Pilgrim in God's Country

By Chris Clevenger

What do you do with a preacher that doesn't believe in God?

It was supposed to be Clay's last pastoral position. A year or two--in and out--and he'd be on his way.

He wasn't counting on a death in the pulpit putting all his plans on hold. Between counseling a grieving church and keeping the town's homeless p

• Language: English
• Publisher: Juicebox Collective
• Release date: Apr 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781087953342

Book preview

1

It would have been a phenomenally ornate plantation home. Everything about the house was thick and antebellum. Take away the large tractors and the brand new trucks in the driveway, and you'd find yourself smack dab in the middle of Gone with the Wind. Two blue heelers dashed out of the barn behind the house as soon as Clay shut the engine off. Before he could open the door of his truck, two canine heads were bobbing up and down outside his window when a squat older gentleman with a faded denim shirt shoved in his jeans stepped out onto the porch.

Come on now. Git!

Both dogs snapped and slunk back towards the barn. Clay watched through the windshield as the man waddled down the steps. He was a short man whose torso was nearly twice the length of his legs. The way that he swung his legs from side to side to navigate the descent caused him to look like a ranch hand action figure--like his femurs had been fused to his hips. By the time he sauntered over to the truck, Clay had slid out of the driver’s seat, smoothed his shirt, and checked his hair in the side mirror.

Hey, hey! Clay called out over the hood.

He smiled the way that he always did when meeting an older church member for the first time--warm, harmless, deferential. Clay had the approachable handsomeness that is both endearing and disarming--and perfect for a young, southern minister. His hair was kept neatly trimmed, his face clean-shaven, and bright blue eyes held a kindness that matched the tenor of his words.

I bet if the window was cracked, they could have found a way to jump in.

It wouldn'ta been the first time. Those two have terrorized more than a few folks who've come around. The man extended his hand and smiled. I'm Travis.

I really appreciate y'all having me for dinner.

Of course, Travis said. Martha wouldn'ta had it any other way.

Travis was right. Martha was violently insistent on providing the height of southern hospitality. As soon as they walked through the front door, the scent of wheat straw and vanilla hit like a wave. Travis hung his farm jacket on a hook beneath a cursive monogram on the wall.

He stepped into the dining room and slid into a chair whose arms were well worn from regular use. The food was already on the table, everything in a different pyrex dish with ribbons of oil sitting on top from cream of something-or-other from a can. Like the hosts themselves and almost everything else in the room, the dinner rolls were painfully white--Sister Schubert's, a dinner party staple in the south.

Well, come on in! Martha was nearly shaking with excitement. She made her way around the table and threw her arms around Clay. She was short enough that her arms hit just about his waist, giving the impression that Martha was a pre-teen with some sort of strange aging disorder.

Thank you for fixing dinner. Your home's beautiful.

It wasn'ta bother. We're just tickled you're here. Martha rubbed Clay's arms before releasing him and pulling a chair out at the head of the table. You sit yourself here. Coffee?

Yes ma'am. That'd be fine. No matter where Clay found himself, he could always count on coffee. Even here--in this small, forgotten town in Tennessee--they offered him a cup.

Martha returned with coffee and took her seat opposite Travis and next to Clay. He was not-so-subtly surrounded—outnumbered.

Clay, would you say grace? Travis asked.

Clay nodded and started to pray, carefully choosing his words and considering the audience sitting at the table with him. They were old-school, preferring thee's, thou's, and conservative Christian vernacular.

Father, we thank thee from this bountiful meal prepared by thy hands and tabled by our dear sister, Martha. We are mindful of your gifts and the grace that thou hast bestowed upon us that we should be called your children and be born in this great nation. Please continue to bless Travis and Martha, their home. May this food be nourishment to our bodies and our bodies to thy service. In Jesus's bless-ed name, amen.

Dinner proceeded as if it had been rehearsed. Clay had fielded the same questions so many times before that he could almost script the conversation. There was something comforting about the predictability of the small talk and conversations that came with each new congregation. How long have you been preaching? led to Where were you before? and then Why aren't you married?

One of the benefits of hopping between pulpits in unincorporated, autonomous churches was that he could fine-tune his persona to better play the part with each subsequent move. Each church needed a slightly different kind of preacher. Clay had become adept at fitting the bill—whatever that might be. This would be the fourth church, the largest yet, and one where he could wait in the wings while the head pastor pulled most of the theological weight. This would be a Christian cakewalk.

To most folks, it didn't matter that he had attended an unaccredited seminary.  Granted, his lack of conviction in the more miraculous tenants of Christianity would have been an issue—had anyone known. But Clay found that, for the most part, small churches were glad to have an articulate, attractive, young pastor to keep them engaged on Sunday’s and to represent them in the community. What these churches couldn't offer in amenities and praise productions, they could make up for with the right pastor--or assistant pastor in this case.

After dinner, Travis and Martha led Clay into the parlor. The room was opposite was almost the same size as the dining room and housed a large display case along the exterior wall. The lights from a high chandelier reflected on the glass and cast stage shadows and shimmers the well-lit room. The focal point of the entire room was a grey uniform with gold trim and a matching gold cap. Beneath the uniform lay a saber and several other pieces of memorabilia.

Sergeant's uniform. For the Confederate calvary, Travis said. It was obvious from his tone of voice that his reverence for the South was nearly as strong as his faith in Jesus--maybe stronger in some sense. Clay had seen the same type of love for tradition and heritage in other people. For some, like Travis, the Civil War became a primary point of their identity.

Nathan Bedford Forrest was born right around here. Calvary mostly. One of the best men in the whole Confederacy. Beneath the display cabinet were a number of drawers. Travis pulled open the first and pointed out a handful of antique firearms displayed behind crystal clear glass.

Now, I bet you haven't seen one of these before. The second drawer slid open revealing what looked like a collection of white bedsheets. The eye holes, red tassels, and embroidery made it impossible to mistake the getup for anything other than what it really was. These belonged to my granddaddy. Daddy said that he actually met Forrest after the war. When he was leading the Klan.

Clay stared at the outfit and ran through a list of possible responses. He felt Travis’s eyes scanning him for some indication of Clay’s reaction. Whether or not it was all in humor or dead serious, Clay couldn't entirely tell. Situations like this one were nearly unavoidable among rural, conservative southerners. Religion, heritage, and tradition were so intertwined that some pastors were forced to navigate antiquated--and covertly racist--ways of thinking regularly.

The routine and repetition of conversations like this one made it easier for Clay to come up with some palatable response that wouldn't condone ignorance or injustice. Skirting the gray areas around the truth was almost second nature. This conversation had gone off-script.

Those are sure enough white, Clay said. Whitest thing I've seen in a while. He laughed and slapped Travis on the shoulder, grinning in a way intentionally designed to disarm.

Yep. Sure 'nough, Travis said.

After another hour of discussing or dodging the typical inquisition, Clay made his way towards the door. Martha’s hands barely left Clay’s arm on the way out of the house, just short of holding him there.  Clay crossed the driveway towards the truck. The air—free from the scents of dinner and barrage of questions—felt lighter than it had several hours ago. Martha stood in the doorway waving. The dogs peaked out of the barn, looking towards the house. Travis walked beside Clay who intentionally tapered his speed. 

'Preciate you coming for dinner. Made our night. The church is really glad you're here.

Of course! I haven't eaten like that in a good long while. Clay smiled, pausing with his hand on the door handle of his truck. Thank you.

Travis and Martha's homestead was just a few miles from the church. Clay rolled through town, slowed slightly at the caution light, and happened to catch both of the town's traffic lights green. A few miles past the high school, he pulled up to the church building. It looked like a huge, brick cube that God had sent down directly from heaven and planted in the middle of a Tennessean cow pasture like a divine auburn meteorite. The main entrance to the church was on the back of the structure adjacent to the parking lot. Clay pulled behind the building and pointed his truck across the parking lot towards the camper waiting at the very rear of the church property.

This was the second preaching position that Clay held while living in the camper, a 22-foot pull behind with just enough room for everything he owned. Of course, some parishioners worried about his transience, but most accepted his explanation: a philosophical cocktail of spiritual discipline and Thoreauvian simplicity. Even if they weren't familiar with Walden, he'd sell them on southern independence and self-reliance. The camper kept bills low, hid secrets well, and ensured that, if need be, relocation to another church was quick and efficient. It had certainly served him well in the past.

His fingers lined up with the well-worn spots on the handle as he opened the door. He stepped inside, listening to the familiar sound of the latch close behind him. Before collapsing onto the couch, Clay grabbed a bottle of whiskey he kept hidden under the kitchen sink. He spilled the golden liquor into a glass he stashed with the bottle.

Reclining on the couch, he took a breath of whiskey and let the conversation from dinner replay in his mind. In a denomination where few folks drank, the pastor's bottle of hooch was taboo, but it was easy enough to conceal. It helped to take the edge off the moral conundrum of ministering to people who had questionable viewpoints of non-whites and put some distance between their views and his own. Clay maintained his independence and innocence through small acts of rebellion.

He glanced out the window and watched the cows grazing in the pasture just a few yards beyond his makeshift home. The sun-kissed the western horizon, causing a pink and purple swath to spread across the sky. One thing was for sure: this gig had the best views of any he had yet enjoyed. The mountains of Alabama weren't bad and his brief stint in Arkansas was otherworldly, but nothing compared with the rolling hills and farmland south of Nashville. He’d finally been dragged into God's Country.

Headlights shone through the windows of the camper.

Fuck! Clay put the bottle away and squeezed a stream of toothpaste in his mouth. After several seconds of furious sloshing, Clay opened the front door and bounded to the ground, closing the door nonchalantly behind him.

You fergot your casserole! Martha said. She was walking towards him, a foil-covered dish held in both her hands. Cabbage casserole. It used to be Momma's favorite.

More food was the last thing on my mind when leaving your place. Clay smiled, extending both hands to receive the gift. A slightly sulfurous smell wafted up from beneath the foil and assaulted the whiskey still clinging to his sinuses.

I didn't want it to go to waste. It'll give you somethin' to eat on this week.

It'll help to get me through. Thank you. Ironically, he had managed to dodge the concoction at dinner. Now it would be taking up space in his fridge for days.

Can’t have you waistin’ away! Martha beamed. She walked back to her car, using much the same gait as Travis. Either the duo mimicked one another or had the exact same age-induced blight. At this point, it didn't matter whose injury was actual and whose was mimicry. They were a pair.

See you at service tomorrow! Don't forget the fellowship meal! Martha waved out her window as she pulled away. Clay returned the wave in kind before opening the door of the camper. He sat the casserole down on the counter and lifted one corner of the covering. The smell of cabbage was overwhelming. Clay opted to put it straight in the fridge rather than fumigate the whole camper.

The next morning Clay showered, shaved, and donned a well-fitting dark grey suit. It was modern but not too modern, expensive but not flamboyant. A crisp white shirt and a George W. Bush-blue tie completed the ensemble. On his way out the door, Clay grabbed his Bible--a thick volume covered in supple bright blue leather with red ribbons. Most pastors preferred black or brown, something classic, gothic, and conservative. This particular edition was specifically chosen to stand out and lighten any heavy doctrinal associations.

Only one car sat in the parking lot: a black, late-model Cadillac belonging to Brother John Hubbard. Brother Hubbard had pastored the 300-member congregation for the past decade. He baptized congregants, welcomed babies into the world, officiated wedding ceremonies, and put Christian corpses into the ground—from the cradle to the grave. Like most small-town pastors, he was interwoven with every aspect of life. Clay noticed the reverence that overcame people when they talked about Brother Hubbard. According to rumor, he was even the pastor-of-choice for unbelievers in town when they needed a clergyman for prayer in a hospital room or, when prayers went unanswered, at the subsequent funeral. He was passing the twilight of his pastoral career with this quiet, rural church. His early ministry had been centered on larger churches in Nashville and serving as an adjunct professor of homiletics at several Christian colleges in the southeast. A recovering workaholic in his late 80's, Brother Hubbard's wife divorced him decades ago, not for any infidelity except his preoccupation with church work. That level of devotion to Christianity only added to his reputation as one of the most committed, sincere, and dedicated pastors in the denomination.

Clay rounded the corner and knocked on the already open door to Brother Hubbard's office.

Clay! So good to see you.

Brother Hubbard straightened in his chair, shuffling the notes in front of him before folding them neatly. His full head of white hair looked almost like a halo on top of his thin frame. He was slightly frail with age but sat straight. He had yet to succumb to the stoop often associated with those his age who spend hours pouring over Bibles and other holy documents. He rose and grabbed a cane that was leaning against his desk.

Here. Put these in your pocket. We'll need them after service. He handed a small stack of silver dollars to Clay and grasped onto his shoulder. Clay could almost sense intentional endearment in a touch searching for stability.

Yes sir. I can do that. Clay put the coins in his pocket and felt his pants pull lower on one hip.

Everyone will be getting here in just a bit. Sermon's good to go, and I'll introduce you to the congregation before I get rolling this morning. That alright?

Absolutely. I'm just glad to be here.

Ha! We're glad you're here. You'll be a big help to me, especially with the younger folks.

Only if you help me with the older ones.

Both pastors laughed and walked down the hallway past a selection of paintings depicting the Stations of the Cross. Not many protestant churches--especially conservative evangelical congregations--knew of the Stations of the Cross, the fourteen gory snapshots of Jesus's path to crucifixion. No one in the church knew where this collection came from. Like most things in religion, the paintings somehow found their way in there, became an important part of church identity by association, and never left.

Travis and Martha were already in the foyer by the time that Clay and Brother Hubbard arrived at the end of the hallway. Clay had halfway expected this. Those congregants who most readily welcomed new pastors into their homes were often some of the first to arrive at the church each week. Martha immediately embraced Clay and stretched to kiss him on the cheek. Clay forced himself to bend down and receive the token of affection. She gave Brother Hubbard the same treatment.

What followed was a parade of people arriving in the fifteen-minute window before church began, their most minute differences highlighted by their racial uniformity. The congregation varied greatly in age. Older members created a cloister of folding chairs in one corner, drinking coffee and preaching about the weather, complaining about politics, and boasting about grandkids. Those grandkids tumbled around the church, followed closely by parents attempting to wrangle them while interacting with other frazzled parents. Just about every demographic was represented except for unmarried adults in their 20’s. Clay alone occupied that category. High school graduates often went off to college and never returned. They found work in Nashville, Chattanooga, or Birmingham, making the pilgrimage home only for vital family functions.

The cacophony of chit-chat waned as someone started singing in the sanctuary. Other voices joined and before Clay could wrap up a hurried greeting with a family who just walked in, the rest of the church had picked up the melody. The harmony soothed Clay, freeing him from the preamble of his Sunday responsibilities.

"The Lord is in his holy temple.

Let all the earth keep silence before him.

Keep silence. Keep silence.

Keep silence be-fore him."

Everyone found their way to a seat, most to one that they laid claim to innumerable services ago. Clay took his position right next to Brother Hubbard on the front pew for the introduction. The same high tenor led the succession of hymns and the usual brief announcements. After a prayer, the room held their breath as Brother Hubbard made his way to the pulpit. He gripped the railing hard as he climbed the steps to the stage.

Brother Hubbard folded his hands, broadcast a benevolent grin, and looked out at every member of the church as he welcomed them to worship. Peaceful saintliness fell over his face as he parted his lips in a grin. 

"Good morning, church. This is the day that the Lord