8191. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #62

62. REV. MCKNIGHT

I've made mention, I think, of

Wallace McKnight before. He was

the area 'preacher' for the Baptist

Church along the roadway up by

my house and road. There wasn't

any sort of tight 'community' there,

and therefore no flock, or parish,

an any of that. It was just that the

large bunch of local women, all

from 10 or 15 miles around, when

it came time for some form of

Sunday-Go-To-Meeting stuff,

ended up there. It was convenient.

It was simple. And it was egregiously

pious and without any religious

profundity at all. I have no idea

what sort of sinning these fine

ladies may have been up to in their

off-time or even in their undercover

operations, perhaps, with 'Paw' in

the farmhouse, but just by the way

they drove they needed some prayin'

done on 'em for sure. Old Wally

McKnight was the man. He was

a small guy, coal-miner type, about

maybe 5'5", pleasant as all get-out,

had a wife, equally pleasant, but

he also was most probably the

dumbest, most simple guy in those

hills. How he got to the pinnacle of

religious practice thereabouts is past

me. Mostly 'infantile' would be the

word. 'Suffer the little children to

come unto me', well, multiply that

by a hundred times and then pin it

all on him, and that's the preaching

you got back. The ladies loved it,

while, for me, the emphasis was on

that word 'suffer'. All these weekly

confabs anyway ended up in food,

trays and Tupperware galore  -

beans, peas, salads, meats, all

regular country spreads. The ladies

ate and talked, and then talked

and ate. Rev. McKnight would go

around to each table, every person,

and anoint : goodness, blessedness,

forgiveness, you name it, but skip

goofiness. That was never made

mention of. He and I talked here

and there, but it was always apparent

we had a huge gulf between us  -

and though I really just didn't like

the guy, just because he was a

thunder-headed simpleton, I never

let on about it. If he was any sort of

sensible thinker, he'd have known

anyway. I don't think anyone could

offend him short of (perhaps) a

stick or two of dynamite in the

face. Some people are like that,

and often their lack of sensitivity

to things tells you all you need to

know about them anyway. You'd

have needed a brick to break through

Rev. Wally's happy facade.

-

Sometimes I'd gently chide him, get

in his face about things, religious

stuff. Creed and doctrine. Just to

buzz him up some. Deep doctrine

to him was, like, handing out the

'Youngest Mother of the Year'

bouquet prize each Mother's Day.

(You had to be careful, actually,

because there were a few trailer-kids

up there in the way-back hollers

dropping kids at age 14; but they

never came out to church,

fortunately for Rev. McKnight). I

always tried to keep it gently-light,

so as not to provoke or offend him,

or even maybe be the one to cause

him a crisis-of-faith and screw the

whole thing up for everyone. ("Hey,

where's Rev. Wally?' 'Oh, he ran off

to Vegas, with some showgirl.').

I'd a' been sunk for sure.

-

A typical Rev. McKnight thing, say

'Mother's Day' would be a sermon of

this sort, more a Hallmark Happy

Homily, really. It asked nothing,

and it said nothing, and you had to

DO nothing because of it as well.

All the opposite of what a 'sermon'

should goad you towards. (I was

always aware of the famous poem

by Rainer Marie Rilke, entitled

'Archaic Torso of Apollo', I think

it is, where the poet clearly states,

'You must change your life.' Now,

that's a punch. But Rev. Wally would

not have had a clue nor gotten the

reference in any which-way. So,

once-again country, folk, I bit my

lip in service to you all). Here's

Wally : "The goodness of mother

Mary's love for her baby Jesus,

whom she loved with all her

being, was a divine love, one

coming straight from God.

He was divine, and his mother

knew it. In like manner all our

mothers love us, as children.

Because each of us, within,

are divine too, with the spark

of God's being inside us. That

is a mother's love and that is

what she recognizes in her

offspring, and that is why we

so honor all the mothers here

with us today. We recognize,

and we celebrate, all mothers

today, on Mother's Day.' That

was it! It sounded more, to me,

like a pep-talk at an orgy. In

addition to which it was rot,

and it was balderdash, a fodder

for simpletons. It made light

of every concept it touched

upon, leaving behind but a

stupid-man's shambles - all

elementary as get-out, and

possessing the most baby-like

end-point imaginable. He got

away with this stuff, every time,

and every Sunday too.

-

I always figured that when you

hoarded things it was because

they were valuable or special

or of some import. How anyone

was able to 'hoard' the collected

ersatz wisdom of Reverend

Wallace McKnight always

baffled me. To make all

matters worse, in these parts,

there had somehow grown a

tradition that this guy made

house-calls. I think it was a

way to get the 'menfolk' while

at their toils, since they sure

never came out surely to these

Sunday get-togethers  -  unless

that 14-year-old girl from the

trailer had maybe just borne

one of their offspring. OK,

kidding on that one. Rev.

McKnight always just showing

up with the most cursory of

'appointment times' just made

that morning  -  he'd show at

barns, at milking time, hay-fields,

whatever. It was his way of a 

generated captive audience. I

can't say it went down real well,

but no one ever revolted. He'd 

have lunch or just stand around  -  

all those most general and yet

most curious and ministerial

questions about home and family,

well-being and happiness, and the

rest. Nothing ever substantial,

just blather. Eventually a prayer and

then a blessing, about something  - 

the crop, the new calf, the new tractor.

Craziest stuff imaginable.  I guess it

was rural ministering at its finest and

humblest. I guess. He'd eventually

get down to sitting, lunch or tea or

pie. Whatever. The rock-gut sacrificial

stuff never came out when he was

around  -  nor when the ladies were

around either. Mostly what these 

farmer guys were always drinking

was fermented apple juice. It was a

real wallop, packed a punch. There'd

be some big vat, always, somewhere

filled with crushed apples and juice,

and it would just set there, forever,

and, whether cold or not  -  to keep

it cold, a smaller vat was sometimes

'submerged' for the day (illegally) in

the cold, cold of the bulk-milk vats  -

it was cupped out or ladled with a big

ladle kept nearby and dipped in. The

closest edge of drunkenness by which

you could still 'function' was soon

attained. But you had to be careful  -  

like Warren always said, 'farming is 

the #1 or #2 most hazardous profession,

year after year'. Plenty of danger when

sober, all those spinning blades and

spreaders and cutters and things, but

made ten times worse when walking

the apple-cider razor's edge of wobble. 

Maybe all those trivial, afternoon,

reverend blessings all did add up to

some safety caption in the long run.

No one around us ever got hurt, 'cept

one of the kids broke an arm once. 

-

I guess Wally McKnight, and his 

missus, are long dead by now, and 

I meant him no harm, no serious 

damage. He was a grand, wonderful 

man, a real piece of celebration. He 

was about maybe 68 back in 1973, 

so you do the math and see. I know 

he gave me strength once or twice in 

spite of my heckling and all else. 

Hands-on, prayer over the head,

prodigal son stuff, no matter. I didn't 

want this to turn into any anti-religious 

or 'down on Rev. McKnight' polemic, 

so it won't. It's not my place  -  nor 

style  -  and he was too good for all 

that. I did used to tell him, and confuse

him too, approximating now as best 

I can, all these years later, as a 

question rolling into a statement 

and then a small two-man discussion 

between us: 'Reverend, the physical 

world implies the existence of a God,

and God's existence implies the 

presence of a physical world. To deny

the importance of the individual, is that

not then denying the validity or the 

validity of God? The two, existing

one within the other, cannot be separated.

My trouble is, sir, I cannot yet accept

the validity, or any validity, of the

physical world. That has not yet been

decisively shown to me as true, grounded,

and real. I see it as illusion, as a passing

glimmer of imaginings set before all our

eyes  -  alike and different as it is for each.

From one end of reality I shout 'Where is

God?', and from the other end the answer

comes, 'I am Me.' From the other end of

reality, God goes shouting, 'Who am I?'

and finds himself in me, you, us. You are,

therefore, and as I see it, a part of the

source, and so is everything else manifest.

Because God is, we are, and because we 

are, God is.' He would take my head,

and bless me again, this Wallace McKnight

would; he'd bless my head again.

.