I Coulda' Been a Contender

My first memorable experience with religion came when I was 8 years old.  We lived on a 160 acre farm in southeast Missouri, about 3 miles from a small rural Baptist church. It was 1943. WW-2 was raging in Europe and across the Pacific.   On Sundays, my parents and I would load into Dad’s old 36 Ford and Dad would skillfully maneuver the car through deep sandy ruts until reaching the church where he would park among the dozen or so cars that had already arrived.  Last in first out seemed to work well for him.  Sometimes he would join my mother for the sermon; more often not.  There would always be four or five others who preferred to stay outside where they could smoke hand rolled cigarettes made with Prince Albert tobacco and talk about the war and dry weather and FDR. On balmy summer nights a lone 40 watt bulb burning over the front door entrance attracted swarms of moths and other insects.  Their guiding instincts, perhaps programmed into their DNA millions of years ago to follow a certain night star, failed them on Sunday nights at Silent Hill Baptist church when the preacher, Brother Phillips, flipped on the entrance light. Mistaking the 40 watt bulb for a star perhaps trillions of miles away they were forced to make tighter and tighter turns around the bulb falsely believed to be their navigational aid , until exhausted they collapsed on the church steps below.  Unable to sustain flight, they fluttered helplessly on the steps below the light, spinning in tight circles until their life force was drained away, a casualty of Thomas Edison, the brilliant atheist and Brother Phillips the ignorant believer.

I can still recall Brother Phillips with a remarkable degree of clarity.   He was a large man, always wore rather plain clothes common among the congregation.  If he owned a coat and tie I never saw him wearing either. On hot summer nights it would take him less than ten minutes into the sermon to hit his stride. As he warmed to the message, (quite literally since there was no air conditioning) his voice would become louder and louder, the bible in his outstretched hand held higher.  Occasionally he would pound the lectern with such force that an old lady who always sat in the third pew at the end would literally jump as if someone had suddenly goosed her.  I was fascinated by the fact that I could always anticipate the fist banging and she never could.  It always took her by surprise.

Preacher Phillips lamentations over the lost would inevitably bring forth a stream of tears, and then from his back pocket would come the handkerchief which he used to blow his nose, producing a sound that rivaled the best trumpeter at the walls of Jericho.  Back in his pocket it would go until the sweat from his forehead threatened his eyesight¼.then back out it would come to wipe the brow¼the same cloth he had just used to collect whatever issued from his nostrils only moments before.  This would continue for the entire service; weeping and shouting, wiping and blowing, until the handkerchief became soaking wet.

On one occasion he had evidently had some disagreement with the membership.  The details are lost since things of that nature held no interest for an 8 year old boy.  But I do remember Brother Phillips bringing up the matter from the pulpit one night and pretty much laying down the law on how the matter would be decided (his way) and backing his argument with the bellicose statement that he could whip any man in the house.  It’s likely the word “skeptic” was not yet in my vocabulary at the age of eight, however I’m equally certain that Brother Phillips did me a tremendous favor by planting the seed which eventually allowed me to loose the shackles of religion and adopt a philosophy of free thought, unimpeded by religious dogma.

                                  The Cloverine Epiphany

The second experience with religion followed closely on the heels of the first.  Since it didn’t involve a church directly, the lesson learned was somewhat oblique. Nevertheless it provided an understanding of not only how religion works its magic but how men can work religion.

1943-44 were tough years for farmers. FDR had imposed price controls on all farm products to prevent price gouging during wartime. Due to the war effort, everything was in short supply, including money. As an eight year old with no concept of market research I decided to become an entrepreneur. The idea came from an ad in a weekly paper we received, aptly called Cappers Weekly. The business plan described therein proposed to provide each applicant with a dozen round tins of Cloverine salve, delivered in a cardboard tube about a foot long at a cost of three dollars. The firm offered to forgo upfront payment, allowing 4 weeks to settle the account. The suggested retail price was 50 cents per tin which would yield a 100 percent profit.  Inside the carton, curled around the tins of salve were twelve 8 X 10 color pictures (suitable for framing). Six of them were standard Currier and Ives scenes¼.cattle resting in lush green pastures next to a meandering stream¼. a snowy winter scene of a horse drawn sleigh in a lane with a red barn and warm cheery farmhouse in the background, smoke curling lazily from a fireplace chimney ¼.that sort of thing.  The other six were pictures of Jesus, standing on a grassy knoll, holding a staff with a crook on the end, the familiar gold circle over his head and the obligatory sheep lying serenely at his feet. The pictures, one for each tin of salve, were included as an incentive to purchase the product. 

On one particularly discouraging day, having walked for miles through the country with little (read nothing) to show for the effort, my knock on the door was met by a rather elderly woman.  I would like to report that she met me with a smile and invited me in for a piece of freshly made apple pie and a cold glass of fresh milk. But alas, that would be the Courier and Ives rendition. The fact is her face reflected a rather stern and hopeless condition as she greeted me with, “What do you want”?

Undeterred by imminent signs of another failed sales attempt, I nevertheless launched heartily into my sales pitch. I explained the product which was guaranteed to relieve cuts and burns, heal sores, sooth aching feet and backs, cure athletes foot, kill chiggers and alleviate the pain of arthritis.  Further I explained that normally the product sold for one dollar but since I was up against a deadline before school started, it was marked down to fifty cents.

Not interested.

As she turned to shut the door, I pulled one of the Currier and Ives scenes  from the tube and mentioned the picture (suitable for framing) was included with the product, free of charge.

Still not interested.

Then, with a remarkable flash of intuition, I whipped out a picture of Jesus.  One look at her face confirmed the sale. Like a trapped animal, her cheerless eyes darted from Jesus to the tin of salve and back to Jesus. In the deepest part of her soul she knew that rejection of the picture would be tantamount to the rejection of Jesus. At her age that was a chance she couldn’t afford to take. Leaving the door open, she turned without a word and disappeared into the house.  She returned shortly, clutching two quarters. The exchange was made¼.. one tin of Cloverine salve, an 8 X 10 color print of Jesus (suitable for framing) and her eternal salvation, all for two small pieces of silver. That was when the Cloverine Epiphany hit me like a ton of bricks. I could be rich. I would save my money and buy a bicycle and quadruple the sales area. There must be hundreds of old people just like her within a 20 mile radius of our farm.

Thank you JA-HEE-SUS!  I could hardly wait to get home and explain my plan to lift the family out of poverty.  It took my mother, approximately 15 seconds to disabuse me of the scheme.  Even though she only had an eighth grade education, there was never any doubt in her mind where true north lay. After experiencing such an exhilarating high, the disappointment was difficult to swallow. 

Even today, I occasionally think about that hot August day in 1944.  I reflect on what could have been if my mother would have underwritten my deal with Jesus.  Looking back, there is not the slightest doubt in my mind I could have been just as good as Pat Roberson, Jimmy Swaggert, Robert Schuller, with his Crystal Palace, Joyce Meyers, Jerry Falwell and all the rest with their private jets and huge mansions.  I’m reminded of the famous line uttered by Marlon Brando in the movie, “On the Waterfront”.  “I coulda’ been a contender.  I coulda’ been somebody!

The largest percentage of donations given to these modern day television rogues come from those who can least afford it.  Studies have shown that most of the cash is given by lonely single or widowed women in the 50 to 70 year age group.  These TV tyrants thrive off old ladies just like the one I met at that farmhouse back in 1944.   For years I told the story with amusement.  Now I have come to realize what a depressing story it is.  There is really nothing funny about it at all.  Sadly, the story is repeated millions of times each week as a vast market of willing customers dutifully enclose a portion of their social security checks in exchange for the promise of everlasting life.