The Churches of Arkansas The First Heritage Presbyterian Church I should begin with my own church. There
is nothing like returning to the fold after many years absence,
especially if new to the area and seeking employment among the faithful.
This church, clearly one of the most respected in the city, is
constructed of stone and brick, with an adjacent parking lot to handle
the large congregation. A second-floor west wing accommodates all the
children, who swarm squealing with mischievous delight to the waiting
arms of former football coaches and retired elementary school teachers.
The church itself has a regimen of polished wooden pews where everybody
knows where to sit, with a red carpet that scrolls up the center aisle
and down both sides. On the right is the stained-glass window of St.
Francis feeding the birds, donated by a local banker in memory of his
now departed mother who so loved gardening. On the left is a
stained-glass window of Jesus Christ's parable, "Ye without sin,
cast the first stone," donated by a local automobile dealership in
memory of his now departed wife who so loved fast cars. A choir at the
back of the podium surges with respectful bliss, evanescing each psalm
into sonorities of pure vowels. The preacher, a squat, hyperactive
cherub with hair dyed blond, shines over his Sunday flock. The church
organ vibrates through the woodwork, bringing back all those childhood
memories I have for so long successfully repressed. In this weakened
state of demoralization, I would confess to almost anything. Fortunately
one of the elders comes to my rescue, helps me to the restroom, and
tacitly waits while I convulsively throw up. He has had a vision that
too many of the churches of Arkansas are underinsured, and he needs
someone to become the godsend to carry his message out to those many
denominations of the body of Christ. We reach an agreement that I will
tithe to his church on the gross income of a ten percent commission. His
computer print-out of the many churches in Arkansas convinces me that I
could spend years in this enterprise and still not exhaust my leads. St. Matthew's Redeemed Lutheran Church This church, constructed of stones hewn by Irish immigrants from the
local quarry, resembles a narrow but staunch airplane hangar. Strangely,
its congregation contains none of those original Irish descendants,
excluded probably because their peasant heritage did not meet with
approval by the local squires. Instead, an Austrian austerity extends
inside, where the pews have the roughness of desolate, splintered wood
rewoven into wicker. The pastor is a thin and remarkably handsome young
man, tanned as if from summers on the Riviera, about whom the women
swarm with their home-made pies and casseroles. Even I find myself
attracted to him. The absence of frivolous religious art inside the
church is made up for by the many committees this pastor has formed as
outreach to the homeless, the AIDS-infected, and the ethnically
segregated in the community. Rumor has it that he plans to go on a
mission to Africa, and none of the recently converted can dissuade him.
I suggest that it would be wise to take out a life-insurance policy
before his trip. When he shyly demurs, believing that insurance on his
own life would be an insult to God, whose preordained laws should never
be reduced to gambling, I shift my concerns to the church building. He
shakes his curly locks and smiles at my obstinacy. However, he does
agree to form yet another committee, to address the physical weaknesses
of the church itself, and collectively they tithe to a new insurance
policy.When I find myself tempted to kiss him on the lips, I realize
it's time to move on. Judas in the garden I am not. Christ's Church of the Holy Mother This Catholic sanctuary lifts its ancient folds in the blighted heart
of the city. When first constructed, it was designed to imitate the
gothic masterpieces of Europe, but the original gargoyles so resembled
certain Protestant politicians that the carvings suffered from vandalism
early on, and, ever since, the outside of this ornately sculpted
building has invited generations of graffiti artists. Inside, however,
the priests have kept the pews, the two confessionals on the right, and
the sacred image of Mary on the upper left of the vestry, respectably
clean. Believers cluster before the blessed Mother, awaiting her tears
as miraculous cures, or rubbing their eyes and searching for stigmata. I
find the finger bowl outside the sanctuary a good sign of a desire to
maintain requirements of the Health Department in the depths of the
slums. In order to guarantee a sale, I have to wait for the insurance to
be processed through a church hierarchy more intricate than a set of
smart bombs, and, though I genuflect and cross myself repeatedly, though
I take the wafer and the grape juice that passes for wine, I suspect
that they recognize me for the Protestant scoundrel that I really am.
One of the nuns comes at me with a broom, wagging her finger and
hissing. A month later I receive a form, in triplicate, expressing
regret that my contrition merits no recompense. The Baptist Primitive Point Fourth Removed Among the elect of the elect, this elite group believe they alone are
predestined for heaven, despite, or perhaps because of, their failure to
lead perfect lives. Thanks to their roof catching fire and their wise
choice in my insurance policy, they have now turned this refurbished
Quonset hut into a sparse but sturdy home of worship that no longer
resembles a defrocked four-wheeler. The faithful often can be found,
fanning out into the neighborhood, to knock on strangers' doors,
proffering their own communal consolation and solace, and taking
offerings for their continued good service. In fact, it was due to this
care and affection from two such Bible-thumpers that I first learned of
their church. Stepping from the scorching heat into the air-conditioned
darkness of my apartment, one of these emaciated ladies actually
accepted a glass of sweet tea, while the other, pounding her psalmestry
against her jaundiced hand, stood aside and scolded, "Sister,
sister!" But it was all worth it when that first woman smiled, and
sugar crystals glistened along her lips just before she passed out.
Because of her, I acquired a small gathering of the faithful all to
myself in that room as I pitched my wares. Later, climbing over the
electrified wire fence one Sunday during their outdoor picnic, I was
expecting to see the inside of their sanctuary, but somehow I was still
deemed unworthy. Their children kicked my shins and I managed only one
drumstick without ever reaching the Kool-Aid, before their spiritual
leader showed up with the monthly insurance payment and personally
escorted me off the property. An Unnamed Jewish Synagogue If you kick the ashes of the last burned cross, famished rats will
scuttle out. Weeds grow everywhere. One whole wall has been torn down
and soon the swasticas and Jew-baiting slogans will be bulldozed into a
parking lot for the adjacent Christian churches. An ugly, looping
magnolia droopes through the star of David. Nobody here is going to buy
anything. This is a good example of what happens when you have the wrong
kind of insurance in the deep South. The Holiest of the Holy Pentecostal Church A large, orange neon arrow flashes outside this storefront, whose
door and central picture window have folk art depictions from the life
of Christ in festively loud road paint. Inside, there are numerous
folding chairs, and a three-dimensional velcro Last Supper hanging on
the back wall. A church member plays a very soulful version of a psalm
on the piano, the electric guitar picks up the melody, and the choir
swings sideways, clapping their hands and singing. People next to me
rise and begin speaking in tongues. Someone starts passing a snake
around the room. The pastor, an emaciated carnival barker in a black
hat, rasps out his sermon, repeating key passages three times in
increasing shouts, until his voice growls like rough gravel. Surely the
holy spirit has passed among us and we all shake like polka-dotted
underwear on a clothesline. I love this church, not merely because I
sold the most insurance policies here, but because I have never been in
the presence of such a joyous and unpretentious embrace of God. The Church of the Vicious Rooster Drawing from the parable of Paul denying Christ three times before
the cock crowed, this rural congregation celebrates the doxology of
man's innate capacity for betrayal and guilt. Its site of worship
travels from one farm corral to another, the sacred nave drawn in a
circle in the dirt, around which the men gather, jeering and betting on
a pair of roosters that are thrown into its center. In this form of
worship, the moneylenders are not only in the temple, they run it; no
apology is made for the depravity of the human condition. I myself could
easily have lost more than my shirt, were it not for the timely arrival
of the local constabulary that put an end to the proceedings, causing
these degenerate proselytes to flee into the hills. Those who could not
escape informed me later, in our jail cell, that when no rooster was to
be found, pigs or wild boars have been substituted, such was their need
to-in the words of Pascal-cast their bet upon God. Few escaped the
judgment of the high court, sentenced for 30 days hard labor, but
fortunately for me they took a personal check. St. Rosita's Palmistry Inside this trailer home, located near the spill-off of a Kerr-McGhee
Nuclear Power Plant, the room smells of incense and bad pot. An
electrical wire, frayed, dangles its solitary 40-Watt light bulb beneath
a plastic Japanese hat of many colors. The humidity from last summer has
spent the winter hibernating in this room. Sister Rosita waddles in and
invites me to sit at the rickety table beneath the only source of light.
She looks into the palm of my hand, shudders, and spits, missing the
spittoon near the back right wall, where apparently other streaks of
inaccurate shots have left the daffodil wallpaper bleached of any color.
Sister Rosita flicks open her switchblade and informs me that I had
better come up with some money, or the insurance policy on my own life
won't be worth jack shit. I am so amazed that she knows I am an
insurance salesman that I nearly hug her, but her Romeo from the back
room-the one with the Christ tattoo on his left shoulder and the Marine
eagle on his right shoulder-barges in and knocks my lights out. I wake
up in a ditch on the south side of town, the front seat to my car ripped
up as if some panther has been hunting for diamonds in the cushions. My
future, however, looks considerably rosier after surviving this
prophetic religious epiphany. The Newly Sanctified & Thrice-Reformed Mormon Church Hidden away in the suburbs, this nondescript temple looks like a
respectable ranch house. Whatever goes on inside I am prevented from
knowing. I meet with one of the elders at the local Taco Bell, but he
can hardly fit in any of the swivel seats. He orders extra hot sauce,
and rolls upon the table top like a bloated Easter egg. We have a long
discussion, during which I learn that polygamy has been outlawed from
this denomination, although in all other respects the faithful follow
devoutly the teachings of Captain John Smith (I may have got that name
wrong, but it was some famous Western explorer). I love the idea of an
American pioneer so dissatisfied with Scripture that he wrote a
completely different Bible, inspired doubtless by living off peyote
buttons in arid lands. Apparently my enthusiasm strikes this plump elder
the wrong way, and his haggling on prices accelerates so ruthlessly that
I can make no commission. Instead, my abdomen bursts into a swollen
rattlesnake of pain, and I collapse on the floor, having to be
transported by ambulance to the nearest hospital. The Chapel at the Baptist Medical Center Bleached and disinfected in every way, this room hosts a modest
wooden cross from its whitewashed back wall, in front of which a podium
laps its dull purple sash forward, the Christ-as-Fish emblem sewn in
gold. Two wood benches face this generic and multi-purpose tabernacle,
with handicapped access and plenty of folding chairs in reserve for the
bereaved. The air, purified from some oxygen tank, hums along with the
almost imperceptibly recycled Artist-Formerly-Known-As-Prince tunes.
After several doses of chemotherapy, my mind clears considerably, and
hope replaces doubt. I fall upon my knees, casting the metal crutches to
my sides, but two burly interns prevent me from inflicting any further
damage upon myself. They carry me, swathed in white linen, to my room,
where they hook me back up to the interferon. I look at an orange,
resting on a silver tray next to the bed. It has not yet been cut open.
Sunlight warms it from an adjacent window. I have a beautiful view.
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(photo by Mandi Clark) |
