Reverend America: A Journey of Redemption

by Kris Saknussemm

  In the heat of the moment though, they will testify to total blessed relief. “That’s why it’s called faith healing,” Poppy shrewdly pointed out. “We heal their faith—we don’t heal through faith.”

  And of course, when the organ’s playing madly and people are wailing—babies crying—folding chairs tipping over—the smell of sawdust and salon perfume thick in the air, the local preachers liquored up (ministers prefer gin because it has less odor than whiskey)—men clutching at their wives, who are mewling and shaking with all the passion of their sexual frustration oozing out in front of everyone—and then an albino child in a coat of many colors yells and sings like a mutant angel—each testimony of Praise Jesus relief fuels the white fire of faith. So the club footed jig, the stooped straighten—and the white fire sweeps through the room setting every soul alight. Each witness makes the next more certain.

  Once there was a woman in the Carolina woods with a huge spongy goiter. Reverend America felt fear and disgust even looking at it—and that was the hinge. He knew how he’d been looked at—he could see in her eyes how ashamed she was. He put his hand tenderly on the obscene growth and caressed it. Then he kissed the goiter and said, “Sister, you are perfect in God’s sight, hold your head up high.” The effect was as miraculous as if he’d made the great lump disappear. For a moment he had. Everyone saw that woman in a new way—and she saw herself anew.

  In White Oak, Kentucky, a puffed up angry woman brought in a dribbling Downs syndrome boy of about fifteen and demanded, “Here! Can you cure him?” Her voice was pure challenge. One glance revealed she sought no relief. She had no faith. She wanted to cause a fuss—to be noticed. She was proud in her bitterness, crying like Job in his misery—and the boy, who was distressed at being dragged into view of everyone, showed signs of beginning a meltdown tantrum.

  Reverend America took his Star Spangled hat and put it on the boy’s head—and held up his hands for Patty Cake. Yes—even that boy knew Patty Cake. A wounded smile of pure delight broke out across his face and the entire congregation murmured, feeling the warmth of it. Reverend America said, “Only God can heal—only God knows when to heal . . . and only God can know how the healing should be done. Sometimes, Sister, we can have our lives saved by his divine wisdom and not see the gift.”

  Zing. If the woman had been hit with ten thousand volts of electricity, the result couldn’t have been more intense. All her pride, which had been rage and a sense of abandonment, turned upon itself and she fell to her knees in tears. She suddenly had shown herself to be a bad mother—spiteful, ungrateful—and then Reverend America knelt down and redeemed her. He held her trembling hand and wiped the tears from her eyes, and said, “Let’s pray together. Let’s all pray for the shining gift you’ve been given.” Rose came right in on the organ, singing “Thankful Am I,” and as the old saying goes, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.

  Curiously, their approach worked especially well on what might seem to be the toughest audience of all—the hardened Doubters. “Doubters carry signs,” Poppy said. “You can spot ‘em immediately, and there aren’t many.” It was true. “Mostly, the folks who don’t believe don’t come. Almost everybody wants to be hornswoggled in some way—that’s what makes it real. But we like Doubters because they fall hard and make a big noise when they do.”

  They were in fact easier to distinguish than a lawyer from a hog farmer—and they often raced into the trap set for them merely by holding up their hands and identifying themselves to all when called upon. “Who here doubts that miracles can be worked in this place in the name of Jesus?”

  For those canny enough not to fall so quickly under the hostile gaze of the assembled, it didn’t matter—there was no escape. They weren’t aware of the sign they carried (very few of us are), but Reverend America was—and Poppy and Rose were always there to signal him in case he missed what they thought was the most appropriate victim.

  Then out came old Jessie.

  Jessie was a barbaric antique wheelchair Poppy had found in Martins Ferry, Ohio. Just looking at the spokes and wires made you feel paralyzed in some deep inner way. It was a great prop and it turned the Doubter’s challenge back against them. “Come sit in this chair for a moment.”

  There for a showdown, to prove the shysters wrong, of course the chosen Doubter had no choice but to comply. And then, “they were cooked like a dinner,” Poppy would chuckle.

  Reverend America would wheel them around, close in amongst the other people—all the resentful faces looking down now. There’s something about sitting in a wheelchair Poppy realized, that’s instantly debilitating. It’s not like any other kind of chair—and this wheelchair was downright fear-rendering. “Could it be that this is the way God sees us all?” Reverend America would ask. “Crippled in our faith—needing to be pushed? We’re not only a burden for the Lord our God, but to those with real pains to suffer, real trials to endure.”

  A sudden jerk of Jessie and the increasingly uncomfortable “volunteer” would invariably plunge forward onto the floor. Snap. Before the Doubter could regain equilibrium of any kind, Reverend America would holler, “Rise in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit!” And of course, the Doubter would rise—but now having been turned into an example—a part of the show. People would actually cheer and Rose would instantly come in with one of the most boisterous songs, and before the Doubter had a chance to respond—whether an attempted joke or a scathing remark—the gathered would drown the unfortunate out. They’d seen a wheelchair bound person fall and rise. No one could change that. The Doubter would only find scorn in pursuing a case against the healers.

  What to do with someone who actually arrived in a wheelchair—someone who maybe really couldn’t walk—someone missing a leg or an arm? Use your head. Any traumatic injury of that magnitude leaves psychic scars—focus on those. Someone confined to a wheelchair almost undoubtedly has other health issues if they’re an adult. If they’re young, they’ve been given a blessing you have to help them see. What about those who can’t see? Well, maybe they can and they’re the ones who are faking.

  Once in Bonespur, Mississippi, Reverend America pulled the wool from everyone else’s eyes when he exposed a teenage girl pretending she’d lost her sight. He didn’t need any help from Poppy and Rose to spot her—he remembered Carina from the way house in Charleston—how she held her head, how she moved. He kept a wide range of trinkets in the many pockets of his red, white and blue suit—joy buzzers, feathers, a ping pong ball—little things that might come in handy. Without warning, he tossed the ping pong ball at her—she ducked. “Most people don’t rehearse enough,” Poppy said.

  But whether the people were shams or genuinely suffering—psychosomatically affected or just wanting some attention—outside Abilene or Swannanoa—the process was always the same. After the bread of Reverend America’s body had been shared, Rose would crank the music up to a slow building frenzy, beginning with Only Man Josiah Darkwater’s archaic blues song “Not Dead Yet,” which steals the chorus from the old English hymn “Joy Forever,” but twists it into something you might overhear in a luncheonette in Marietta—while Reverend America would call upon his tobacco smoked voice to speak solemnly of the blood—showing everyone a Mason jar full of chicken blood, which he’d pour very slowly into a polished white alabaster bowl, always letting people in the front row or nearest to him get a good whiff of it—the smell of life and death.

  Then he’d sing with a purely improvised, ecstatic passion over three octaves—of Christ’s suffering on the nails—while Rose would bring it in, and slowly raise, what may well be the first piece of transcribed instrumental music by a black American, a young house nigger known simply as Tall Jim, called “The Beauty of My Salvation.” Tall Jim was a freedman, not a slave, who reputedly could speak three African languages and had learned French and Spanish before mastering English. He was burned alive in front of a hundred white witnesses just below St. Louis in 1845 for the crime of teaching his e
mployer’s daughter how to play their expensive 18th century harpsichord. He’d composed the piece late at night after the family was asleep and was never able to play it openly. But he was able to transcribe the music and it circulated secretly, eventually becoming an inspiration for the Only Men.

  As Rose said so simply, “If this don’t raise hairs, we’re preaching to the dead.” She threw everything she had at that number and would always weep in the final movement, barely able to finish with the gentle onslaught of the last change—and then, pulling herself together, she’d drive the piece home in a fury of musical love. Only then, the littlest, whitest and last of the Only Men would sing the words . . . For though I be forsaken—I will never, ever yield—your faith will be rewarded—only faith can be your shield.

  Then it was time for the healing to begin.

  Call the sufferers to come forward and be exposed to the scrutiny of the assembled. To come forward means they’re already hyped up and in a suggestible state. Never allow them to declare their problem. You’ve got to cold read it or impose upon them the matter to be cured. A sharp take on hands, age, clothing and posture, says a lot. Facial defects, gestures. Maybe a little pepper to bring on a sneeze. “You could be contagious. Let’s pray for us all.”

  In the midst of chanting and ranting—stirring music filled with strangers and rivers—a few people rolling in the sawdust or in the aisles, just because that’s what they came to do, it’s not that hard to make a handful of others forget for a moment they’ve lost a limb or have a heart defect. That’s why most of them have come—to forget for a moment. Maybe their sight won’t be restored—but they can be given a vision—And the city had no need of the sun, neither of the moon, to shine in it, for the glory of God did lighten it.

  Six chosen healings was always the number. “Remember, we’re not doing this for our health,” Poppy would say. “Let ‘em come to the next show.”

  Their bold close would always be with someone who had an obviously incurable disability. Cerebral Palsy, mental retardation—an amputee—whatever was the worst the audience could offer and could not under any circumstances be faked. Reverend America would put his hands right on the soft spot—raise up his voice to God and call for the healing miracle. And it always came—because of all that had come before. “Some miracles require more faith to see.”

  Six precisely orchestrated theatrical moments with handpicked members of the audience—then bang. Reverend America would clap his hands and bow, and say—Almighty God, from whom no secrets are hid, we thank thee for thy healing grace. Cleanse now the thoughts of our innermost hearts by the inspiration of thy Holy Spirit that we may perfectly love thee and magnify thy Holy Name through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen.

  Rose would bring up the organ and the young albino minister would shout, “Now who here is ready to be saved—and be Born Again? Do you know how to say Hallelujah?”

  “Hallelujah!”

  “I can’t hear it!”

  “Hallelujah!”

  “I can’t hear it!”

  “Hallelujah!”

  “Jesus, can you hear it?”

  “Hallelujah!”

  Then the dizzying crush would form, as Reverend America would go forth into the audience, people falling over at the touch of the White Angel—grasping for the hem of his garment. He’d part the sea and cross the river of hands flailing—faces squished into tearful smiles of ecstasy and release—the human sweat smell—the organ reaching the pitch of mania—the word made flesh.

  “I’ll tell you, that boy’s got courage,” Casper once heard Poppy say to Rose after a show. “There’s carnival—and then there’s courage. He’s a goddamn wonderworker he is. He could convert the Philippian jailer and Luther crawling up the Roman steps in one night.”

  And the good young Reverend wasn’t averse to a little comedy at his own expense. One night in Yazoo City, he repaired an attending minister’s hearing aid and got a good round of applause for saying, “Thank you, Jesus for letting me solve some problems all on my own.” Poppy made him some macaroni and cheese after that one, and said, “Kid, damn it, if you can teach this stuff—God knows I’ve tried. Jolly Bob Rawls would’ve been wet proud of you tonight.”

  No other mention was ever made of who Jolly Bob was—Casper assumed he’d been some kind of mentor to Poppy. But for the first time it occurred to him that he hadn’t been the first child/protégé they’d tried.

  They kept up their musical standard, performing with the Honey-creepers in Bowling Green and opening for Mahalia Jackson at a moonlight concert in Jackson. As the money and expectations rose, they adopted new theatrical tricks. They employed flash powder for a bit of “startle.” A new track and field starter’s gun was good for making a point. A handkerchief soaked in ether was helpful when it came to forcing a plump matron to “faint for Jesus.” Poppy managed to secure a canister of nitrous oxide and the mood of everyone that evening lifted considerably. Reverend America always kept Wolf Mint in his left pocket, an herb that produces a cool tingling sensation when applied to the skin. In the right pocket, he had Reddy Steady, a preparation made of ground jalapeño chilies and salve for a bit of the burning touch of the Lord.

  They introduced a chloroformed rabbit that would appear to wake at the Reverend’s call to the House of Heaven. One night though, near Valdosta, the creature escaped the bus and was mauled by a blue tick hound. They had much more success with a white mouse Poppy procured from a pet shop in Jonesboro. Dubbed Lazarus, the little fellow proved amazingly enduring—and was easily passed from hand to hand with great effect (even Rose couldn’t abide him being thrown in the river when he finally failed to revive—and so he was buried beneath a dogwood tree).

  Along the way, Reverend America learned how to deal with occasional hecklers. The family response was always tight and sharp. Any sermonizing would stop cold. Rose would begin popping the organ in a syncopated beat. Poppy would hand clap—and Reverend America would search the crowd for the culprit, stretching out his right arm and pointing when he’d found the source. “Satan takes so many forms today,” he’d say. “Come down here brave Satan. Take the microphone from humble me so that we may all hear you clearly. So that we may recognize you for you who are—and what you will never be—SAVED. Or,” Reverend America glared around the room, pausing for effect, “can God save even Satan? Let’s see if we all have enough Heavenly Power here now to call the Devil out. Come down to me Satan for I stand with Jesus beside me. Come down—or I will cast you back to your dark fire.”

  As he became more expert in manipulating a crowd, his sermonizing became more dramatic and extreme. He gave people the throne, the elders and the beasts—a war of angels and dragons. From little bib overall burgs like Bear Branch, Thousandsticks and Sipwater—spicing up the local church services, performing in high school gyms or revival tents in dusty fields and sunflower patches, around sawmills and spud farms—they moved onto bigger venues. They worked famous Holy Roller churches, seminaries, creepy tidewater hospitals, old folks homes—NASCAR tracks and minor league baseball parks.

  MIRACLE BOY HEALING SERVICE

  *Brain tumor – Woman given only days to live by doctors and paralyzed by operations is able to walk and doctors cannot find a trace of the tumor!

  *Smashed Leg – Boy in car crash has pin in his leg which leaves it shorter than the other. While praying it suddenly grows!!!!!!!!

  COME SEE THE BLIND HAVE THEIR SIGHT RESTORED

  FIND YOUR FAITH

  CASH DONATIONS TO THIS VITAL MINISTRY WELCOME

  So it went, as they rattled through the Bible Belt, from the soybean fields of Iowa all the way south to Brownsville and over to Spartanburg—until some times it seemed to little Mathias that he really did have the healing touch—that he was Reverend America, Jesus meets Uncle Sam.

  People, you’re going to see limbs grow back—legs grow back, eyes put back into sockets—it’s going to be a sign of the miracle working power of God. And nobody’s gonna be able to dis
count it!

  Do you believe in the Holy Spirit? Do you want to be saved here, tonight?

  I can’t hear you people—and if I can’t hear you, He won’t hear you. He wants you to cry out to him. He wants you to scream.

  He died for your sins and that’s all the scream you can give? He died on the Cross so that you might live forever in Heavenly light if you but follow the path of his devotion. C’mon now, scream for the Lord of Hosts!

  Scream for Jesus. Let him know you love him as he wants to show his love for you. He’s aching to accept you, if you accept him. Are you ready to be saved—to be healed—to be made whole in Jesus’ name?

  C’mon down here then, whether you have to crawl. If you’re sick, lame, blind, or just lost in the wilderness, find your way down here to me. Because I’m not just Reverend America here on my own with my family. You are my family—and I’m here because Jesus is with me. Jesus loves this great country. He loves hardworking people like you who are weary and stumbling. He wants to save you—tonight and for all time. This is Redemption Night.

  Who’s going to let me touch them and say, “Satan, I bind your evil power by the blood of the Lamb. Tonight we loosen the mighty power of the Holy Spirit in this place. I tell you—the rustling’s in the mulberry trees. Little Diddie Tagrow in Birmingham is walking tonight when she couldn’t before. Lorrimer Steele in Natchez isn’t going to die of cancer. He’s going to live forever in the divine peace of Christ’s great blessing.

  Come on down now as my beautiful mother sings “Washed in the Blood.” Come down to me so that you may be raised up in glory to Him. Come home to Reverend America.

  It was good patter as Poppy said, written one night in Arkadelphia rain—and of course it just got better with each performance, as little orphaned Mathias Gaspenny became ever more Mathias True.