The Player

By Lynnette Horn

"I say unto you, my people have fallen away.  They have turned their backs and gone astray."  The portly preacher pointed his finger in a broad sweep from one side of the tent to the other and glared down into a sea of sorrowful faces.  "They have fallen into iniquity and the ways of the flesh."  He paused for effect, dabbing his brow with a kerchief. "But today...I say today...is the day of the Lord...now is the time to repent!"

He crashed his fist to the pulpit, sparking electrifying shockwaves among the fine, godly men and women of this community, who found themselves now wanting, fallen short of the glory of God.  They wiggled and squirmed under the preacher's scrutiny, certain he could see through their goodness to the darkness hidden in their hearts.

"Amen, brother, Amen," a few hearty souls responded.

The preacher could sense the audience leaning into him, hanging on every word.  He held their souls in his hands, mere clay to shape to his liking.  "Let me tell you, brothers and sisters, God is merciful."

"Uh-hum, yes, Suh, Amen!"

"God says, 'If my people shall turn from their wicked ways and return unto me, I will heal them.'" His voice thundered with great drama.

"Hallelujah! Praise be to God!"

"Oh...I can feel it...the presence of God." Back and forth he paced in front of the crowd, searching for the one, the player, paid off by his secret partner, Max. "I feel a miracle comin' on."

Once more the preacher backed off. The stifling humidity of a fast approaching storm hung heavy inside the tent. Raised flaps on either side offered no relief from the heat. The air lay still and lifeless. He took off his jacket and folded it neatly over an empty chair, then loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves.

It didn't take long to spot the middle-aged man in tattered dungarees, sitting in a wheelchair along the outer aisle. Max outdid himself this time. The preacher smirked.  He couldn't have found a more pathetic looking creature.

"Brother!" The preacher pointed to the player. "God sees your repentant heart. I'm here to tell you you've come to the right place.  God...I say God...willanswer your prayers tonight! Come forward, my brother, come forward and receive the healing of the Lord."

The man broke down in sobs.  A woman standing behind him slowly wheeled him to the front, while Mrs. Filbert, the local librarian and church music director, pounded "Give Me That Old Time Religion" on the piano.

The crowd ate it up. They jumped to their feet and praised God--clapping, raising their hands, and shouting hallelujah. "Hallelujah...praise you, Jesus!" Some began speaking in tongues.

The preacher smiled down at the player. "Sinner, are you ready to turn from your wicked ways and give your life to Jesus?"

The man wailed uncontrollably, but nodded through his tears.

Easy...easy...don't overdo it.  The preacher made a mental note to Max: warn future players against being over dramatic. "There, there my son. You're among your brethren now." He placed a gentle hand on the man's shoulder. "What's your name, my child?"

"J-J-Jacob...Jacob Cleary."

"Now tell us, what terrible infirmity has brought you to God's mercy tonight?"

Jacob wiped his tears and blew loudly into a red bandana before he answered. "Diabetes, Rev, it's eaten up my feet with gangrene."

"Can you walk at all?"

"No, Suh, and the doc's wantin' to amputate 'um. I can't have no feet cut off. How's I gonna farm with no feet? How's I gonna feed my family? Please, Rev, I've never asked God for much but..."

"Don't you worry, 'cause God hears the longin's of our hearts even when it pains us too much to speak the words. Are you ready to nail your gangrene to the cross?"

"Yes, Suh. I'm ready."

The preacher turned to the crowd, grown silent and expectant. "Brothers and sisters, I need your help...your brother needs your help." He nodded toward the piano and Mrs. Filbert began playing softly, "I Can Feel the Presence of the Lord."

"Pray with me. Lift your hands to God and pray for this poor brother's healin'." Low murmuring spread through the tent. "Pray, brothers and sisters, pray!" The murmurs grew louder.

The preacher turned back to the player and stared hard into his eyes. "Now lift your hands to God and receive your healing, Jacob Cleary." He pressed his hand to the man's forehead and shouted, "In the name of Jesus be healed!"

The man slumped back in the wheelchair, with eyes rolled up under fluttering lids and jaw dropped wide open. He appeared in a state of convulsions, but no one seemed alarmed. On the contrary, this was what they had come to see. They were not disappointed.

"Hallelujah, Hallelujah! Witness the power of God!"

Mayhem broke loose. Grown men wiggled and squirmed as if they were covered with ants. Several women were slain in the spirit, toppling chairs as they fell backwards. One woman, a quivering mass of pink flesh heaped in the center aisle, swayed back and forth, moaning as if in pain.

The preacher stepped back and took it all in. He couldn't have been more pleased. He'd been refining his talents on the circuit for nearly ten years, with growing disdain for the faithful. How easily he could play with them, work them into an emotional frenzy, and then milk them for everything they had.  What rubes, he thought, for letting me fleece y'all again and again.

A low roll of thunder rumbled in the distance.

"Hold on, folks, hold on. There's still more work to be done."

The crowd quieted to a hush.

The preacher turned his full attention back to Jacob. "Rise and walk, my brother, for you have been made whole!"  He grabbed both of Cleary's hands and yanked him out of the wheelchair.

The player stood firm on his own two feet, a look of utter amazement washed over him.

This guy is good! I'll have to talk to Max about bringing him along as a regular. "Now walk, Jacob, walk... thank God by your actions...walk!"

The crowd sucked a collective breath and watched as Jacob took a tentative step, and then another. With more confidence he began to walk steady, increasing his pace with every step. Soon he ran up and down the aisles shouting, "Thank you, Jesus! Thank you, Lord!" The crowd went wild and Mrs. Filbert tortured the keys with "Power in the Blood."

"Thank God for He has answered our prayers!" the preacher shouted over the music and mayhem that filled the tent. The prime rib he planned for dinner was constant in his thoughts.  He motioned for the helpers to come forward with baskets for the offering.

The preacher gave Mrs. Filbert the signal, and she transitioned to a more prayerful "All That I Have." Then he asked the worshipers to search their hearts to know what God should have them give. Inwardly he snickered. That?' right, suckers. Give...give...go ahead...give till it hurts.

"Oh, Lord God, bless this offering and consecrate it for your work. Amen."

The preacher quickly wrapped up the service with a call to salvation, and then went to meet Max at the I-70 truck stop to settle accounts. When he arrived, Max was already seated and drinking a cup of coffee.

"Well, how'd it go tonight?"

The preacher slapped Max on the back and took a seat. "Best offering we've had all summer. That player you got me was top-notch--had everyone fooled. I figure if you can get him to work for us for the next couple of towns, we'll be sittin' pretty through the winter."

Max smiled from ear to ear. "She was that good, huh?" He glowed with pride. "I had a time teachin' her to walk on crutches."

The color drained from the preacher's face, but before he could say a word, a loud siren diverted his attention. An ambulance, flashing and blasting all of its bells and whistles, whizzed past the truck stop, flew down the entrance ramp, and sped along the interstate toward the fairgrounds, where the tent revival had been held.

Everyone inside stood up to better gooseneck its passing.  A trucker stuck his head in the door to report what he'd gleaned from his CB buddies. "It's that feller... Cleary...owns a farm past Aux Vasse Creek, hear tell. Seems he went into sugar shock...ate a whole cake after revival meetin'...somethin' about havin' to prove a healin'."

"I got to get out of here...real quiet-like...ya understand?" the preacher whispered to Max.

Max nodded. He dropped a couple of ones on the table and grabbed the preacher's arm, ushering him out the side door, unnoticed, and into the night.

The preacher looked up into the starless sky as the first drops of rain began to fall.

First published in Mid Rivers Review Spring '03 edition.