Sunday afternoon gatherings of extended family — and a friend or two who might need a family — had no firm starting time.
Factors included the length of the sermon or number of verses of “Just As I Am” at the various churches attended that day.
Then time was needed to gather food from the ovens and refrigerators at home — packed securely enough to withstand potholes.
On this particular Sunday — 50 or 60 years ago as I imagine it —the usual pickups and Pontiacs start making their way to the family gathering an hour or so after the benedictions. Stomachs are growling.
We youngsters change our clothes while our mothers, aunts and other women just don aprons.
Men remove their suitcoats and loosen their ties. Their wingtip shoes still shine from a good polishing while watching Lawrence Welk the night before.
Arriving, the men settle into comfortable chairs and the talk picks up where the previous Sunday gathering ended. Among the favored topics are tomato plants, embellished fishing results, and lazy neighbors who pay someone to mow their grass.
War stories — real and imagined — might arise.
All the while, the kitchen buzzes with small talk, warming rolls to correct brownness, and arranging the meats, vegetables (like macaroni and cheese), breads and desserts in proper order.
The men’s white dress shirts will soon face a gravy challenge and their suspenders be stretched by the food of the gods — roast beef, mashed potatoes, okra, corn, pintos with onions and chow-chow, and more — though all professed monotheism.
But who wants quail and manna when fried chicken and cornbread are available? And tea so strong and sweet it could pass for Quaker State Motor Oil.
Our younger eyes target the chocolate pie — while contemplating what sort of fun (without the use of sinful face cards) we might create after its rich sweetness is consumed.
Remembering the Sabbath in southern Appalachia includes overeating as an art — after which the men move to the front porch for continued conversations. Only a fool believes gossip occurs just in the kitchen.
It is a typical Sunday experience that belies the busy, well-structured week ahead.
But then something remarkable happens. It is beyond anyone’s expectation or belief.
A blazing light appears in the cloudless sky — just over the horseshoe pit. Everyone is entranced.
Suddenly an angelic being appears right there in the front yard — offering to provide a glimpse into a rather distant future.
Stunned, the men put down the Prince Albert cans and stop rolling their cigarettes in order to hear this surprise revelation.
The forecasting begins:
“More than a half-century from now, a man will come on the scene seeking — even demanding — your blind loyalty. He will be a Yankee in makeup, who had everything handed to him by his daddy. Even skipped out on military service.”
The men grimace as the voice continues: “He will be proudly unethical — someone who continually lies, cheats, steals from charities, and mistreats women. And yet he finds no need to ask forgiveness from God or anyone else.”
“HOW DARE HE…,” one of the men responds belligerently. But he is quietened so the others can hear more.
The forecaster then concludes: “And y’all (it was a southern angelic messenger) will just love and embrace him for all its worth.”
A chorus of anger-filled denial comes forth: “NO WAY. NOT US. That’s the last thing we would do.”
One of the older men, who can count on both hands, notes: “Well, a bunch of us won’t be around then. You surely don’t mean those younger ones here, do you?”
“Yes.”
“You mean they will latch onto a spoiled, uncaring, misbehaving Yankee in makeup?”
“Yep.”
“Nah, we raise ‘em better than that. You mean these good young people of ours will backslide — stop going to church…”
“No. Church is where most of the rallying around this guy will take place.”
“Well, I don’t know what to do first — cut a switch or call a deacons’ meeting.”
Then, as suddenly as having appeared, the messenger disappears into the sunlight — leaving the men stunned and staring at the two-point leaner still resting against the nearest horseshoe stob.
Their heads shake in unison and disbelief as they ponder what they had just experienced with no moonshine to blame.
They debate the messenger’s validity — assuring themselves of the impossibility of such a thing occurring within their family, friends, church and community.
But there is something they fail to consider — although it is within them as well.
Whiteness runs deep. And the fear of losing that carefully-crafted, fragile identity of superiority matters more than anything else. Even promises to Jesus.
It can lead to the unimaginable.
And it has.
John D. Pierce is director of the Jesus Worldview Initiative (jesusworldview.org), part of Belmont University’s Rev. Charlie Curb Center for Faith Leadership. Join us for the first Jesus Worldview Conference, October 13-15, in Nashville.