“You can’t stereotype this bunch. Some look like they’re already rich and famous.” James pointed to a couple of men in suits and ties.
“And then there are all those who look like us.” I looked at James with his one-day growth, his Jimi Hendrix T-shirt and jeans, and me with my cutoffs and uncombed hair.
“The Lord doesn’t care who you are, Skip.” James gave me that big grin. “As long as you come with an open heart.”
“You’re gonna go to hell, James.”
“I go to work there every day, pardner. I’m used to it.”
We worked our way through the thickening crowd, looking for seats on the aisle so we could make a fast getaway when it came time. Halfway to the big stage we found the perfect chairs.
“Look at that stage.” James was staring in awe at the mammoth structure in front of us. It rose probably ten feet in the air, and was maybe sixty feet wide. The stage was covered in a shimmering gold cloth that caught the colored spots from above and reflected blinding patterns of light into the crowd.
“There are three semis parked out to the side of the tent that must carry that thing everywhere.” I glanced up and in block letters probably five feet tall I read,
You will be made rich
In every way so that
You can be generous
On every ocassion
— 2 CORINTHIANS 9:11
“One truck just to carry the message.” James whispered it to me as the throng milled about.
Three podiums graced the glittering stage, each one with a large cross on the front and the two monster screens were mounted on either side of the stage. The Reverend Cashdollar’s huge face and toothy smile covered the screens.
“Wonder how much it takes to fund this extravaganza every night?” James kept staring at the spectacle.
“We’re helping pay for it.”
“Yeah, but think about how much we’re making.”
I had thought about it. We owed Skip’s girlfriend Brook $500, we owed the cost of our basic food products, the money every night to the rev and his crew, cost and maintenance of the truck and equipment, and whatever James was losing in poker. It never seems as good as it seems, if you know what I mean. Or maybe I should be an optimist and think positively. As Tim Holt said in Treasure of the Sierra Madre, “You know, the worst ain’t so bad when it finally happens. Not half as bad as you figure it’ll be before it’s happened.” Then again -
The congregation provided a pretty good sideshow, but as James said, “in the house of the Lord — ” The appointed time grew near and the wooden folding chairs were full as far as the eye could see. It was warm and whatever breeze blew outside was certainly not available under the hot canvas tent. I remembered a song, from the sixties I think, by a guy named Diamond. Neil I believe it was. Something about a hot August night and a revival meeting. A traveling salvation show. That was it.
“Pard, in the wings over there.” James pointed to the side curtains where I could barely make out two figures huddled just off the stage. “I swear that’s the pizza guy. I can tell by the gut hanging out.”
“Stan?”
“Yeah. The guy who had the poker game last night.”
“I can’t tell.”
“I think it’s him. I guess if you’ve been with the rev long enough, you get to go onstage.”
I shook my head. “That’s what I aspire to. Being on stage with the rev. Who’s with him?”
James squinted. “That’s our finance guy. The one who gets the money, Thomas LeRoy.”
I could make out the well-dressed man talking to Stan. The guy would talk, nod, then glance into the palm of his hand. Talk, nod, glance into his hand.
“Thomas LeRoy,” James said it like he was very impressed. “You can see he’s going to his organizer there, making notes or whatever.”
It appeared that Stan was doing the same thing. These two guys didn’t need to carry on a conversation. They could just punch their words, numbers, or thoughts into their organizers and read them.
“Skip, we’ve got to get one of those.”
“What?”
“An organizer, pard.”
I ignored him. “And LeRoy is in charge of all the financial doings of this organization?”
“Son, you’re going to be our business manager when this whole thing gets off the ground, and you’ll make more money than Thomas LeRoy ever dreamed of.”
“Yeah. But you’re the one that’s going to buy me an organizer or a BlackBerry — something so I can look important.”
“I’ll do it, pard.”
There was a hush as the spotlights went dim, then they came up full force, flashing off the gold stage and dancing in wild patterns. From somewhere, a huge organ chord thundered through the tent and a line of men and women wearing multicolored robes paraded onto the platform. Black, white, Oriental, they kept coming until there must have been forty of them. They faced the rear of the stage and, with one unseen command, spun around. Then, in one loud vibrant voice they all started singing with an up-tempo gospel beat.
Free up your spirit, free up your heart
Give to the Lord, get a fresh start.
It’s all in the giving, it’s what you must do.
Rewards from your Father, it’s all up to you.
I remember the lyrics, because I heard them over and over again throughout the hour. Every time the rev wanted to emphasize a point, he’d bring the choir back in for a reprise.
And then, I swear to you, the stage started filling with that phony fog that they used to use in discos back in the seventies. I saw movies of it. It is cheesy and if you’re too close to it the stuff gets in your throat and makes it all scratchy. But it started rolling across the stage, like smoke from a fire, and you could hear over one thousand people gasp. The organ was building to a thunderous volume and through the billowing fog this large black figure in a flowing robe came walking to the front of the stage. The lights hit him perfectly for a moment, a wind machine blowing his robe, and it seemed as if he was the anointed savior. All things considered, I was quite impressed. I glanced at my roommate and saw he was mesmerized. This was so James.
“Impressed?” The voice came from everywhere. Speakers must have been placed in numerous locations, because I thought the voice belonged to someone in the next row.
“Well don’t be!” If God has a speaking voice, this had to be it. It boomed. It rocked.
The congregation started applauding. The man held up his hands as the wind died down and the fog slowly drifted out into the tent. He gripped a gold-covered Bible in his right hand. I could feel my throat tickling already.
“God doesn’t believe in fancy entrances.” The word entrances echoed from speaker to speaker. “God doesn’t believe in noisy announcements. God brings his message to the world from a stable, from a manger in that stable. Man believes in fancy entrances. Man believes in noisy announcements. God will quietly enter your heart, and make a true believer of you. Quietly.”
A slight cough all the way in the back of the tent was the only sound to break the silence. Everything was very quiet. This guy had made a knockout entrance. He’d made an entrance to rival all entrances, then told us all to ignore that entrance. What a performer. Cashdollar tossed off the robe, and was now dressed in a tailored black suit that hid his ample girth. He accented the look with a simple red tie. Walking to the podium on the left of the stage, he held that gold Bible tightly.
“I have a message for you tonight. A message that will set your hearts free. A message that could help you move mountains. Ask me what that message is. Let me hear you say ‘What is the message, reverend?’ Let me hear you!” He stepped back and put his hand to his ear. The response was deafening.