Stumbled upon the most cynically affirming tableau just before Christmas. Coming home from work, about a block from my address, four Scripture screamers had clogged a corner of a major Las Vegas intersection.
Two women wearing their best ankle-banging gingham dresses screeched. Unassailable virtue wrapped them in vise-like certainty. Where, I wondered, were their bonnets? Where were their hatchets?
One of two men held a sign, while the second, raving and armed with a bullhorn, insisted all us sinners were going to hell unless, of course, we repented.
Since my own transgressions have been minor by all but the most prudish and priggish standards, I like thinking my chances of future residency in hell are somewhat remote. Though should I find my soul transmuted there, please let Dick Cheney draw most of whatever heat Satan directs my way.
The pale reedy women appeared ready to rend their Western burkas. They had zealots fiery eyes and strewn hair. Both stalked their portions of sanctified pavement, seeking to harangue any pedestrians foolish enough to catch eyes no matter how brief the glance.
The hollow-cheeked sign-hoisting acolyte should’ve asked whoever received his prayers for spelling lessons. Among his own perfidies he’d misspelled “deceived.”
This quartet’s amplified orator inveighing against us idolaters and fornicators needed work on his presence and presentation. For one thing he didn’t have his verses down pat. If you’re seeking to construct a convincing rhetorical ground game on a theological basis, you should come armed. He shot blanks.
Also, his task of tasking us sinners required Elmer Gantry-like posture as well as the fictional charlatan’s thrumming voice. The fellow hectoring us slouched. His face sagged under a doubtful mien, one that asked “Are they buying it?” If you must ask …
Rather than ejecting tones that rumbled up from his diaphragm, he squeaked.
Nevertheless the whole bunch was committed. Or ought have been committed.
In a marvelous juxtaposition, the very figure that would’ve lessened our considerable skepticism of their sincerity stood on a raised median halfway across the street.
One of Vegas’ ubiquitous deadbeats had planted his wrung out, sad-sack self within easy invective distance. His cardboard sign stated his circumstances (homeless), condition (hungry). He wanly requested handouts.
Frankly I saw him as a perfect prop. That is if I meant to convey my every pore spewed piety.
Not only would I have brought the scruffy misfortunate brother across the street into our fold, I also would’ve embraced him – figuratively – while exploiting and extolling him as an example of descent and redemption.
That as far as he’d obviously fallen the Almighty’s redemptive mercy can plumb depths unknown to simple mortals, His servants. Just the sort of salving hooey which should’ve had all but the hardest of heart (oh, like myself) feeling enough doubt and guilt pangs to have the sheep question their own devotion or, better, fork over some conscience assuaging dough.
In the Holy Roller racket folding green is much preferable to earnest proclamations and gestures taken on faith. No. Even in the God Business money talks volumes and those phrases loudly.
The mock-worthy and contempt-earning quartet must’ve been novice proselytizers. None of them recognized the poor eyesore standing across from them for what he was. Well, it was apparent what he was but what he could’ve become.
Opportunity.
By having made one showy effort to “save” him, and through him us, they likely might’ve realized several tidy bucks from the process, uh, rescue. A windfall in the Vegas spirit.
Merry Christmas!