The preachers of yore, of my childhood, whether on Sunday or one of those hot eternal Revival summer nights, would get up in the pulpit, the cockpit of the church, and give chase to that same old fox, the fox without which those little churches would not exist.
He, the preacher was always a he, a woman could play the piano but not preach, he would unleash the ravenous hounds of hell, fangs dripping with fox-ripping saliva, followed closely by the four apocalyptic horsemen thundering on fox-stomping hooves. The fox? Well, it was you, of course. You that put Jesus on the cross. You that killed the only beauty in the cosmos. And the hounds of hell were breathing down your neck and if they didn't finish you off, the horsemen would stomp your sweet ass to nothingness, are already stomping.
I learned a lot from those preachers. I learned the power of imagery, of story, of mythology. I learned the power of words. I learned the power of rhythmic repetition, of a speaking cadence that caught folk and bound them into one attentive ear. I learned the power of creative imagination and its effect upon the physiology, of creating images that lead one from heart-pounding stress and ache to soothing waters of eternal bliss.
We might leave church and revert to our worldly ways but for an hour or so we were tightly knit as one body and the world made sense and our sins were forgiven and life was good.
A salute to you old preachers and revivalists! Masters of your art! My first tutors.
He, the preacher was always a he, a woman could play the piano but not preach, he would unleash the ravenous hounds of hell, fangs dripping with fox-ripping saliva, followed closely by the four apocalyptic horsemen thundering on fox-stomping hooves. The fox? Well, it was you, of course. You that put Jesus on the cross. You that killed the only beauty in the cosmos. And the hounds of hell were breathing down your neck and if they didn't finish you off, the horsemen would stomp your sweet ass to nothingness, are already stomping.
I learned a lot from those preachers. I learned the power of imagery, of story, of mythology. I learned the power of words. I learned the power of rhythmic repetition, of a speaking cadence that caught folk and bound them into one attentive ear. I learned the power of creative imagination and its effect upon the physiology, of creating images that lead one from heart-pounding stress and ache to soothing waters of eternal bliss.
We might leave church and revert to our worldly ways but for an hour or so we were tightly knit as one body and the world made sense and our sins were forgiven and life was good.
A salute to you old preachers and revivalists! Masters of your art! My first tutors.
The preachers of my youth taught me the following:
ReplyDelete• Play the bongos a little softer if the Mass is attended by old people;
• Just because it has a tail and is in a cage does not mean it is a real mongoose;
• Love one another.
I'm sure they had many other lessons, but those are the ones that stuck with me.