The Revival Comes to Springdale
                        Copyright 1989 by Dave Laird

[This originally appeared on the BBS, but then was published by Gamuel,
Inc., a publisher of small humorous tracts back in the Midwest, according to
my records. My last contact with them was in 1994, and they have apparently
since gone out of business]

It stands only to reason that in a town where the Mayor owns one of the
Town's three taverns, where the Town Council members regularly go to get
inebriated before sitting down for a Town Council meeting, that they need an
industrial- duty religion. 

On the wall, in the Mayor's pub, between the giant double- barrelled wood
stove and the beer company calendar with buxom blonde with more charm than
clothing, an old fly- specked announcement of a tent revival still hangs,
although has been nearly four years since the revival was last through town.

The evangelists arrived that year in a green 1941 International Harvester
school bus with word "revival" painted on both sides in garish red and white
letters. It was plain to see that poor bus had certainly fallen on hard
times since Greyhhound parked it a decade ago. Although it went through
several hands immediately after its demise as a commercial passenger hauler,
eventually it was sold to an entepreneurial type of fellow from Bolinas,
Calfornia who used it to haul marajuana from Mexico to Los Angeles until was
busted by the Feds in 1985.

After the poor bus was impounded by the Los Angeles Police Department it was
sold at auction, to a mechanic who saw visions of building a motor home for
his wife and three kids, but, like most projects of this type, the old bus
ended up parked behind the mechanic's house, where it gathered rust until
The World Church Everlasting bought it. After paying $1800 for the bus, a
few of the church members were disgruntled at being stuck with a $150 towing
bill for moving the bus to their headquarters in Van Nuys, but that only
served to mark the beginning of what was to prove costly and frustrating
experience with the old bus.

As soon the bus was relocated their church headquarters, they were shocked
to discover a prodigious collection of used condoms, beer bottles and lewd
magazines full of nude women hidden away in the interior of the bus. These
were presumably items from the bus's long and illustrious career hauling
marijuana, as it would seem unlikely that Greyhound Bus Lines would condone
such activity on one of their buses. 

Furthermore, they had to redecorate the interior with new curtains, since it
simply would not do to have the American flag flapping out the windows as
they went forth save souls in the Inland Northwest. Since the outside of the
bus still was painted faded dayglo colors, from its days as a marijuana
hauler, they had to do something about the image it projected. A few of the
elders of the church hied off to the nearest hardware store, purchasing four
cases of Krylon John Deere green paint, a half dozen bristle scrub brushes
and they all spent a balmy Saturday afternoon painting the old relic.

That bus was hard to miss on its arrival in Springdale, since it failed to
make the hill leading up to the church on the first try, and was forced to
back down the hill to try again. As the faded bus's rheumatic exhaust system
belched clouds of smoke dense enough to finish off the ozone layer, news of
their arrival was nearly immediate.

Evangelism is an alien concept in Springdale. If one were a native living in
a mud hut in deepest Ubangiland, you would expect have occasional visits by
freshly-scrubbed white men and women in starched white shirts. Such is the
normal course of the world, since we, in the United States, are so
benevolent with our graces. The churches in this country have this impulsive
need leap on the first tuna boat that will take us to where misfortune and
woe is commonplace and fix things, even if we do suffer from gridlock in our
own country.

That is why Revivals come to Springdale; simply because the evangelists,
returning home from Ubangiland's misfortunes, have to make some hard cash
while still ministering to those less fortunate. Loaded for bear, the
evangelists mix piety with pancake makeup to give their a faces serene and
holy glow and enough pictures of their ministry in Ubangiland fill National
Geographic.

Miracles are unplanned occurrences. 

Last year, the evangelists related that while they were in a particularly
bad monsoon, they were full of praise for God. Every hour of every day they
thanked him for the giant lizards, the mosquitoes, the scorpions and the ten
foot snakes. They even had a special praise for the jitterbug squirts that
required four bottles Kaopectate to plug each evangelist back up. Even
though it took four weeks to find a case of Kaopectate, every time they
reeled off into the bushes they gave thanks to God for these "special"
blessings. 

This year, when the revival arrives in town, the Indians, from the
reservation, promptly commenced a ceremonial chant over several pitchers of
malt liquor. Charlie Steepletoe, reeling from one bar to another,
encountered an astonishing stranger who seemed to want discourse with him.
His new acquaintance dressed in frayed mackinaw, sports a monsterous black
eye and badly needs a shave. Charlie carries on a considerable chat with his
affable friend before the town cop tells him to stop talking to his
reflection in the window of the cafe and get back inside the tavern. The
true spirit of spiritual renewal, Springdale style, will always the evening
Revival meetings, for there has never, will never be a better way to clear
out the taverns.

It begins with singing the new choruses no one in Springdale ever heard
before. By the time the congregation learns the words and the tune the two
brothers I call The Jumpers are primed and ready. Brother #1, who always
sits on the opposite side of the church from his brother, jumps to his feet,
the purple veins his forehead beating at a dreadful pace, and yells
something like, "Praise the Lord Everlasting! Hallelujah! Amen!" and sits
down. 

This ignites Brother #2's spirit, sitting on the opposite side of the
church, who repeats #1's performance, word for word. This continues
throughout the evening, building until it overwhelms the senses. They jump
to their feet continually as the evening wears on, waving their arms and
screaming themselves into a good purple fit. 

Confessions hour is particularly entertaining. If the evangelist isn't
healing someone or saving some knock-kneed teenager from perdition, there is
always Millie Beadle. Millie is always 2 minutes late to everything, but
compensates with the way she drives her souped-up Dodge. 

No ordinary Christian would ever dream of owning such a car. 

With a siren under the hood, a two foot long foxtail atop the radio aerial
and a in-dash boombox audible for two miles, the car clearly should belong a
long-haired kid somewhere. 

But when Millie grins at you from behind the wheel, with her gold tooth
glittering, you just naturally have to laugh. She drives the town cop crazy
with her antics, zooming through town at the speed of sound, squalling her
tires with the kids up by the school and blowing her siren, particularly if
she's really in a hurry get somewhere important, like her hairdresser
or to church. 

Millie, tipping the scales somewhere around 320 pounds, chooses her clothes
with particular care when it comes revival meetings. After all, there was an
unfortunate incident, several years back, when her exuberant nature during
confessions resulted in a terrible scandal. It wasn't Millie's fault that
The holy spirit worked overtime that year. After the first chorus, the
Jumpers were already flying six feet off their pews, yodeling out their
praises in midair; the Native American thumpers in the back row had a rhythm
section going with their feet and the confessions were breaking records that
had stood for decades. 

Even the most persistent back row sleepers were poised on the edge of their
seats, waiting to see what new recitations might come to pass. Ester McNotty
stood up and related how one evening she had come home to fix dinner for her
loving husband, Joe, and she opened the oven door to check her biscuits,
"there was the Lord Jesus Christ sitting on a biscuit in my oven,
admonishing my soul to be faithful." 

Not to be outdone, Millie ponderously rose to her feet, immediately behind
Ester and her husband. As she threw her arms wide open, all the better to
let loose an adequate verbal blast, every single button on the front of her
skin-tight dress let loose, one after another. There was a horrified silence
for second when no one dared even breathe. 

Joe McNotty, Ester's husband, had been hit in the back of the head with a
handful of those sharp little buttons, turned completely around in the pew
to see what the hell was going on. In so doing, he inadvertently buried his
face between Millie's gigantic bosoms just as she stooped over, trying
frantically to close up her dress. Sensing disaster, Joe tried to turn his
head, snagging his eyeglasses in her black lace custom-made wire bra.

This was considered by one and all to be living proof that the Demon in Hell
had blessed that particular revival with his presence. After all, everyone
said, whatever else would make Joe McNotty stick his nose down Millie's
brassiere, start to shake his head from side side and make noises like an
animal? 

The high point to this entire religious experience in Springdale is when the
final invitation is extended for all sinners to come forward and be saved.
The backsliders, who haven't been to church since the previous year's
revival, quaver and boohoo their ways down the aisles. 

This sets off the Jumpers again, who take turns rebounding off the ceiling
fixtures. The snoozers in the back row mutter fitfully to themselves. They
have seen it all but it's too noisy to doze off again. 

It would appear that the length of the last service at revival time depends
upon the number of people who come forward to be saved. It is called body
count by some. If the body count is low, the evangelists stop the singing to
preach some more, which sets the Jumpers off blazing new heights, new
confessions are uncovered or at least rehashed and the whole show rumbles
back to life. Finally, after the last soul is rescued from certain fiery
damnation, once the final blessing said over the heads of the newly-saved,
everyone sheepishly files out of the church, many of them not return for
yet another year. 

By the next morning, once the mottled bus is gone from beside the church,
the church resumes its normal posture for yet another year. On Sundays, the
back row sleepers rest undisturbed, the Jumpers for the most part remain in
their pews, limiting themselves to an occasional 'Amen, Brother' and the
confessions are more or less discussion the host of weaknesses which have
afflicted the human soul since the beginning of time.

Only a few the church members live inside the town limits of Springdale, and
they generally avoid attending town meetings or other political caucuses.
The interaction between church and state in Springdale, Washington takes
place through those few brave souls, who each year trek up the hill to the
revival to be annually saved, only to return to the fold of friends down bar
row.

They carry with them the gossip from the church which is then distilled and
comingled with that the taverns. They move easily from the sacred mysteries
of the church to the less profound worship of Budweiser, Coors and the holy
wine cooler. Thus, each side diametrically divided town, knows even the most
intimate details about the other, and the political process is complete.
   
                                  -30-