shores as early as the mid 1600s.

Fast forward to 2005. It seems the Norman Rockwell type neighborhood and getting to church twice a month just wasn’t cutting it for the dad in our story. No he was yearning for something deeper, a little deeper with a lot more Jesus is how he phrased it. My hats off to any guy trying to find himself. Men, and usually young men, between the ages of 18 and 30, well say 18 and 60; we can be the worst at that. Whether it’s on a golf course, a sweat lodge, or at a Texas hold’em table, seems like us guys spend a lot of time trying to figure out our purpose in life.

Somehow this dad’s search for true Jesus brought him from the cozy amber waves of grain down to our little coal mining parts in Southwest Virginia, to the Pentecostal Church and the Reverend So and So. Me with so many questions and the solution just down the road. Who would have ever thought?

But this journey wasn’t as smooth as you might imagine. There was a spell of about six months when he would load the whole family in a borrowed van and drive several hundred miles each weekend just to get to this one true church of God. I’ve been to church quite a bit in my day and I never thought there was that much difference, especially not enough to make me want to drive six hours and cross three state-lines just to get to the service.

Again, changing one’s opinion as we get older, that’s not any big deal. But what astounded me the most was everybody else’s reaction. The poor wife, well she wasn’t quite as spiritually adventurous as the dad, not as eager to dive into the beliefs and mores of these Appalachian Pentecostals. From my interpretation, it sounded like she was on the verge of an emotional breakdown, letting chores go and staying in bed for days on end.

Everybody back home, the usually mild mannered man clan sans moustaches, well this fellow’s striking out for a new church didn’t sit too well in their collective craw either. They pondered, and prayed, and pondered some more and then they put it to a vote. They had a big vote and actually banned the dad in our story from the ranch. He was banished from the dad-burn homestead. It read like the scene from Dances with Wolves, all the men Indians sitting around in the tent talking one at a time. The only difference was that the Indians wanted Kevin Costner to stay. These Amish bastards, they kicked our buddy out of the camp faster than you can say friendship bread and potato salad. Banned? Can you believe it? In 2008 and just for thinking something different? You would have thought it was 1950 and he just came out of the closet, or had gotten busted on one of those under age sex stings they used to show on TV. Isn’t that amazing.

Let’s see, they ride wooden boats for three months crossing the Atlantic to get to a place where they can practice religious freedom, then dad here tries to freely practice his religion and they drop the hammer on him, give him a big ole boot. It’s a good thing they didn’t carry firearms.

The story ended there, but my thinking on the subject didn’t end there. Life goes on. See it wasn’t just the dad who joined that Pentecostal Church that autumn Sunday. In lots of families, the dad really is the spiritual leader or just the leader period. Whenever and wherever old dad goes, everybody else just sort of tags along in lock-step, a lot like little baby ducks following momma duck, only under a whole lot more pressure. I’m pretty sure that’s how dog fighting and shooting squirrels keeps getting passed down. The kid years can be a very impressionable time. Don’t ask questions son, just get in the car.

For this family, and in this circumstance, the dad was the one who did all the leg-work, the religious research if you will. He’s the one that first had the doubts, and then the questions, and was going through all the motions for some sort of personal discovery. Well once he found the answer, heck everybody else in the family just jumped on his same band wagon. In the flash of eye, and a few dips in the North Fork of the Holston River, they all became Pentecostal. Whether they understood it or not I’m guessing, that’s how they all changed their religion.

But I was wondering what if the same thing happens say ten or fifteen years from now. Suppose the daughter, and she was a cutey; just suppose she comes home one night and breaks the news. She tells mom and dad that she’s met Mr. Right, only her Mr. Right is a Baptist, or worse maybe a Jehovah Witness. Or maybe one of the boys will get to missing all that apple butter and decide to move back north to Pennsylvania and reacclimate to the land of no TV. I wonder what dad, the man who’s figured it all out and been in the very jaws of the vice of the religious freedom debate, I wonder what he’d do then. Yep, what would he do when it’s one of his own blood on the line?

What’s a father to do?

What would you do?

Pen Pals Anyone

Hey I know the benefit of friends in high places. There’s nothing like having that contact, that friend of a friend, that person on the inside when you need one. I guess that’s why everybody was so tore up when John Gotti died. Even behind bars, he apparently was the go to man. Now I’ve never ever had any dealings with the mob; I did have a rather suspicious neighbor one time when I lived in Texas. But from what I’ve seen on the movies, there’s nothing that could fix the flat tire on the road of life like being on the good foot with the Godfather. Need rent money, call the Godfather; Susie needs braces, call the Godfather. Neighbor’s dogs bark too much? Just tell him when you want it done. So what, if he lived and breathed on the wrong side of the law; that guy could get things done.

I guess that’s why I never really understood what it meant to have that personal relationship with Jesus. Come on now; nobody’s seen hide nor hair of this fellow for two thousand years. Sure he’s in books, and lots of them, and he’s in pictures, and lots of them too. And everybody sure talks about him all the time, especially on the weekend. But it seems to me like we’re the ones doing all the work. Granted, he’s one of the most popular figures in world history. Time can do that to a guy. But what would you think if you’re neighbor had a thing for some other ancient figure, say like Julius Caesar, or Marco Polo. Wouldn’t you have to agree that they were just a little bit nuts.

I tell you what I’m talking about. Some people, and a lot of them, go through their whole day acting like Jesus is right on their shoulder, with them on every move. They talk to him, they sing to him, they ask him questions. They plead, they beg, they argue. Jimmy Stewart did that in the movie Harvey, and everybody called him crazy.

Dad always taught me the way to do business is to look the fellow in the eye, shake hands, and you had a deal. This messianic arrangement doesn’t go by those normal rules. It seems to me to be so lopsided, almost a no win situation. I mean it’s just you, and you.

Yeah, if I was going turn my life over to anybody, I think I’d have to know what he looked like first, or at least have some way to get in touch. Just in case he was late, or I was late, or something. I mean there’s a whole lot to this.

I noticed on the Survivor show the other day, the black fellow from Harlem. He bragged all the time about his personal relationship with Jesus. And it looked like it might have paid off when he busted all those coconuts the fastest and won that red mini-van. But I guess Jesus must have gotten tied up with somebody else’s game show somewhere, because the he got booted off the next go-around. Funny thing was though I didn’t see Jesus taking any of the heat for that one.

Come to think of it, that seems to be the way a lot of folks use or deal with Jesus in their so called personal relationship. He always came across as being a lot tougher than that in print, but in real life, most of the time people only want to give him credit when something good happens; the same way people treat their little lap dog or a brand new baby.

If I live to be 800, just like Methuselah did, I will never forget the prayer groups and all the hoopla before the OJ Simpson verdict came down. Relatives of the victims, bless their hearts, had prayed that God and Jesus would do the right thing. OJ’s mom and sisters had prayed that God and Jesus would do the right thing. Well as it would turn out, I guess Jesus must have been a Buffalo Bills fan or was at least hoping to see Police Academy IV, because the jury dropped the ball and let the a-hole loose. But at least Jesus was happy. His will be done, right?

Yeah the idea of Jesus as a buddy system has certainly grabbed hold. Of course it hasn’t always been like that. In their on again-off again affair, there were times when it would have been easier for Abraham to get into a Tiger Woods foursome than sit down and break bread with the Big Man.

Us, why we treat Jesus like he’s our favorite drinking buddy, a real pal. There are even folks today who want to take it to the next level and argue via their license plates. Everybody’s seen the tag that reads God is my Co-pilot. Well some outfit, and it must be an even more right winged fanatic group, have put out their own plates to counteract. If God is Your Co-Pilot, You Better Change Seats; no doubt some real brainiacs running this public awareness campaign. I wouldn’t like riding with any of them if you want to know the truth.

I’ve given this a lot of thought. Just think about it. Some guy claims to have a personal relationship with the essence, or being, or whatever that perhaps created the earth under their house; not only that but all the land across the entire state, why even the whole nation; and not only that but we’re talking these same folks have this personal one-on-one with the entity that created not only our earth, and moon, but all the other planets, plus the sun, plus the ga-zillions of other stars and moons and planets and everything else out there that is. Do you hear what I’m saying? People here actually claim to have some type of something with whatever it was that made all things, and still they can’t drop fifteen pounds or get little Johnny to do his homework. If that’s the case, I think I’d find another friend.

Won’t Let Him Push Me Down

I was watching a religious channel the other day, one of those daytime programs. Everybody in the room was stomping, jumping up and down, hollering, and celebrating something that I wasn’t too clear on. But the major focus seemed to be on the preacher, and his next move. You know who I’m talking about, the short little fellow, soft skin, looks like he gets his nails polished daily, got that weird bowl haircut, and likes to wear those Paul McCartney looking Nero suits; the one with that accent. Heaven forbid he talk like the rest of us. Benny Hinn, that’s who it was.

Anyway, it was him and he was up on stage, and the amazing thing was that he was pushing all these folks down using only two fingers. Upfront, I have to tell you it wasn’t a Mike Tyson sort of hit; no it was much slighter than that, an amazingly soft two finger push down. Looked like he might have been using the cub-scout salute to floor folks. When I think back on it, I’d say he was trying to look like the Jesus picture you see on those religious calendars.

I couldn’t quite catch just what they were talking about, but these folks would mosey out on stage, whisper something, he would mumble a few words, lay his hands up on their forehead, or chin, or some other protruding body part, and then push them down. And there they’d just lie. Bad for me, the camera cut away to a commercial, so I don’t know for sure if they ever got up, or gained their senses, or died, or exactly what happened. All I know is that little Benny sure could push them folks down.

I don’t know if Jesus ever pushed ‘em down; I haven’t read that one anywhere. But you know who the modern day king of pushing ‘em down was don’t ya? It was Ernest Anglesy. What a TV evangelist icon he was. God love em. All over the airwaves in the 70’s and 80’s. I sure miss watching that guy. I believe he might have invented pushing ‘em down. I always thought Ernest acted a lot like Liberace, but he looked like he came from a long line of used car salesmen. Though when it came to pushin’ em down, ole Ernest could push em down as fast as people could haul em up. I remember watching one night during a revival from Mississippi, and Ernest had them hitting their backs faster then Madame Sophie’s on ship day.

I’ll long remember a story my second brother in law used to share about Mr. Angelsy. Erney was working it hard one night, had a long line of folks on stage, when one fellow came up to get his cure. Ernest, not recognizing the return visitor, asked what the guy needed. The fellow exclaimed, “Don’t you remember Ernest, you zapped me once!” Yea, those were some great days for religious TV.

Of course the other important person in a push em down is the catcher. My guess is that this was probably the prototype for Daniel Webster’s definition of “handler”. On the surface these guys are pretty cool. They never say a word. Everything they do is based on eye-to-eye contact. They look like they could be secret service agents if they could only pass the test, but they do have a very important role- catching the folks who the preacher pushes down. After all, if they don’t do their job correctly and on time, then the push em down people could literally get their noggins knocked. Just imagine, some Joe Blow from Anytown, USA makes the trip, goes up on stage, gets his spleen cured, only to get twenty two stitches in his cranial back side just because the catcher didn’t catch him on the push em down.

Yep, I’ve about decided I’m going to go to one of those push em down heal-a-thons. You don’t suppose it’s rigged do you? I know how hard it is to get on Survivor show these days, but how about being one of those push em down people. Do you need an application, or survey, or entry form, or can you just show up? And once you do show up, you suppose somebody on the inside tells you just exactly what and how you’re suppose to do act during the push down, or is it as simple, and miraculous as it comes across on television? I did do a gig one time for the NBA, and it’s amazing the behind the scenes effort that goes on to make a smooth production.

I’m ready for anything; I just want to do it right. Yep, I’ve made my mind up. I’m going to do one of those push em down shows. The tough part is that they don’t hold those push em down shows just anywhere. No, there usually in one of the more medium size communities across this wonderful country of ours. I doubt Beverly Hills or Lower Manhattan ever hosted a push em down, but I do know that places like Cedar Rapids, Iowa, Birmingham, Alabama and Ft Worth, Texas have them all the time.

I tell you what I’m going to do. The next time they have one of those push em downs in a town, say a half a days drive from here, I’m going. I don’t know for sure what I’ll tell the preacher. I feel like I’m in pretty good shape; I’ve got all my hair, no signs of cirrhosis yet, and my weight is at decent levels. I do have two teenagers who sleep till noon; that and I could use a little better annual return on my 401 K. I know if I can get those two wishes I’ll be in like flint. And you know once you tell them to the push em down man then they’re as good as gold, as solid as a birthday candle blowout.

And I’ll promise you this. If that little fellow can push me down, and I’m 6’ 4”, weigh about 225; he’s a little guy who looks like he may play tennis at best. I doubt he’s ever broken a sweat inside a weight room. But if he can push me down, I’ll buy everything he’s selling.