Salvation Awaits?
Before the pearly gates, one may encounter some pearly whites…
Written and Narrated by: Andrew Couch
Tunes in this Episode
Hazlehurst - Pale Cricket
Belly of the Beast - written by J.D. Westmoreland Preformed by Pale Cricket
Scapegoat - Pale Cricket
Somewhere in New Mexico, a sign caught my eye. Trudging East on Interstate 40, serenading my patient dog with freshly composed madness, I was on a mission. Several hundred miles earlier, hyper-caffeinated and phasing in and out of sync with common sense, a thought came to me; keep an eye out for cool trinkets for the nephews and nieces. The sign was old, with hand drawn lettering, painstakingly painted by a professional sign maker, reminding me that an era of handcrafted things had, in fact, happened in my lifetime. Unlike most of the shameless roadside attractions in New Mexico where native American art is sold, this place had only the one sign, helpfully placed just before the exit.
The sign’s advanced age wasn’t its only eye-catching aspect. The colors matched my expectations - deep blue, yellow, and red-orange. Primary colors, blending easily like a Seventies sunset scene, a well-worn T-shirt, or an old postcard of the desert. It promised hand-woven baskets, blankets, rugs, moccasins, and souvenirs. My long-suffering dog was hungry and eager for a walk in the high desert, so I pulled my van off the freeway and parked in front of the charming adobe brick building where the treasures were to be found.
It was nearly dusk, and the owner was outside, closing shop for the day. I’m sure I looked disappointed, but he told me not to worry about it, cordially inviting me into the store with a genuine and magnificent smile. He was in his late fifties, with thick and wavy salt and pepper hair, tan, sun-worn skin, and a dancer’s posture. His brilliant white teeth reminded me of the toothpaste commercials of my youth, the ones which made me compulsively brush my own teeth between the Saturday morning cartoons.
I love the feeling I get when I walk into a new space, especially one as filled to the brim with objects begging for my attention as his shop. A sense of awe for the patience and eye for diligently hanging and placing things, just so, is a skill I do not possess. The only undecorated surfaces in this building were above and below - floor and ceiling. Giant black and white photos of the owner’s ancestors were on display behind the counter. Huge rugs and blankets hung from the walls, while dozens of shelves stood below, like proud and sturdy grandmothers, displaying colorful, handmade, and oddly shaped tchotchkes of astounding variety.
The owner and I chatted about the Navajo weaving tradition, and the significance of various shapes and patterns. I told him about a book I’d recently read; written decades earlier by my neighbor, a woman now in her early eighties. I mentioned how I found her particularly interesting - a Jew from New York who made it her life’s work to study and more deeply appreciate the history and artistry behind the ancient traditions of the Navajo. He then told me one of his Navajo ancestors had met and married a Jewish man, leaving him with a peculiar interest in studying the tribes of Isaac and Judah.
Throughout our multifaceted, genial, and curious conversation, I browsed the bric-a-brac to find a handful of items, perfect for the kids I was on my way to see. I was enjoying our talk tremendously and even considered asking him if he might want to join me and my dog on a short walk. I brought my items to the counter, laying them out neatly with the prices facing up. As he calculated my total on a handwritten receipt, carefully placing each item in a paper bag, I casually mentioned how pleased I was that his small business had survived the pandemic, as so many had not.
This, it turns out, was a mistake.
Within half a sentence, I realized I was in the company of a man with some severe, fringe and unflappable opinions. Our chat quickly devolved from a free-form conversation to a bitter and impassioned monologue. He told me about having been arrested in his own store for refusing to comply with the state mandated COVID restrictions for small businesses. Somehow, according to my host, the whole COVID scare was the result of a rather confusing satanic imperative, concocted by a shameless cabal at the highest possible levels of power and enforced by countless, mindless drones whose griding gears propel the mass hallucination the uninitiated call reality. I’ve had these conversations before – quite often, really, as I like engaging with people, regardless of how wildly our views may differ. I may have some sort of knack for getting people to open up about their highly personal idiosyncrasies. A knack for which I’m grateful. I tried gently steering the conversation in another direction by asking him about his faith. Rather than gently correcting the discussion, my question caused a drastic overcorrection, like yanking a steering wheel hard and to the left at top speed.
His arrival at the gilded gates of Christianity sounded stressful. Our beloved shop keeper had been living a life of sin and excess. To be honest, it sounded like a pretty good time to me. Of course, it went to hell in a handbasket, and he nearly died from some awful infection. After many weeks in the hospital, on what he and the doctors believed was his deathbed, the ten-thousand-megawatt smile shop keeper made an impassioned and desperate bargain with God. As you may have guessed, the bargain ended with him making an unexplained and miraculous recovery which left his doctors clutching their clipboards in disbelief. In return, he promised his redeemer he could be counted on to devote the remainder of his life to spreading the good word, bearing witness to the greatness of Old God’s number 1 son, Jesus. He made sure to point out, “Without Jesus in your life, Hell and damnation are guaranteed!”
So, I asked, stupidly, ‘But what about your ancestors? Surely, they weren’t Christian? Do you really believe they’re all in Hell?’
His handsome face retained the same confident expression it held when he talked about Navajo rugs. “You’d better believe they’re in Hell! They were heathens, every last one of ‘em.”
I was a little shocked. ‘Really? In Hell?’
“Oh yes, in Hell…for eternity.” He said it with such matter-of-fact self-assurance, a more credulous creature would’ve had no choice but accept his word as bond. His teeth, as they flashed above his lips through animated talk of Hellfire, shone with impossible brilliance, shimmering like fish belly angels from the bottom of a deep well. He continued, “So what about you? Are you a Christian? Do you believe in God?”
There was no reason to hide it, I had to be honest with the guy. ‘I’m definitely not a Christian. I was raised Catholic but left the faith when I was young. As for whether or not God is real, I don’t know. It feels pretty made up to me, but I’m open to a persuasive argument either way. I just haven’t heard one yet from the atheist or the faithful.’
“So, you left your faith and you’re an agnostic…Are your parents still Catholic?”
‘Not my dad, he’s dead. My mom is though.’
“Well, you should know, Catholics have it all wrong. If you two don’t truly find Jesus and repent, you and your mom will be joining my ancestors in Hell!”
Stupid Pandemic, I thought to myself. Never asking about that again.
‘Fascinating’ Is all that came out.
“It is fascinating! But your salvation is waiting for you, right here!” He said, tapping his finger on a large leatherbound bible I somehow hadn’t noticed until he touched it. “Would you like to take this opportunity to accept Jesus as your lord and personal savior?”
There must be something pathological in not wanting to insult a guy who just told me, with a sublime poise I can scarcely imagine, that my mom and I would be roasting in Hell for eternity. Honestly, I wanted to know more about exactly what sort of personal services Jesus was willing to provide, but instead I declined his offer, saying flatly but without contempt or judgement, ‘Absolutely not, but it is kind of you to offer.’
He was nonplussed, saying, “You know, I believe everything happens for a reason. Why else would God have sent you here, just as I was closing up for the day, if not for your salvation?”
‘Umm, Nick-nacks?’ I said, holding up and pointing to my small bag of gifts, contraband dropped by God’s guiding hand for scavenger heathens like me. ‘Ask and ye shall receive, right?” He flashed another twinkling grin my way as I continued. “But hey, thanks for the chat, I mean it. Also, do you mind if I take my dog for a walk around the property?’
“Sure thing,” he said, “would you mind if I said a prayer for you?”
‘Not at all.’ And I meant that too. I only say no to things when doing so will bring me more joy than whatever’s on offer. It’s a bad habit, but it makes me smile. But if someone wants to intercede on my behalf with their deity of choice, who am I to say no?
“What’s your name?” He asked.
‘Andrew. What’s yours?’
He told me, then closed his eyes tightly, as if the light from his own teeth was finally getting to him. With that, he began to pray.
“Oh, Heavenly Father
Please watch over your children.
Especially this young man, Andrew.
His spirit is good, oh lord,
But he has lost his way.
Show him thine precious light
And let him not stray further from your path
Amen.”
With that, we said our goodbyes. His distaste for the satanic origins of the COVID pandemic made shaking his hand even more exciting than it would have been were I simply a fan of his teeth.
After my dog ate his dinner and took a dump in the parking lot (which, if you were curious, I did pick up and throw away), we were back on the road. Another thought bubbled through my recently damned brain; causing a prayer of my own to find its voice. I’ll share it with you now.
Oh, man
Oh, woman
Oh, God
If you’re really real
And not too busy
Forgive me for being such a fool
Let the devil not be a scapegoat
And give the heroes in your book
A flaw or two
Next time you write
Such beautiful fiction
Ahh, man…