The whole time I was employed in the ministerial profession, I had an ongoing negotiation in my head. One voice would tell me, "Keep your eyes turned upward to the vast rewards of Heaven," but then another voice would say, "Wow, that's a pretty girl!" The voices went back and forth for a while, when all of a sudden, a third voice would chime in and say something like "Steady, boy, you've got a good gig going; don't throw it all away," only to have a fourth voice sidle up to the second voice and begin pointing and whispering, "You are so right—wow, that's a pretty girl!" You can see where all this was headed. Pretty soon I had a whole gaggle of voices going on upstairs until at last, a coalition formed inimical to my better self, and I heard myself asking, "Now, what time did you say your husband would be home?"
You might wonder how I got invited to preach anywhere ever, given the fact I had no credentials or education whatsoever. I never even graduated from high school. But as I've written elsewhere, I underwent the Second Baptism on the banks of the Wakarusa River. ("Wakarusa" even sounds like speaking in tongues, now that I think about it.) Then I lived in a commune outside Topeka for a couple months before hitchhiking to Omaha. A fellow named Barney Hudson picked me up, and when I told him my story, he said his brother was planting a church and asked me if I would like to speak to his congregation. Having no other prospects, I of course said, "Sure." When we got to Omaha, he dropped me off at a Motel Six and said he would come by the next morning to get me.
The next morning, I was shaved and ready when Barney picked me up and took me to the backroom of a Western Sizzlin where twenty or so people were sitting at tables and drinking coffee. I was gratified to see that two of them were pretty girls. Also, there was a crippled boy in a wheelchair who kept moaning for Jesus to heal him. That made me sad, but it turned out I had a knack for preaching. That's really not too surprising because when I was a junior in high school, I won third place in a district speech contest in Joplin. I told a story about a little boy who stepped from a school bus and died face down in the snow; I think the boy's name was Clint. Maybe, Clay. That was the only award I ever won, and it had a little plastic man painted gold and standing on top of a piece of wood. He was lifting a disc of the world over his head, and glued to the base was a gold strip that said, Public Speaking Third Place. It didn't even have my name on it. I threw the damned thing in the trash after they kicked me out of school. (I'll have to tell you that story someday.) Anyhow, I must've done pretty well at the Western Sizzlin because Barney invited me back to preach on Wednesday night. As long as I was preaching, those folks paid for my hotel room. I was still sincere in those days, so I didn't petition the pretty girls to come visit me (a reluctance I eventually overcame).
Those were the humble beginnings of my ministerial career, which led to my preaching a brush arbor revival in Rocky Comfort, Missouri, not too far from my hometown of Stella. At one of the altar calls, a girl named Rose came forward, and I counseled her in spiritual matters after everybody went home. Then we fooled around and had so much fun that we moved into an abandoned trailer house back in the hills and didn't do much of anything except activities of a carnal nature. I don't know where Rose learned her various maneuvers, but she could have added an appendix to the Kuma Sutra, that's for sure. Of course, we had to keep our affair on the down low because a lot of religious types still frown on sexual profligacy, especially with regard to their preachers.
Oh, gentle reader, you should know I was a double-minded man, unstable in all my ways. I would look up to the Lord and then down at Rose. I would read my Bible for words of edification and exhortation, and Rose would whisper hot and nasty things in my ear. I even considered marrying Rose, but the breadth of her experience troubled me. A woman so schooled might be hard to keep down on the farm, if you know what I mean. Eventually, I kissed my randy Rose good-bye, handed her the key to the trailer house, and boarded a Greyhound for Waxahachie, Texas, home of the Full Gospel Apostolic Seminary for Preaching, Healing, and Sanctification. I had chosen the narrow path, and the narrow path, I hoped, had chosen me.
Of course, I neglected to disclose my moral failings to the fellow in admissions; apparently, his name was Dean like everybody else who worked there. He was an ancient missionary with a lime green shirt and brown suspenders. He wore a pair of Ray-Bans which seemed incongruous and appropriate at the same time, quite a trick to pull off. Years ago, Dean had gone blind from malaria, and after that, he spent his free time making cassette tapes of himself speaking in tongues in various African dialects. He made me listen to this mumbo-jumbo for about a half-hour, when I interrupted to tell him how blessed I was to hear it, how I hoped that someday I could do the same, and could I be admitted to the seminary? That seemed to surprise him, which kind of surprised me, since his job, or so said the plaque on his door, was admissions. He sat upright, took off his dark glasses, directed his milky eyes at me, and asked, "Where in the Bible does one find the authority to tread down serpents and scorpions?" I popped out quick as you please: "Luke 10:19." Next, he asked, "Where is the scriptural justification for the Second Baptism?" and again, I was on the ready: "Acts 8:14-18." He smiled a bit and leveled the final question: "What gift does the Apostle Paul wish all Christians had?" I shot back, "The gift of speaking in tongues: I Corinthians 14." We shook hands, and he asked for twenty dollars to process my application—I noticed he put the money in his shirt pocket—and next thing you know, I had a bed to sleep in and three meals a day.
With a name like Full Gospel Apostolic Seminary for Preaching, Healing, and Sanctification, you might wonder if I took classes in snake handling—"How to Reassure the Faithful While Your Arm Is Swelling"—or end times prophecy—"Why Jesus Had Better By God Return in 1988"—or heresies—"Why Catholics Should Burn Forever"—or young earth creationism—"6000 years Is a Gracious Plenty"—you know, subjects like that. And, truth be told, my classes were similar to those—except for the snake handling, which was ostensibly forbidden but nonetheless tolerated in more spiritual (and rural) congregations.
So, what happened? you ask.
Doctor Teeters, Professor of Marriage Ministries, had a young wife, Sheila. (Do I really need to say more?) There was no mystery to their union: Before they married, Teeters had sold out the family business in south Texas—ranching and oil—and Sheila was engaged in, shall we say, one of the more colorful lines of work up in Dallas. (She was so popular her name stayed on the marquee on Harry Hines for three months after she left.) Anyhow, Doc Teeters was desirous of affection and looked forward to spending his declining years diddling himself to death. For her part, Sheila wanted security, money, and a big house—and putting out to get them did not disturb her moral tranquility. Besides, Teeters was ancient of days and likely to die at any minute.
Except it didn't work out that way. Doc Teeters didn't die—seems most professors of my acquaintance have an immunity against death—a possibility Sheila maybe should have anticipated. By the time of the "incident," he was eighty something, and Sheila wasn't but a little over forty (and a fine looking little-over-forty, at that). I was a tender twenty.
Every October 31, Doc Teeters and Sheila hosted an Exorcism Picnic in their backyard to which they invited all the new seminarians. Doc Teeters held firm to the belief that demons got a free pass out of hell on Halloween, and so they set up a certain hedge of protection by feeding the young men of the seminary barbecue brisket, pinto beans(served with candied-jalapenos), potato salad, sweet tea, and pecan pie. I never quite figured out how such a spread protected the FGAS and, by extension, the whole of Waxahachie from a demonic incursion, but the Steer and Stein (sans the Stein) catered the affair, so I didn't question the theology behind it. I was, however, vexed by Doc Teeters' blessing, which was interminable in the extreme. The whole time he's praying, we could smell that barbeque patiently warming in the aluminum pans and the fresh rolls peeking out from behind a checkered towel (kind of like Sheila's derriere when she was hugging the pole), and we boys were about to drown in our own saliva, when, finally, Doc started blowing a Shofar and circling the buffet like Joshua at Jericho, and, hallelujah, it was time to eat.
After supper, the Teeters wanted to tour us around their house. Most of the homes on John Arden Avenue are pretty modest; they wouldn't have seemed too out of place back home in Missouri. But the Teeters' house was a monstrous anomaly, a raucous blend of Tudor, Texas-ranch, and Teutonic castle. We had looked in about twenty rooms—they might as well have strung a velvet rope across the inside of the doors—and we were shuffling down the hall with old Teeters reassuring us that the Lord would bless us in like fashion ("If we have oil fields in south Texas," I said to my buddy, Eric), when I felt a soft but firm hand on my shoulder, and a hot voice whispered in my ear, "I have numbered you among the elect. Come on, preacher boy." You can guess it was Sheila. She directed me into a room stocked with the most amazing contraptions and paraphernalia you can imagine—Old Doc Teeters never once mentioned such a set-up in Marriage Ministries—and before you know it, we were engaged in performances so outlandish I wasn't sure what we were supposed to be doing. Now, I already told you that Rose and I had enjoyed plenty of good fun, but this was a whole 'nother thing. Anyhow, things took a cataclysmic turn when Doc Teeters miscounted the number of doors, and—wham—the door swung open. There Sheila and I were: hanging upside down by our knees from the monkey bars and naked as Adam and Eve before the Fall.
That's why I got kicked out of the Full Gospel Apostolic Seminary for PH&S, but it didn't slow me down. Nobody really blames college boys for their indiscretions, even if they're studying to be preachers. They blame the girls but not the boys. It's a good set up, if you ask me.