Breathing Holes

Remember when you were a kid and you found a turtle or baby bird and put it in a box?  "Make sure it has breathing holes," somebody would say. "You don't want it to suffocate."

Harbor Lights Radio

I started reading, I mean really reading interesting books, when I was around fifteen years old. And it was because my dad, an Assemblies of God missionary turned pastor turned radio evangelist turned Christian college recruiter turned traveling evangelist and back to radio host, had in all his travels accumulated so much religion enhanced self reproach that he ultimately turned himself into a piously glazed vessel of bubbling guilt and shame.

By all accounts, the God who Reverend Les chose to follow had either repeatedly and purposefully misled him, possibly for sport, or the connection he so desperately sought was nothing more than a black hole of cascading nothingness. The former, though cruel, at least holds an element of playfulness. Alas, only the omniscient knows for sure. (contact me)

Reverend Les died quietly of a stroke at age 93 while living in Maranatha Manor, an A/G property located near the fairgrounds in north Springfield next to the now defunct Central Bible Institute. After living his entire adult life ministering in one form or another, he left behind three grown children, a few photo albums and two briefcases full of cassette recordings of his self-produced radio show, Harbor Lights, which was broadcast every Sunday night at 10:00 p.m. on KGBX AM and later on KWFC (Keep Watching For Christ). 

For a span of ten years following a final round of cross country evangelizing, Reverend Les would spend his Sunday mornings, and sometimes into the night up to a final frantic hour before broadcast, recording Harbor Lights on big 3M reels of shiny brown audio tape. He would mutter to himself while searching for songs through stacks of albums. He would write and edit devotionals, rehearse said devotionals, splice like a madman, fading distant surf and buoy bells in & out. The finished product was usually pretty good technically and could pass as syndicated by AM standards of the time.

Through the closed studio door, one could hear the melodious tones of Anita Bryant, George Beverly Shea, The Blackwood Brothers and others wafting down the hallway. He loved Negro Spirituals like "Steal Away" and "Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child", songs we never sang at Central Assembly (A/G's flagship assemblage, pre megachurch era).  The music segued into calming sermonettes and homilies droned out in an overly kind and understanding radio voice that he only used for self-parody in regular life. For its many listeners residing in nursing homes, Harbor Lights was a soothing Christian ASMR. In this regard, Reverend Les was ahead of his time. He would have loved YouTube.

The Blackout Collection

As cool as the studio was, the library full of books on the surrounding walls is the real subject of this little foray into how a 14-15 boy accidentally, or perhaps by divine Guidance, discovered some amazing literature.

The bookshelves made up two full walls in Harbor Lights studio, containing works of all shapes and sizes, hardbound and paperback. Most were religious in nature, Pentecostal and evangelical theorizing on forgiveness, faith, salvation and the like. My attempts to understand the elaborate riddles contained in Christian thought didn't get far. But scattered throughout the collection, in no apparent order, were a dozen or so books with the covers painted black. Now, this was interesting.

The first "black book" I read, and what a doozy first attempt, was Brave New World by Aldous Huxley, which I found incredibly scary but also fascinating. No Christian theorizing here. All citizens of the World State taking varying levels of Soma to complete their days working for the State. Small doses made people feel good. Large doses created hallucinations and timelessness. My first thoughts about drugs started here, not to mention autocracy, now a timely topic.

One could assume that deliberately painting book covers black would imply some kind of pornographic content*. Sadly, this was not the case.  These were works from Steinbeck, Huxley, Salinger, Bellow, Fitzgerald, Hemingway, some of the western world's greatest writers. I struggled to understand a lot of it but tore into them anyway. The writing, the language was like an open door to somewhere else, where one could breathe freely and talk openly about anything. I mean anything, real things. Forbidden things.

(*The closest thing to porn was a thin book entitle Ancient Greek Eroticism, which contained a few graphic line drawings. Had it not been painted black, I would have missed this truly formative experience.)

Picture, if you will, the good reverend out in his garage spray painting book covers up against broken down cardboard.  This took some time and effort but was a rather clumsy form of censorship, since it had the opposite effect. 

After a child's lifetime filled with eavesdropping on adult dialogue awash in Christian theory and complaint, it was not hard at all to figure out why my true believer father would paint books black. The same intellect that had driven him to enjoy endless theories and interpretations on faith, love and forgiveness also piqued his interest in "worldly" literature. He had a pulse. His curiosity wasn't dead yet. But from his teenage son's point of view, the blackout collection might have just as well been painted day-glow orange.

Are You Washed In The Blood?

Any effort put into analyzing the specific behaviors of highly devout Christian men is  strictly a fool's game, though sometimes their relentless naked ambition gives them away. Take Josh Hawley, for instance. Please.

While the irrationality of religious beliefs can be absolutely endearing in the proper context (i.e. when a self-admitted lost soul finds salvation by allowing an imaginary person into their heart, and this simple ritual actually changes their life for the better for a little while), more often these strongly held religious beliefs create a short-cut to self-delusion, guilt and shame. Religion can become the gateway drug to guilt and self-loathing from there. 

Reverend Les painted those marvelous books black because he was ashamed that he enjoyed reading them.

Aberrant Behavior

Aberrant behavior among those who suffer from delusional levels of piety is not a rare thing across the great expanse of the American Bible Belt, of which Springfield is often described as the buckle.

(If Springfield isn't the buckle of the Bible Belt, is it not the buckle's frame or perhaps the prong? Further, if Springfield is, in fact, the buckle of the Bible Belt, whose pants are being held up? Next topic for Non-Believer Bible Study!)

Jerry Falwell, founder of Richard Nixon's Moral Majority was the original sinner regarding blending church and state back in the 1970s. Falwell studied at Baptist Bible College on Kearney Street. 

Shyster snake lubricant purveyor, Jim Bakker, creator of PTL Club, was an Assemblies of God preacher who was excommunicated by A/G presbyters to much national coverage right here on Boonville Avenue.

John Ashcroft, Hillcrest High School's most famous graduate, whose father was president of Evangel University, ordered breasts to be draped on statues at the Department of Justice when he became U.S. Attorney General.

Oh, and then there's the pathetically heartbreaking tale of former SMSU university president, Arthur Mallory, an all-around decent fellow who did much to promote public education in Missouri and eventually became the state's Commissioner of Education. While serving as commissioner in 1987, Mallory was caught taking wine bottles from store shelves and taking a swig or two before placing them back on the shelf. He resigned in self-disgrace immediately and sought treatment for a "drinking problem". But was it the drinking? Jesus turned water into wine, which strongly implies He sanctions its consumption. No, it wasn't the drinking.

And, of course, there's the amazing story of Tim Carpenter - Family Living Assistant Pastor from James River Assemblies of God, now known as James River Church. Tim staged his own violent self-abduction in 1998 that made front page of the News-Leader. Pastor Lindell, who still presides over the megachurch in Ozark, Missouri, led a community-wide search and rescue mission, complete with helicopters, highway signs, prayer groups and press conferences. In the end, it was nothing more than your garden variety evangelical husband covering up a covert affair and not having the guts to ask for a divorce.

Local police never bought Pastor Lindell's public relations campaign and eventually tracked Carpenter down in Memphis, Tennessee, where he had taken a job at a building supply store and had rented an apartment. You can read the whole story here: https://ozarksangel.blogspot.com/2005/07/self-abduction-of-tim-carpenter.html

Breathing Holes

One must recognize that there are, at any given time but especially now, an abundance of tortured souls struggling to find a secure place in a spectacularly over-stimulated world of joy and cruelty, heartbreak and exultation, death and destruction. For those that can afford it, employing a life coach or counselor is an option. For others, a well timed Xanax (Soma) does the trick. For many, religion is worth a shot, though history shows that religion causes as much widespread suffering as it alleviates.

Reverend Les certainly repressed the usual things Christian men tend to stifle, and we can only imagine how this struggle played out for his long-suffering wife. He did at least allow himself his personal blackout collection of "worldly" literature. Yes, it's kind of pathetic, but maybe those amazing books served as his breathing holes. They certainly were for his son.