The Holdout

by Gracjan Kraszewski

Following him, a welcome surprise. The assistant pastor of the First Baptist Church in Starkville takes the stage. DeShaun! Dale and Cord were right about DeShaun. He is a phenomenal preacher. They actually understated how good he is. He appeals to the emotions without exaggeration, uses theology but without going over your head and is, of course, flawlessly versed in Scripture. His preaching is direct, the sermon itself compact and clean, and by clean I mean not all over the place, there is no babbling or shooting off on random tangents. It is a pleasure to listen to him.

  Following DeShaun the revival once more bottoms out, this time to the nadir. Two preachers, back to back, have to be escorted off the stage, even if gently, by Pastor Bubba, who serves as a type of moderator slash policeman for the event.

  The first preacher comes right out and basically says that the Bible teaches that men own women. Men are the higher sex and must lead women, their inferiors. Men own women, that’s the thesis of the Bible. Someone in the crowd shouts at him, “You’re leaving out the end of Ephesians 5!” Another chimes in on this theme. “Easy enough to say wives be subservient to your husbands but what about husbands love your wives like Christ loved the Church? He did everything for her, he died for her!” The pastor on stage gets upset. He shouts something back at the crowd, profanity (of the verbal and hand gesture [double-barreled, by the way] variety) included. Pastor Bubba steps in.

  The second preacher has such a unique way of speaking that makes it challenging to make out what he’s saying. It’s hard, at first, to confirm that he’s in fact speaking English. I don’t know what his accent is but in five years in the South I thought I had heard it all. This man looks like a hillbilly Gandalf, the old wizard from Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings, long white beard included. Speaking style aside, he is so anti-Catholic that it’s too comical to be offensive. The funniest part of his talk—I don’t think it can be technically classified as a sermon or preaching, not even a talk, a rant or screed are more appropriate terms—is that his personal answer to the revival’s theme, “Being Christian in the Twenty-First Century,” seems to be little else than hatred of the Catholic Church. According to this man, the litmus test of a Christian’s very Christianity is neither love of God nor love of neighbor but hatred of the Catholic Church. I quickly discern that “pahp,” pronounced pap, is “pope,” and Catholics are “Hat-holics.”

  “Pahp, pahp, pahp, whoa-oh-whoa no pahp, pahp, pahp,” the man beings, pounding his cane on the stage as he “preaches” in a sing-songy voice. “Leeme-ah-say-yay again pahp, pahp, pahp,” slamming his cane hard on the stage, “whoa-oh-whoa no pahp, pahp, pahp.” He then encourages the crowd to start clapping as he does his own version of “Man of Constant Sorrow.” “Eye-hi-eye am a man, han’ohhh who doan lie Hat-holics, no Eye-hi’d send’em back on’ah boat righ’ now. All dem stupid Polak Eye-Italians and dem spaghetti benders yeah, oh-oh and dem Ayy-rabs too…. no pahp, pahp, pahp, whoa-oh-whoa no pahp, pahp, pahp.”

  The sing-songyness is over. “Ch-yeehall knowdat thinHatholic chyearch ain’t no blackman no whiteman evercanbee’come-ah priest? Whoa-oh-whoa no pahp, pahp, pahp,” more cane slamming. “Onlee mancanbee’come-ah priests’a man half-black quarter-white half-Chinese an’Jewish. Damn forn-nahers. Thuh Jeznits (Jesuits) pass’this law back long yonder. Bout sametime they make-hit unla-legal any Hatholics learn readin’anwritin.’ Ch-yeehall’no wha-hi? So’s theycan’t-uread Bible. Hatholic chyearch keepsum dum-lie-rocks. Lie-rocks!” Pastor Bubba starts slowly walking toward the man, ready to gently take him off stage. “Hatholic Com-nist Fas-nist lib-ral forn-nihn nogooders. Theyno good!” he says adding his parting shot. I’m disappointed. I wanted one more round of his no pahp cane song. It’s an awfully catchy tune. I just-

  “Whoa-oh-whoa no pahp, pahp, pahp!”

  Ahhh, that’s better. Music to my ears. Thank you. Thank you, sir.

  “Whoa-oh-whoa no whoa-oh-whoa no, oh, whoa whoa whoa…”

  Hearing this sublime composition is like slowing sinking into a warm bubble bath after a hard day’s work. Like I’ve spent the hot hours of the afternoon hunched over some blazing macadam with random particles of dirt and dust embedding themselves into the pores on my arms, caking my skin in a grimy filth. But now it’s all being washed away, from my ears on down, the sweet melodies of musical genius.

  “No pahp, pahp, pahp, pahp, PAHP!!!!!!!!!!!!” The man’s cane snaps like a wishbone on his last, and most forceful, downward thrust, done in rapid staccato fashion for the finale.

  Pastor Bubba exhales audibly. “Well, y’all. We’ve reach-ed our final preacher of the day. And what a day it’s been, huh?” He and the crowd laugh. “Our final pastor is—” He fumbles around in his pocket for the last pastor’s name. Brent takes the pause as an opportunity to crack a joke. He leans over to me and whispers in my ear, “Our last preacher is the prophet King Area the 51st. He comes from the Book of Roswell and reminds us that if you’re not getting abducted and probed, you’re not doing it right.”

  I try not to laugh, but I can’t help it.

  “Oh, there it is,” Pastor Bubba says, squinting at the paper in front of his eyes. “Pastor Dawson Pillar. Ladies and gentleman please give a warm welcome to Pastor Pillar.”

  A thin, brown haired man with glasses, wearing a brown jacket and blue slacks with a blue tie, strides on stage. He is young. Wow, he’s young looking, I think. He can’t be more than twenty-five years old.

  “I wanna thank y’all very much for hosting this meeting here today,” he begins. “And especially for inviting me. I’m pastor of a very small community in Pontotoc, Mississippi and I’ll confess that I’m not used to preaching to so large of a crowd. So I beg your forgiveness in advance.” Everyone laughs. And I mean everyone there. Last guy of a long and at times very strange day and so it would be natural for fatigue to make people think, let’s wrap this up. But some people have a type of God-given magnetism. Even before they speak one word people are hanging on each one that will come.

  “My message today is simple and one that I hope addresses this meeting’s theme of being a Christian today. How can we be not just functioning, but authentically thriving, Christians today? Especially today amidst a secular culture that seems to ridicule, diminish, and marginalize Christianity at every turn and opportunity.”

  I slap Brent on the arm. He rolls his eyes at me. I pinch him on the back of the neck. He recoils in pain and starts to get pissed. Then he starts laughing. I, of course, start laughing.

  “I propose to you a simple answer,” Dawson says, “a simple answer that is anything but in terms of living it out. I propose to you taking Jesus at his word. And I want to focus on one Bible passage in particular: Matthew 22:36-40. Jesus talks about loving God above all and your neighbor as yourself. Okay, we’ve heard this a million times, right? But do you do it? Do you live it? Christianity is all about faith in action. If you just believe in God but do nothing with that belief where do you think you will spend all eternity? Jesus makes it very clear in Matthew 7:21 that not everyone who says ‘Lord, Lord’ to him will enter the Kingdom of Heaven. James, later in the New Testament, makes clear that faith without works is dead.

  But what are works? True Christian works are indeed living Matthew 22:36-40 in an authentic love of God and neighbor. Jesus says that to love God and neighbor is to fulfill the ‘law and the prophets,’ meaning that to do this sums up everything ever put in the law and everything ever said by those special messengers of God. Jesus Himself shows us how to love our neighbor in the 25th chapter of Matthew. He makes clear that we will be judged according to if we did or did not feed the hungry, quench the thirsty, house the stranger, clothe the naked, care for the sick, and visit the imprisoned.

  And what of love of God, our first obligation? How do we as Christians live this first and greatest commandment? I propose the simple answer of honoring the Sabbath. Go to church! My brothers and sisters, go to church! Do not tell me that you stay home and pray, that you stay home and read your Bible. You have 167 hours
a week to do that. Give God at least one hour. Give God Sunday. Why, if you can’t even give God one day of your week, if you can’t get out of bed and come to his house to worship, why should God give you Heaven? Why?

  Accept the Lord Jesus Christ in your hearts as your personal Lord and Savior. Amen, amen. But don’t kid yourselves and think this is the end of the journey. It’s the beginning. Does a man marry a woman, the marital way of accepting her as his personal helpmate for life, and then never speak or interact with her again? How long would this type of marriage last? Where is the love in this type of relationship? How much more with God? You must fall in love with God daily.”

  Pastor Pillar thanks the crowd as he walks off the stage to thunderous applause and a standing ovation. Indeed, what a sermon.

  I think to myself that if there was no Catholic Church, if Christ did not found One Church on Saint Peter, His Vicar, His Prime Minister on earth, and promise that Church that the gates of hell would not prevail against it, if He had not given the apostles a special authority, a special succession that ensures that every Catholic bishop and priest can trace his heritage back to these Twelve and their leader, the God-Man, if He had not given us His very Body Blood Soul and Divinity in the Most Blessed Eucharist, if He had not given us the other six sacraments in addition, and if, if the Catholic Church was not the true Church of Christ, than I would no doubt join Dawson Pillar’s church.

  What a truly beautiful sermon.

  Pastor Bubba gives the closing prayer and all begin to depart.

  I’ve often heard that the greatest problem within Protestant Christianity is the question of authority. Why should geniuses (in my opinion at least) like Dawson Pillar be forced to share the stage with Mr. Too Blessed to be Stressed and Pastor No Pahp Pahp? The former is clearly a sincere Christian and a brilliant preacher. The latter two are… Why should another gifted preacher like DeShaun Stevens have to speak amongst preachers who think the Bible tells them men should own women or that God’s gift of an abundant life is a synonym for material wealth?

  I guess this is Martin Luther’s priesthood of all believers gone wild. How do you close Pandora’s box? Is it even possible? Once we agree that the man dressed in white who lives in Rome and claims to be Christ’s representative on earth is wrong, that he has no more authority than any other Christian to interpret the Bible, well, who can tell another Christian what to do or what not to do? Didn’t Luther have this same problem in his own day with the Peasant revolt and the Anabaptists? On what authority can Pastor Bubba, for example, tell Mr. Too Blessed to be Stressed that his version of Christianity is inferior to Dawson Pillar’s? Each have the Bible in hand and each claim to be led by God. Who can tell the other he is wrong? There is no Protestant pope.

  David looks downcast. “What’s the matter?” I ask him.

  He shrugs. “Doan know. Juss wasn’t what I expected.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Doan know. Little crazy, ya’know? Kinda-va mess. All over thuh place.”

  “Wow, religion a mess?” Brent interjects. “Religion all over the place? Not making sense and all a bunch of garbage? No,” he says, waving his hands mockingly, brushing the air, “No, not religion.”

  “Forget him,” I say to David. “I enjoyed it a lot.”

  “Really?” David asks.

  “Yeah. The last pastor, Dawson, he was incredible. DeShaun was great too. They made it more than worth it.”

  “I agree,” David says. “I’m seriously considering moving to Pontotoc.”

  As we’re driving away, a thoughts stucks in my mind as our tires crunch the gravel roads out of Noxubee and back towards Starkville and civilization: born-again virgins.

  What is a born-again virgin?

  My question precisely to a man who sat down at our table sometime during the revival. I had never heard the term before. A born-again virgin is what this man was, he told us. He had been sexually active, very much so, earlier in his life and then, after coming to know Jesus, repented of his sins and became not just a born-again believer but a born-again virgin too. His old life was in the past. Washed of his former sins he would now live chastely and wait for his wife and his wedding night as if he had never had sex before in his life.

  Brent, unsurprisingly, ridiculed this, and spent a good fifteen minutes or so after the man had left saying, mockingly, that he was a born-again English professor, a born-again football fan, born-again vegetarian, born-again this, born-again that.

  I, for my part, could not have more respect for this born-again virgin. What a Christian witness! It’s hard waiting for marriage, believe me I know, but how much harder must it be once you’ve tasted the forbidden fruit? How much harder when everyone around you, at least most people, and the culture, is telling you to give in? C’mon, no big deal, like wannabe Lois Lane told me, her boy Clark, at that party. What a witness and what a victory to make it to the wedding night having overcome old faults and began to live a new life.

  Start again, as Father Will tells me often when I’m leaving confession. Start again.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Thanksgiving Day: Act I

  Everyone is meeting over at Uwe and Shelby’s today for Thanksgiving dinner. Brent is also coming. Shelby told me to invite Brent and David and anyone else I wanted to. David politely declined. He’s having dinner with his family in West Point. Antoine is out of town. DeShaun, like David, is having dinner with his family.

  I’m not supposed to be over at Shelby’s until one o’clock. I couldn’t sleep so I’m out of bed before nine. What to do, what to do? Ah yes. Open laptop. Google: “Rich Froning and Graham Holmberg.” Click search. A link to “Number 1 and Number 2: A Day of Training” on YouTube. I place the laptop on the kitchen counter and start making breakfast.

  I crack two eggs into a pan soaked in melted butter. The coffee is crackling in the corner, percolating and filling my whole house with the smell of French Roast. Low and slow. That’s what some woman on some cooking show said about cooking eggs. Low and slow. I don’t doubt she knew what she was talking about. She was some kind of award winning something. Everyone on TV is some kind of expert in some kind of field with many awards and some type of great reputation. If being a door to door toilet salesman (if such a thing existed, and why not?) was a desired job then no doubt there would be expert award winning inter-nationally renown toilet salesman on the toilet channel, give tips to their protégés in the field, with smiles as white as porcelain.

  Gorgeous too, of course. Ms. Low and Slow on the cooking channel, I mean. Not Shannon quality (Shannon should be on TV. I would watch her channel all day long. I wouldn’t just watch it. I’d be engaged. I’d be an active participant. I’d laugh at all her jokes even if there wasn’t a laugh track to tell me when to laugh. I like laugh tracks. Hey, honesty still does exist in America. We, the viewing public, are morons. We can’t even be trusted to get the vapid jokes told on sitcoms. But if we hear canned laughter then we’ll know what to do. Hey, Pavlov proved it worked on dogs).

  Ms. Low and Slow, that girl knows what she’s talking about. The eggs turn out perfect. My bagels are ready. The bacon is done. A few pieces of cheddar cheese on half the bagels and then melt. I melt the cheese just right; enough to stick on the bagel but without drooping over the sides as if it was Velveeta. Yuck. A slice of avocado is a good addition. The coffee is done. Bagels put together then inserted into mouth. It’s not as good as City Bagel, those people can get after the bagel a little bit, but my coffee is better than theirs.

  Froning and Holmberg are specimens, I think, crunching down on another bite of bagel. I take of sip of coffee. Holmberg cleans some type of massive weight. Wow, bagel crunch. Froning is discussing his training routine with the interviewer. Yes, yes, bagel crunch, that’s right, coffee. I decide, mid bite, that my next video is going to be of Alex Honnold freesoloing something. A knock on my door. Another knock. I pause the video.

  Who could it be this time of the day? Not just this time of th
e day but on this day, on Thanksgiving Day? The Mormons? I smile. If it’s the Mormons, my respect for them is going to go through the roof. What dedication. These guys just don’t quit. Plus, they’re kind of like almost best friends of mine now. I open the door expecting, actually even hoping, to see my Elder Redd and Elder Sherlock standing there.

  It’s Brent.

  “Can I come in?” he asks.

  “Yeah, papi,” I say, still a bit punch drunk on the jovial combination of a bagel breakfast with coffee while watching Froning and Holmberg do their thing. Brent looks serious. Rather, he looks like someone who has just heard some bad news. Three seconds of looking at him and I sense this particular type of gravity in the air.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Come in.”

  Brent comes in. He is nervous, anxious. He’s kind of just pacing by the front door, hands in his pockets.

  “Hey, man,” I say. “What’s up? You okay? Come sit down. Have some coffee.”

  “No,” he says, looking down at the floor.

  I put my arm on his shoulder. I try to look in his eyes but he won’t meet mine.

  “What’s up?” I ask, again.

  “I got a girl pregnant,” he says. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “What?” I say.

  “Pregnant. A girl I slept with is pregnant. The child is mine.”

  “Who’s the girl?”

  “I don’t know,” Brent says. “Her name’s Norma; nasty old lady name. She’s, I don’t know, 22, maybe 23. I don’t know her. We hooked up one time, at a party about three months ago or so. She called me last night.”

  I don’t say anything so he continues. “The child is mine. She’s like you, never had sex before. I’m the only person she’s had sex with and now she’s pregnant,” he puts his hand on his head and tugs at his hair. “I don’t know what to do.”

  I exhale. “It’ll be fine,” I say. “I know it’s scary now but—