Luke 4
I first preached in church when I was 17. Wore a light blue polyester suit. I had never spoken in public before. Never. Not even in school. Every year, my English teachers would insist that I go to the front of the class, and do some public-speaking. Every year I'd refuse, they'd give me a zero, and that'd be that. I was happy to crack jokes from my seat, but go stand up front of everyone? No chance. Same thing kept me from answering the phone, or buying things in the store. I had to get other people to do it for me.
However, I felt seized of a topic. A message. Couldn't sleep. Knew what I had to do. I talked to my father - a Deacon - and he arranged it. We were the kind of Baptist Church that tried to live out that "priesthood of all believers" thing, so we let members of the congregation preach from time to time. The Deacons ok'ed it for me. After all, I was a pretty conservative, clean-cut kid. Never drank, had never had sex, and my career path was to become a lawyer, and maybe someday, the next local Conservative MP. None of those things changed 'til I was 20.
The Sunday came, and I stepped up to the pulpit. Terrified. I remember I gripped the edges of the wooden pulpit and did not let go. Through the entire sermon. I knew what scripture I wanted to read. I say "wanted to," but truth was, it felt like "had to." The scripture was just a couple of verses from Luke 4. The ones where Jesus preaches about healing the brokenhearted, bringing sight to the blind, release to those in prison. But especially, about bringing "Good news to the poor."
After that opening verse, I basically just called it as I saw it. Said that "poor" meant just what it said - poor. I talked about how our village (480 people) was split into the reasonably well off, and those who had nothing at all. I stated what we all knew, that the poor were easy to find, because they all lived on the dirt roads. That was the boundary. They had houses with dirt floors, outhouses and broken windows. I was polite when I described this, because I liked the people in my church - the paved road people. They're weren't rich, just better off. Their houses were well kept, they taught school or ran the post office or had a gas station or owned a functioning farm. They sang in choirs, and organized free bricks and labour to build our school, made a baseball field for us kids. My people.
But I knew - we all knew - that we didn't cross that line onto the dirt roads. Unless you were after bootleg liquor, or women maybe - "running the roads" as they called it. Or maybe you needed extra hands for picking apples, or maybe some welding done. We all knew what went on in those homes. There was no way to say this all directly. But this is what I knew, what I saw.
A family with 13 kids in a two room shack. The kids were called "the grubs" they were so dirty. Filthy. You'd hunt them, with rocks. Hit 'em - and hit 'em hard. Grubs. Another family, the father's name was exactly the same as that President you lost in 1963. Really. This guy drove truck. They lived in the top of an old chicken barn. The dried chicken shit still there, inches deep. That was their floor. With a big color tv set up on it. Both kids were his, a boy and a girl. They say he fucked 'em both. The boy used to drool out the window of the bus. The girl went to college. Second year, jumped out a window in her residence. A different kid, from down the road, used to come up to the farm a lot. Told my Dad he liked it at our place, asked if it was ok. Dad said sure. A few months later the kid comes up to our place with a gun. Goes out behind the barn and blows his head off. Another time, my Dad gets a call, this guy, 50 maybe, had been on a bender for a week. Was out of control. Everybody phoned my Dad when stuff like this happened. We drove down. The guy came raging out of the shed where they fixed equipment, screaming. Dad walked up to him, and the guy bit him. Tore a chunk right out of his arm. I drove with Dad to the hospital afterward. This other guy, I worked with him when we built the ball-field. Old guy. Nice. Sweet. Just never bothered much with fixing his place up. Tough as nails. Except, you let your house slide too far, and hit a real cold night, you might not make it. He didn't. Froze. And the really badly off families lived on the dirt roads that went up the mountain. The cops broke one incest ring up there, dozens of adults involved, going back generations. They gave this one kid 7 years in the Pen for incest. Billy. We knew him from school. He used to stand and bang his head against the concrete blocks. He wasn't really retarded, just slow. Spoke in a real soft whisper. Anyway, the whole thing's in the national papers, tv. Judge says to him, "I'm giving you 7 years because you have shown no remorse. Do you have anything to say for yourself?" Billy says, "What's remorse?" He meant it.
I knew these kids and their families by name. In a village with lots of Anglos, but mostly Scots and Irish families, your name told it all. "Oh, the MacX's. They're a little touched in the head, y'know." Often, these labels held a lot of truth.
But the church didn't really reach out to them. Not in any organized way. The best of our community helped, gave, did things worth respecting. Gave 'em work. Dried 'em out. Pulled shotguns out of their mouths. My Mum gave 'em clothes and sheets and took food for kids in her class, everyday. She wouldn't cook for us - not once in 18 years - but she'd make up extra lunches for the worst off. Even my Grandfather, miserable old bastard that he was, would drive around mid-Winter, hand out food, blankets, boots. One of these dirt-floor families decided to thank him by taking his last name and giving it to their new baby boy as a first name. When my Grandfather couldn't talk them out of it, he just sat and shook. His name... that family.
We'd had one Minister a few years before, a genuinely great man. He'd tried to break this pattern. An Englishman. He was kind, educated, compassionate. Had this big swoop of black hair, curled up across his forehead. He'd spent the war bringing Jews out of Europe. A genuine hero. He and my Dad and a few others worked to erase the lines. But when the old guard in the church had had enough, the Minister fell prey to that odd thing our local Baptists do. He arrived one day at the church to find he'd been locked out. That was how we handed out pink slips.
Anyway. I preached. Could barely look up. Said precisely what I felt moved to say. Had to say. I leaned on it fairly hard, but like I say, I wasn't a nasty kid. I knew how to talk politely, no pointing out people by name or calling anyone down. And though I'd never spoken in public before, I knew I could. Knew I was good. Just hadn't wanted to speak until then. When I looked up at one point, I remember seeing this one old woman, Bee, just crying and crying. Remembered that she'd come from the dirt roads.
I sat down when it was over. Relieved. Went outside after the service, and stood across from the Minister. Each of us was shaking hands with people as they passed between us. I remember noticing that he was shaking a lot more hands than me. Bee shook my hand though.
My Dad got asked to stay behind for a quick Deacons meeting with the Minister. Later that afternoon, he asked me to go out for a walk with him. Told me the Deacons and the Minister had decided that I was never to be permitted to preach in our Church again. Never. Said it was all he could do to keep them from expelling me entirely.
I was pretty upset. I asked him, "Don't any of them know the rest of Luke 4?" "No," he says. Which was pretty hard for me to take in. Because it had been Jesus' first recorded sermon. The one he preached in his hometown. The one where after he was done, his hometown congregation tried to stone him. And he said that famous line, "No prophet is accepted in his own country." Now, I was no Jesus, that was pretty clear. But I found it astonishing that the Deacons and the Minister didn't even seem aware of what they'd just done. So I asked my Dad again. He didn't look up for a while, and when he did, he just looked really sad. Said, "I don't know if they'll ever get it son."
I stayed on at the Church. Showed up every week, for years afterward. Talked and and listened and worked along with them. I don't know why. It just felt like I'd said what I had to say, and that was enough.
7 or 8 years later, that kid Billy gets out of prison. Found an old wreck of a car he wanted to fix up. Got a friend with a truck to tow him. Coming down the mountain, the brakes in the old wreck failed.
***
Just like to thank everyone for the kind thoughts & condolences in recent weeks. I didn't have anything party political to say today, but it's been months since I posted, so thought I'd offer up this more personal/political piece posted earlier over at Billy's.
Not sure I'm into commenting on this piece - it's more just there for a Sunday read, if you're so inclined.
But if you'd like more less politics and more ice buffalo stampede, trap-neuter-return, dead donkey art, all-you-can-eat pain meds, Anbarian archaeology and hand-to-hand combat over Marilyn and Wiki, it's over there. Along with a companion piece to this one.
Thanks all.
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Welcome back, Quinn. Thank you for this Sunday read. There's so much more I want to say, but can't find the words, so....I'll just say welcome back.
April 19, 2009 12:00 PM | Reply | Permalink
Cheers LisB. And many thanks for that post while I was away, eh? It was lovely.
April 20, 2009 2:28 AM | Reply | Permalink
It's the pain of knowledge. Knowing that some things are wrong, that they won't go away, that they will be ignored nonetheless, and that we all have to ignore lots of things in order to keep going.
I remember a short-story collection whose unifying theme was eschatology. In one setting, the universe is collapsing and our distant descendants are arguing, fighting, over what form to apply to a new universe. The question is whether there can be existence without "error", which is taken to mean all the bad stuff that seems necessary to life. I've been trying to find acceptance of that necessity, especially when I have to contribute my own versions of educational mistakes.
Seems likely that acceptance is mainly appropriate for us folks coasting to a stop, not the youngsters taking aim at fame and achievement. Actually, I intend to coast for while yet, but you get my point.
April 19, 2009 12:54 PM | Reply | Permalink
Hey Tom. Loved this comment, and just wanted to leave it sitting there for people to read for a bit, unmarred by smartass responses from me. ;-) "The universe is collapsing and our distant descendants are arguing...." Hmmmm, or maybe no so distant descendants, eh? Any memory of who wrote that story?
April 20, 2009 12:37 PM | Reply | Permalink
Blessings upon you, quinn. And upon all of us, who continue to believe and to speak out. This post brought me to tears. You've never lost what you had at 17.
Thanks for your presence here.
April 19, 2009 1:06 PM | Reply | Permalink
Thanks Thera. One thing I can assure you I've lost since I was 17 is that light blue polyester suit. ;-)
April 19, 2009 3:31 PM | Reply | Permalink
I'd guess something else. But I'll leave that between you and Margaret.
April 19, 2009 7:31 PM | Reply | Permalink
Two very fine stories and enjoyable reading for a Sunday morning.
Running the River was really quite wonderful. I imagine that I will remember it for some time.
April 19, 2009 1:59 PM | Reply | Permalink
Glad you liked the 2nd story Edelman.
Thought I'd lead with this preaching one as more suitable for a Sunday. But given the River Running story, you can imagine how strange it is to look out my window this past week, thousands of miles away, to see this.
Tough river to run, this one. ;-)
April 19, 2009 3:36 PM | Reply | Permalink
I might be one of those people who prefers rivers to preaching on Sunday. Both stories were good but that river story is special.
April 19, 2009 3:48 PM | Reply | Permalink
Thanks Quinn, both stories are great.You have a beautiful gift of story telling.Im thankful to have read them.You said something in the comments about grammar,but who has time to notice such a mundane thing when caught up in the story you tell so marvelously? Certainly not me.I will always look forward to anything you write.
April 19, 2009 4:17 PM | Reply | Permalink
Thanks DonDi. Good to see you've got your blogging engines turning. Hope you get some open road in front off you now, and can start firing off more ideas, stories, comments, etc. Bring it on!
April 20, 2009 12:39 PM | Reply | Permalink
Quinn, I'd say "Welcome back!" but I'd really mean "Thank God you're back."
It is an absolute pleasure to have read the story here and then discover your essay on running the river. These are beautiful! Simply nothing else can be said right now as I wonder at the talent combined with heart that is exhibited here. These are beautiful!
Thanks for sharing these. I feel it is an honor and a privilege to be so blessed with these stories on this Sunday in April.
April 19, 2009 4:24 PM | Reply | Permalink
And great to see you back as well, Sleepin'. Been a while. Hope all is well, and that it's just that you've been on the road.
April 19, 2009 5:49 PM | Reply | Permalink
It is indeed the sixty-plus hour work weeks that has limited my time on TPM. In addition, I have quit smoking (4+ weeks now) and find it difficult writing without having a cigarette going at all times. I nevertheless check in regularly to read posts and comments.
I hope to have more time in the near future for writing, as well as gain more comfort in doing so without having my head in a cloud, so to speak. Meanwhile, I look forward to reading more from you and the others.
April 19, 2009 5:58 PM | Reply | Permalink
Congrats on the cig-kick. it can take a long time to get easier, so hold on.
April 19, 2009 6:48 PM | Reply | Permalink
Good luck on the ciggies, Sleepin'. Am in the same shutdown process myself - from from 30/day to 5/day now. Detox, then drop it - that's the plan. Gonna need to write by a bonfire though, to get that smoky atmosphere.
Though the disappearance of the hack is kinda nice. ;-)
April 20, 2009 5:08 PM | Reply | Permalink
The story holds up, q. Riveting.
Listen to the folks.
Maybe you'll tell us the story of how you saw the light someday. ;-)
April 19, 2009 4:36 PM | Reply | Permalink
Well G, it was relatively easy. "Easy" meaning - having a giant hand reach down my throat, take hold of the bottom of my stomach, and slowly pull me inside out over a period of about 5 years. Otherwise, the process was quite nasty.
'Course, there were worse alternatives. Like, BECOMING the next local Conservative MP. ;-)
April 20, 2009 1:25 AM | Reply | Permalink
Quinn, I read both these pieces on Annals and was moved by both of them, for different reasons, not least of which is that they recall two different tonalities of memory. Both powerful. Both pivotal to your formative experience.
You suffered, then. You suffer, now -- all of us are sorry that you must bear the death of your elder brother.
I hope you may take comfort in your greater resiliency, now.... that you began, then, in both circumstances to which you refer -- in church and on ice. Both cold, unforgiving environments, over which your heart, and mind, and spirit, triumphed.
Namaste.
April 19, 2009 5:46 PM | Reply | Permalink
Thanks WW. Well, as the floods recede, I get to watch both the ducks & the chipmunks sharing my front garden - signs of Spring. Too long in coming, but glad it's here. Cheers.
April 20, 2009 11:40 AM | Reply | Permalink
The description of your church, which might have been the one I attended growing up, reminds me of Mrs. Moore's thoughts after she had visited the Marabar Caves in A Passage to India.
Boum being the sound of the echo one hears in the Marabar caves.
April 19, 2009 5:57 PM | Reply | Permalink
And if you hear "Boum Boum"? ;-)
April 20, 2009 1:34 AM | Reply | Permalink
I got my Talkin Papers from Reverend Kirby J. Hensley, back in the 60's. Old school, the Universal Life Church. But I hadn't heard the call the way you did back in the day, I just wanted one more tool from the 1001 ways to avoid the draft bible. You're the preacher Quinn, lots to say as both pieces illustrated today. One unsolicited piece of advice re the companion piece, this would definitely be a bad week to run the Red River. Stay safe.
April 19, 2009 6:20 PM | Reply | Permalink
Y'see, Reverend Jake, THAT'S the kind of practical advice that a fella like me needs. Especially given the weight gain since I was 17.
Truth is, our Ministers were an incredibly mixed lot. I can name 5 local Baptist Ministers who were amongst the most literate, compassionate, heroic human beings I've ever met. But then I can name 5 who were complete and utter gas-bags. Narcissistic, vicious, sexist creeps.
At 17 I'd already seen one of the good ones driven out of the church, and in the next few years, two more suffered similar fates. The destruction wrought in so many Baptist churches - and more importantly, their communities - by the fundamentalist wave of the 70's & 80's was something to behold.
After a while, I just knocked the dust off my shoes and left them to their own devices. But when I think of the good ones, and what they gave, it still makes me ache.
April 19, 2009 6:39 PM | Reply | Permalink
Was just reading about running. I know the thrill, since we used to run across the rocks at Great Falls, VA, but they stay put.
Thanks again.
April 19, 2009 7:27 PM | Reply | Permalink
Hey Tom. Doesn't seem to me like you're doing much "coasting" yet. But yes, I too am slowly having to come to some kind of acceptance of mess, things not changing, changing the wrong way, people having to relearn stuff... I guess that's all part of the picture. Sortof prefer to "rage rage" though. ;-)
April 19, 2009 9:08 PM | Reply | Permalink
Thanks for taking this recovering Catholic back to Church on Sunday (with my favorite scripture passage to boot). You've still got a knack for speaking your truth and very glad to have you back.
April 19, 2009 8:15 PM | Reply | Permalink
Glad to be back, Dij. Thanks for dropping in.
April 20, 2009 11:46 AM | Reply | Permalink
Luke 4: 25-27
April 20, 2009 12:44 AM | Reply | Permalink
So whaddya think, Turnip-man? Same as it ever was?
April 20, 2009 1:03 AM | Reply | Permalink
Well Q, there are pale blue suits and then there are pale blue suits. Either way, Your writing is just as remarkable on the second read as it was on the first. Take your time. Unlike running the river, there will always be another floe on which to land here in the river TPM.
April 20, 2009 1:05 AM | Reply | Permalink
Good to see you Miguelito. Yeah, am taking it slow. Flood waters receding. Spring coming, but still cold here. Mind if I have a seat at this here piano?
Been a long long long time since I heard something that I really loved... ;-)
April 20, 2009 1:16 AM | Reply | Permalink
After the flood... that's the kind of recession we can all welcome. Nice vid of Kurt and the band which I hadn't seen before. As to long waits for something you really love, hang tough. Sometimes it's all we can do.
April 20, 2009 1:45 AM | Reply | Permalink
Please keep these stories coming, quinn. :-)
April 20, 2009 9:08 AM | Reply | Permalink
Don't let those levees break.
April 20, 2009 9:33 AM | Reply | Permalink
The levees held pretty well, Bwak. A few thousand people evacuated, a few hundred homes soaked, but compared to what this flood could have done - not bad. They just finished the big Floodway expansion this year, unbelievably lucky timing, because they would have lost most of the city. The flood plus the ice were mind-boggling. Gonna be months cleaning this one up.
April 20, 2009 11:45 AM | Reply | Permalink
Duff's Ditch needs to be expanded, eh?
Glad to hear you all are Okay, Q.
April 20, 2009 12:03 PM | Reply | Permalink
You remind me of Orwell here, at his most humane. Good to see your most preplexing and mysterious avatar again.
April 20, 2009 10:33 AM | Reply | Permalink
Can't type. Never could. Perplexing.
April 20, 2009 10:36 AM | Reply | Permalink
Plexing will do. Pre, per, post - not sure what they add. Now all I need are some talking pigs to make it really plexing. ;-)
April 20, 2009 11:42 AM | Reply | Permalink
Great to see you back in action, Q! Was getting worried you might have gotten lost on an ice flow...
;0)
April 20, 2009 10:38 AM | Reply | Permalink
Damn you Obey. Suppress that video! I was gonna use it for my next ice weasels! ;-)
Good to hear you. You travelling?
April 20, 2009 10:45 AM | Reply | Permalink
Yes, in Fraunce, brushing up on my pastis and gauloises - hence not much online. Glad I caught your pieces though. And looking forward to the ice weasels and the mighty boosh!
April 20, 2009 11:17 AM | Reply | Permalink
Quinn,
You are a mind boggling good writer. Thank you for sharing. Like Thera this one brought tears to my eyes. (but now I just clicked on Obey's video and nearly fell out of my chair laughing).
April 20, 2009 11:19 AM | Reply | Permalink
Yup. Obey's a bastard isn't he? I've had that vid prepped for my next ice weasels, praying nobody launched it first. It makes me laugh every-time I see it. ;-)
April 20, 2009 11:31 AM | Reply | Permalink
Sorry to steal your tundra, Q!
hahah - oh, the pug should stay away from the punning...
April 20, 2009 11:40 AM | Reply | Permalink
I think that's pun of the day, Obey. ;-)
April 20, 2009 5:05 PM | Reply | Permalink
Quinn I don't know why you say you can't describe scenes. I can picture you in the pulpit hanging on to the wood for dear life and out in the middle of the river gazing in wonder at how far your legs had taken you.
April 20, 2009 11:13 AM | Reply | Permalink
Thanks Mark. More important, hope you're getting some recovery time. Being upfront in those things is not easy, so catch some sleep, life, etc. Spring baby, Spring!
April 20, 2009 11:26 AM | Reply | Permalink
Good story. But where's Dickie to say hahahaha?
April 20, 2009 11:20 AM | Reply | Permalink
Moonlight just stepped back into the corn for a moment. He and Shoeless Joe and the others will show when they show. There's no forcing them.
April 20, 2009 11:27 AM | Reply | Permalink
I just miss dickie when he's not around...not enough hahahas
April 20, 2009 11:35 AM | Reply | Permalink
Terrific piece, Quinn. Thank you.
April 20, 2009 11:36 AM | Reply | Permalink
Thanks, Ickyma. Glad you liked the Sunday read. ;-)
April 20, 2009 1:16 PM | Reply | Permalink
I was out on Sunday but got to this today and it's a good read on any day. As the son of a priest, I know the angels and demons of religion. I rest my faith on the words a bishop once gave to my father, "The church is human and the Church is Divine, never confuse the two." I get confused a lot and see more human then divine. In the end, human is all we know and divine is what we believe. In the end is when we will know, unless there is nothing to know, which seems more likely then not.
April 20, 2009 1:51 PM | Reply | Permalink
Good to see you Gregor. Agreed on the two. Like I mentioned above to Jake555, there's a pretty big range in how well we humans do at this stuff. This piece was written about a period when I was growing up when things were turning - IMHO - pretty ugly. Let's hope the two churches grow a bit closer in the years to come, eh?
April 20, 2009 2:23 PM | Reply | Permalink
My dad was one of 13 grubs:
dirt road, dirt floor etc.
One day while playing ball his brother
Liam broke a neighbor's window.
It was a small village, pretty much
one road, so as their father was walking home
from work in the mine the neighbors all
told him, "Liam's broken a window."
"Liam broke a window."
Well he got madder and madder, as it would
be half a day's pay which he could ill afford
to fix the window. When he got home all the kids
were cowering in the corner, as far from him
as they could get. He puts down his lunchpail,
his face red with rage, he looks at the kids,
and he says, "Which one is Liam?!"
April 20, 2009 6:12 PM | Reply | Permalink
I donno but it's damn sure not me.
Awesome. Give us another.
April 20, 2009 6:46 PM | Reply | Permalink
Late in the game to this one. Just want to say, beautiful post.
April 21, 2009 4:31 PM | Reply | Permalink
Thanks, Genghis.
April 21, 2009 7:13 PM | Reply | Permalink
Q, you decide to post the best post I think I have read since I got here, while I was on vacation in the Bajamas in my pajamas?
When I heard you were back I felt elated. I am sorry for your loss. No kidding.
A lot of us wrote about you.
I hope all is well.
Another reason I am happy to be back.
April 27, 2009 11:07 PM | Reply | Permalink
Sorry, bit late, but I am out of action a lot recently.
I was a dirt road kid. As I grew and moved through foster homes it greatly angered me that people blamed "those people" for the anguish, death and despair. I heard plenty about "bad blood" and "bad influences." But I knew first hand that hand-me-downs were more than clothes. That the world of the poor (the dirt roaders) was the hand-me-down life of the better off.
That the despair that led too frequently to death or jail was the rocks and the names and the hopelessness of ever having a blanket that didn't have holes.
I am glad you stood up. Few enough do. I hope that the U.S. moves past "conservative compassion" - a reified version of "pull yourself up by your bootstraps" - a physical impossibility by the way - but I have a history of being literal.
Thank you quinn.
May 1, 2009 1:22 AM | Reply | Permalink
Excellent post.
If only more people labeling themselves Christian paid attention to what the man`s central message was.
May 19, 2009 10:30 PM | Reply | Permalink