I could live here, I thought - few neighbors, lots of greenery, almost no light pollution at night to thwart my star-gazing. There would be issues, of course - long distances to drive simply for basic shopping, questionable schools, only prepackaged American cheese slices available at the local marts . . . and there were those signs in the yards: Romney/Ryan. One of the truisms in American culture is the deeper you get into the countryside, the more smugly conservative the population. I'd be less concerned if I thought the people were delving into the issues and exploring them from a variety of view points, carefully coming to their conclusions - but I know from long experience that's not true. As far as most of these people are concerned, they listen to Sean Hannity who tells them what to think and why and that's good enough.
We had about two hours between soccer games so my wife and youngest son and I jetted off to find something to eat - so that Will could be sodden and heavy with food and unable to play up to his ability in the unseasonable October heat. Not a good plan, perhaps, but it's important to have a plan. We were looking for one of the big sandwich chains because that's what Will wanted to eat. Not me - I can't get behind paying for a sandwich. It's like going out and paying for toast. Here's something I can do pretty well at home . . .
But that's what we were looking for - a sandwich shoppe - and we had to drive a fair distance to find that sort of prefabricated architecture embedded in concrete roads and parking lots where such things dwell. First we had to drive out of Church Country and this took some time. I like best the churches that have marquees out front that advertise their piety through clever messages: God answers knee-mail! No God, no peace - Know God, know peace! It's a marketing technique and a good one. Mostly these are the smaller churches, the ones where you can usually be assured of a good old fashioned fire-and-brimstone sermon about hell, like the ones Jesus used to give. There were quite a few of these on our route, as well as a business with its own marquee telling the President, in no uncertain terms, "God built this business, Mr. Obama." I'm sure that whenever Mr. Obama drives by he'll see that marquee and squish down low in his seat, hiding from shame.
The Georgia countryside is also home to all-of-a-sudden, just when you least expect it, mega-churches: big modern buildings that look as if they could hold a congregation of thousands. Lots of glass and vast parking lots that would not be out of place at a strip mall. These churches usually sport esoteric names that seem more like advertising slogans or catch-phrases: Living Water! Rock of Ages! We passed one on our odyssey that was glassy and modular and boasted its own cafe inside! Just like Jesus planned.
My wife was driving because on Soccer Saturdays I need to be clear-minded. I told her to stop! Right here! This church with its own cafe was having a BBQ and Jesus knows how much I love BBQ! This was the Loaves and the Fishes all over again, and I was saved from having to get a cold sandwich put together by some surly teen wearing plastic gloves. We whipped right in and I jumped out . . .
The gentlemen of the church were working together in harmony beneath a canopy to create a plate of pork BBQ with chips and drink for $5. The air was savory with the smell of the stuff - really, one of the few items of Southern Cuisine that I find not only palatable but also delicious. Being raised by an Italian mother has made me a tedious foody snob - but I'm a shameless BBQ epicure and this was just the kind I liked: cooked out-of-doors and prepared right there for you. Ideally it should be messy, sauce hemorrhaging from the sides, and piquant.
I walked up to the canopy with my five dollar bill in hand and asked for my BBQ prepared to order, to wit: laid open face over the buns and eaten with a fork. The fifty-something white guy at the smoker called out, "This man knows his BBQ!" and I smiled at the compliment, mainly because it's true. Another fifty-something white gentleman, standing behind one of the folding tables that separated customers from BBQ dealers, crinkled his eyes at me and leaned forward.
"Tell me, friend - do you have a church family?" My stomach lurched in a familiar way.
Yes, yes I do.
He nodded and radiated contentment. "Where do you go, friend?"
I told him.
He leaned even closer forward so that I could see the outsized pores on his nose and the way his teeth seem shellacked by tobacco or coffee or both. "And when did you realize you needed Jesus in your life?"
I wanted to say, "Right now, sir. Your BBQ did it. What did you put in the sauce?"
This is one of my biggest personal pitfalls in my attempt to adjust to live in The South, even after nearly thirty years of being Out of New England. I have never felt comfortable with people talking Jesus to me. The culture in which I grew up valued religion but saw it as something you keep to yourself, perhaps as a result of greater diversity for a longer period of time. We were Jews and Catholics and Unitarians. You knew if someone was a spiritual person based on their behavior, not from their constant protestations of religiosity. Deeds not words. Where I grew up people saw religion as something intimate and personal - like sex. I'm no more comfortable having someone Witness Unto Me than I am having some guy come up and say to me, "My wife and I really had some great sex last night!" I mean, it's great that you do it and you have every right under the law - both spiritual and temporal - but it embarrasses me to hear you talk about it. That's personal business and I prefer to be kept unaware.
All I wanted at this point was to buy a BBQ pork plate with chips and my choice of a drink but I couldn't get away from this guy who wanted to engage me spiritually.
"When did you realize you needed Jesus in your life?" I tried gently to disengage, feeling the rush of aggressiveness that seems to wash over me when I feel that someone is stepping over a cultural boundary into the Land of Taboo. I had a variety of responses, all of them smart-ass, but I kept them in check.
I mean, I wouldn't feel comfortable asking anyone about their religious habits, any more than I would ask about your sex life, or how often you floss, or whether you take your daily BM first thing in the morning or closer to lunch.
I told the guy that it was probably when I had kids, watching anxiously while a different guy wrapped my BBQ, sweating bullets and willing him to hurry along.
"Friend, me too!" And now we were linked indelibly by this connections. I feared more to come and was already back pedalling, trying to get into my car. Sorry, friend! Liberal Yankee here - I don't talk about religion in parking lots, not even church parking lots! Just wanted BBQ! Forgive me for I am a sinner!
"This is all for the kids," he told me, spreading his arms like unto Christ on the Cross.
Yes sir, I nodded.
"Do you need your car washed?"
No sir.
I got back into the truck and told me wife to drive, for the love of all that's holy! Drive, woman!
The BBQ was pretty good, though. It wasn't the best but at that point I was no longer qualified to judge . . .
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