My Religious Upbringing

(Parts of this essay first appeared in the book Misdemeanor Outlaw published by Blue Heron Book Works in 2018. You can buy the book on Amazon

One hot Sunday in the early nineteen-fifties, Grandpa Bruner hauled me to the county fairgrounds in the back seat of his pea green, fluid drive, ‘48 Chrysler. He deposited me along with grandma at the front gate as if some invisible force held him back from entering the parking lot. I was her special project for the weekend as my mother and father dealt with doctors and my younger sister’s impending eye surgery. The fairgrounds was a dusty place in the late summer full of untended weeds, black patches of motor oil soaked into the light brown earth, and littered with wrappers from various sweets consumed by smiling children as they had rambled along the midway during County Fair week. No one knew that the word recycle would be spoken of in the future with reverential awe, or that it would even be spoken. Consequently, the earth served as a trash can in those days.

Enclosed by a ten-foot-high chain link fence and bereft of any living creatures beyond a few stray dogs and feral cats that scavenged beneath the deserted skeletons of food stands and gaming booths for scraps, the place maintained an other-worldly atmosphere, a hell mouth where demon carnies had slipped unseen into our rural Midwestern town, just a few weeks earlier. From there these evil spirits encouraged men to gamble on baseball games and women to slip barbiturates down their gullets with an afternoon martini before sexual trysts to relieve the boredom and sterility that drove them mad. Gambling and sex were common vices according to many of the local pastors, but heinous and unforgiveable sins when done in concert with the traveling tattooed minions of Satan who ran the Tilt-a-Whirl and Ferris Wheel.

We suffered with these satanic appetites from the day the Fair began every July until the Dog Days of August. Then, Jesus came to town and pitched a tent near the concrete block restrooms by the oval race track. The hell mouth was purified, ordered restored, and temptation hidden away for the winter.  It was the end of August. I had been transported to this land smelling of cotton candy, bearing grease, and sawdust to be saved from any future pubescent temptations.

Jesus traveled in the body of a spokesman and saver of souls. His name was Oral Roberts, and my grandmother on my mom’s side of the family worshipped the guy. She listened to his radio broadcasts every week until my uncle Jim bought her and grandpa a new Motorola black and white TV. Then, she watched the eerie gray glowing tube and shouted AMEN as Roberts strutted across the stage to the choir’s caterwauling rendition of “Onward Christian Soldiers.” Oral was the divine spokesman for the King of Kings, the apostle of fire who spewed brimstone and Sulphur from his mouth and let it rain over country folk as scripture.

At certain times each year he rode around a Midwestern circuit with a caravan of faithful servants who set up his tent, played his hymns, sang his praises, and passed around his plate so those inspired by the Word might cast their nickels and dimes into it. I needed him, grandma said. I needed salvation because I walked with the devil—this point illustrated by fact I had been caught peeing that very morning on her prize rose bush like the dog. I wasn’t sure what I had done wrong. I have learned much throughout life by example, and her cocker spaniel provided me with this one. Anyway, we ended up in at the entrance to a huge tent where we stood for a considerable length of time as the parking lot filled and local evangelicals crowded in.

When the usher saw an opening, he guided us through a devout throng until he found two metal folding chairs close to the stage. Grandma thanked the man and turned to me.

            “Well, isn’t this exciting?” She asked.

            “Why do all the people keep looking at something far away? I don’t see anything.”

            “What they see is something only the saved can see. It’s over yonder in the promised land.”

            “Who’s it promised to?”

            “Be quiet. You sound like a hive of bees buzzing.”

I had no doubt this was true. My grandmother was in the process of losing her hearing, undoubtedly a genetic trait as it happened to my mother in her old age as well. Regarding where yonder might happen to be exactly, only my grandfather—who used the word constantly for every place on the planet and off—could answer that. And, he wasn’t with us. On the other hand, I shut up willingly because the crowd faded to murmurs, whispers, and then complete silence. Even the farmers I recognized stopped spitting tobacco on the sawdust floor. The show had started.

A grim man in an ill-fitting black suit strutted on stage as flash bulbs popped and a shouts of “Praise Gawd!” rose to the tent top like light-hearted helium balloons of love. The man sweated profusely. His hair appeared oily and almost gunmetal blue under the bright stage lights. But what I noticed more than that was a pink corona floating off his cheeks and the soul-sucking stare that seemed to reach inside the eyes of every sinner. Thunder rang from his lips as his voice railed against the devil in the humid heat of the canvas church. All along the front row metal chairs trembled. Grown men wiped their foreheads as beads of sweat danced and shook. Women grabbed their hats and headscarves as a huge wind swirled across the packed tent. I was terrified and electrified. I don’t remember the sermon word for word, but I do remember the gist of the message. It came from the Word of God through the mouth of his holy prophet.

            “And the lord roars from Zion, and from Jerusalem He utters his voice: and the shepherds’ pasture grounds mourn, and the summit of Carmel dries up. Why, dear Brethren, do you suppose your shepherd is mourning today? Because the hearts of his flock have dried up. I bring you healing. I bring you the love of the Lord Jaysus. I bring you the cleansing of fire and brimstone. I bring you the secret of tongues—Eli, Eli, lama, sabachtani—you have been weighed in by the scales of Almighty God and found deficient.”

            “Amen!” A might shout rose from the crowd, including grandma.

“Repent, Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand. Verily I say unto thee, arise and come forth. Do not lay up treasures for yourselves upon earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But lay up your treasure in his heavenly offering plate. Not everyone who says to me Lord, Lord will enter the Kingdom of Heaven, but only those doing the will of my Father who is in heaven will. Come forth and be saved.”

As if in a trance, one by one they stood and filed in a single line out of their chairs and down to the foot of the stage. Each member of the audience cast money into an offering basket placed in clear sight of the great preacher. After which, he laid his left hand upon the sinner’s head and raised his right toward the sky.

“My child, your sins are forgiven.”

It made no difference—short, fat, young, old, skinny, bald, male, female—as the money clinked in and the blessing snarled out, each person began to glow. We were among the last of the sinners. I was given a dime by my grandmother. When I paid my dues and Oral touched me on the top of my head, the Spirit surged through my veins. I felt lightheaded.  I began to sway like a cobra rising from a basket at the melody of his holy speech. The power addicted me. The organ ground out a melody. The choir director rose and flailed the air while the choir marched the lyrics, lemming like, off the stage. It was my call to heaven, my doxology of destiny.

            “Praise God from whom all blessings flow. Praise Him all creatures here below.”

“You are a creature from below and don’t never forget that,” Grandma said pushing me into the aisle toward the opening at the back of the tent, past the tight buns of housewife hair that made each frozen housewife glare.

On the way back to the entrance of the fairgrounds where grandpa sat parked under an oak tree waiting patiently for our return, I realized what had just happened. I had become a servant for Christ. This was my calling. I would follow Oral Roberts as a great evangelizing prophet. I would raise millions of dollars for Jesus, although I wasn’t quite sure how Jesus would spend it. In 1958, Wal-Mart was still four years away. I kept my dream alive for a while, read the children’s version of the Bible, and raised my hand to answer all the questions asked every week by my Sunday school teacher at the Broadway Christian Church. Then, my dream collapsed into the abyss of puberty, shattered by my mother one Sunday morning right before we left home for worship service.

Mom stood at the counter in our kitchen at 504 West Broadway, a bag in front of her into which she loaded various items for the communion. The women in the congregation took turns on a weekly rotation. They baked the bread and bought the drink passed around to baptized members in the pews during the time in the Sunday sermon when our own Very Right Reverend Dedmon said the magic words and turned these items into the body and blood of Jesus. I didn’t understand this miracle exactly but was confident that, after my mother in the back room of the building behind the baptismal pool divided the bread and filled the tiny shot glasses full of purple liquid and the deacons of the congregation carried them around to members in the pews while the Reverend prayed, it all became the real thing. I never thought to question how Jesus never got used up, or my father could be a deacon with one of his legendary hangovers.

I left the breakfast nook in the kitchen and carried my cereal bowl over to the sink next to where my mother continued her preparations. My sister Sandy was getting dressed in her room and my father sat in his recliner in the living room reading the sports page of the Evansville Courier.

            “Oh, can I have some?”

            “Some what?” Mom often answered one of my questions with a question.

            “Welch’s. It’s my favorite.”

            “No, you may not.”

            “Why not?”

Years before Oprah’s epiphany that women were multi-taskers, my mother could juggle several tasks at once. Women of her generation accomplished many things simultaneously, especially with children. At this moment, she watched the squirrels stealing walnuts from our tree in the back yard, grabbed the bottle of Welch’s grape juice from my hands, placed the bottle in a bag, rinsed the milk from my cereal bowl, spun me around and pushed me toward my room to change clothes, all the while creating terrible existential angst in my tiny mind.

            “This grape juice belongs to the church. It’s for communion,” she said.

            “Nice try.” I spoke over my shoulder. “Reverend Dedmon says he uses wine to make blood from Jesus. I know what wine is, Mom. Dad takes me to the Elks Club all the time.”

            “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but Catholics use real wine. Protestants use grape juice because we don’t believe Jesus wants us drinking alcohol.”

            “Does Jesus know about Dad?”

            “I’m talking about in church mostly. I think your father is probably well known by Jesus. It doesn’t really matter anyway. It’s not supposed to be real anyway. Now get dressed so we can go.”

I did go to church that Sunday and I went for a few more Sundays till I left home after graduating from high school. I even converted to Catholicism when I came home from Vietnam, but the real wine I was given in mass was never enough to erase the memories I had made in combat. No, a seed had been planted by my mother with her words—it’s not supposed to be real anyway –one that continued to grow for many, many years.  I suppose it might be called skepticism, doubt, uncertainty, or any term that indicates a distrust of blind credulity. The desire to follow words of unverifiable origin into a world of illusion, especially when those words expect actions of absolute devotion no longer drives me to accept preachers, politicians, car salesmen, lawyers, bankers, or inveterate gamblers in their pursuit of a sure thing. I can thank my religious upbringing for that.

As for Oral Roberts, he did all right by the Jesus freaks that attended his traveling circus of salvation, just as Joel Osteen, Kenneth Copeland, Pat Robertson, and several others have learned to do with the advent of color TV. Roberts packed up his tent and pioneered televangelism. He invented Prosperity Gospel Theology, which basically means God looks at your tax returns to decide whether or not you’re worth saving, and developed “seed-faith” ministries. Of course, it doesn’t take much to figure out those seeds came in the form of US dollars. The man built a famous university in 1963 to expand his influence and a popular TV show to expand his wealth, an example for his above-mentioned proteges.

In the 1981, Roberts claimed to have a vision from a 900 foot tall Jesus and opened the City of Faith Medical and Research Center, which went bankrupt in 1989, but not before he attempted to extort money out of his followers. Around Easter in 1987, the preacher claimed that if he didn’t receive eight million dollars by the end of the year, God would take him home. We waited, some of us more joyful at the prospect of his going home than others. He managed to raise only 4.5 million by the end of December. But Roberts didn’t go anywhere. Evidently, God gave him a 50% special. God finally called him to the skybox in 2009 where I’m sure he watches the game played by his disciples every day, each one trying to out compete the other in collecting the most seeds of faith from their insane flocks. Praaazzz Jaysus, my brethren.