The Pastor's Son

By Xlibris US

Donald Anderson has always done what he was told and always tried to be what his father wanted him to be. Up until a certain point in his life, he was living and breathing a culture he was never sure of, and he wasnt sure of his prepared destiny. He would come home one day to a devastating scenea scene that would cause his steps to take a different course, leading him from his calling as a preacher in small Bailey County to the restless streets of Salem City. There he would learn of a new life and culture with his estranged cousin, Rico Martin, the self-proclaimed slumlord, to guide him from one sin to the next and ultimately to his true self.

He would learn more about himself living a life of sin as his father would put it, then living his whole life preaching the gospel back in Bailey County. Then he meets a young woman in Salem City who would raise many questions in him about whats right and wrong in Gods eyes. She would help him to face the past he tried desperately to escape.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 14, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499054774

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

T HE ALL TOO familiar sights and sounds of holy music came with memories I thought I’d left in Bailey. But they followed me here. To another church Kelly and I found here in the city. On the outside, if one could not read the giant makeshift sign reading Christ the Living. One might mistake it for a corner grocery store or a check cashing place. You would have to be deaf and blind not to know this is a corner store church. You could actually hear the two man band when driving by. Just two guys, one on the drums and the other on the organ keys. They seemed to be a poor church but were able to afford the loudest amps and speakers one could find.

Still, no matter how loud the equipment was. The people were determined to be even louder. When the drummer speed his pace for the praise dance the people meet the moment with such vigor and reverence for the Lord and his vessel. He didn’t come out right away. I know this tactic well. He’ll wait. Wait for the hype of the moment. The people are primed and ready to believe that God will handle anything concurred with many Amens, hallelujahs, yes Lords, thank you Jesus, and a babbling that made no sense whatsoever.

Poor Kelly didn’t know what to make of it all. She leaned into me and asked in a whisper, why is that lady jumping all over the place and screaming? Is she having a seizure or what?

You can say that.

Someone should get her some help. They just keep waving their hands and standing over her, mumbling and…

No, no sweetie, that’s a wave offering and they’re praying over her. She’s been filled with the Holy Spirit.

She’s not sick?

No, she’s fine.

We sat and watched. We sat and listened. The people carried on in a holy fit, dancing and shouting and speaking in tongues and carrying on. You could tell they enjoyed themselves, and possibly did some releasing from a hard and heavy week.

After all of that, the folks began to calm down and take their seats. The two man band slowed its pace to a very relaxing tone. The hype man takes the pulpit to ease the people further and to introduce the pastor. I wondered if he was the type to get his money first or wait till afterward.

Kelly has been to church before. From what she has told me, her family didn’t go too often. I knew ministry all too well, or the one I was raised in has left me with a very critical and discerning eye. Was every pastor like my father? Probably not, or to an extent maybe they all share one or two traits.

I watched this man go into his sermon and set the tone for his flock feeding him the accolades, and the hallelujahs he needed to gauge his progress. I stopped seeing the Holy Spirit in church a long time ago, but the psychological build up and breakdown that can take place in a body of people; they helped. He didn’t set the stage alone. His ego needed the cheers. His bravado craved the accolades from the people.

I could be wrong about this one though. Maybe he is genuine in his deeds for God and his people. Kelly and I seemed to be the only ones unmoved by his words. We sat in the back with watchful eyes heavy on us.

She whispers to me I don’t think I’ve ever seen people act like this before. I have, many times growing up in my father’s church, visiting other churches in surrounding counties. I saw this sort of thing all the time. I have to admit; most preachers couldn’t hold a candle to my father, son of a pastor himself and believed preaching the gospel was a delicate art form to be marveled rather than a message from the Most High to save souls.

Do you think it’s something you can get used to? She shrugs her shoulders, don’t know then returns her attention to the pulpit. The speaker was now waiting for the people to calm down some more. I guess he’ll wait till after the service to get paid. In some cases, this wasn’t a good move. Most folks get up and leave before you could really get into your guilt trip.

This is the first time that I set foot in a church in a little more than two years. Not since I preached. Not since I sat in on my father’s last sermon ten years or so before that. Kelly doesn’t know any of this about me. We’ve been together now for about seven months and I believe she has told me as much as she wanted me to know. But the things I have to share, I’m not sure how she would receive me.

She held my hand tight like she always does when she’s uncomfortable. The speaker had been up there for a while and was setting up and leading into his climactic ending. His words didn’t move me. His words didn’t convict me whatsoever. When he spoke of shacking and fornicating outside of marriage and outside of the will of God, Kelly, I could tell, took it to heart and was clenching my hand as if her life depended on it. No one here knew us. This is our first and possibly last visit. But I had a feeling what she was feeling. Like every single word is aimed at us. Like all eyes were on us and thoughts are focused on us. I knew she felt this way, because we were not married. We were having premarital sex and living together. But they don’t know that!

The people were eating this up for all it’s worth. But my eyes were focused on the preacher. And I wondered what he was doing behind the doors of his study. Because of this, his words had no effect on me because I was used to heavy hypocrisy in ministry. But still, once again I could be wrong about this one.

The more he spoke, the more my optimism dissipated. He was a manipulator of fear. HELL IS WAITING FOR NON TITHE PAYERS. After that I was ready to go.

Leaning into Kelly hey babe, I’m about ready to go, what about you?

I asked her but I knew she was ready to leave. I could tell she was sick and tired of this nigga up there talking like we were the only sinners in the house. Hungry?

We ease out of our seats in the back row to leave and the male usher which was a first for me, tried to stop us. Sir no one can leave until the pastor dismisses the congregation.

Bullshit, excuse us. Walking out the building Kelly turns to me, you just cursed in the church.

It’s a building made by man, not by God. Not to dismiss or put all churches in that category. I haven’t been to them all. But this one and the few I have been to, led me to this conclusion. We’ll be fine, trust me, if we had paid the cover the man would have given us a pass. You hungry?

Now we’re in the car and I’m not all too sure where to go so I asked Kelly what she might like. I could go for some soul food.

Really, Soul food?

Yeah, why not?

I don’t know, I mean you normally like Chinese or Mexican, now soul food?

We can change it up.

But why the change up after church? Not to stereotype.

I left it there not to push her, but I was only joking with her. We did settle on a spot three blocks away from the church, Miss Mabel’s Soul. Never been there myself, but Kelly craved down south cuisine. The joint was homely in a sense. Nothing special, but clean with decent service.

We sat, we ordered and waited in silence. An unusual silence. She kept looking at me. Looking into me. All the while I couldn’t tell what was on her mind. I wondered what she even saw in me when she knew nothing of me other than the fact that we meet under less than romantic circumstances. She knows my name, and that’s about it from there.

Penny for your thoughts Luv. I asked her,

My thoughts, they’re of you.

Really. What then?

Who you were before now? Who you say you are right now.

Donald. Donald E. Anderson.

I know your name man, but the fact that I’ve been with you now for what, seven months. That’s it. Where are you from, your family, what? You never really told me anything about who you were before me. For all I know you could be a polygamist, psychopath.

Come on Luv, now that’s a strange combination of words.

Anything is possible.

The food comes and I feel this would only get deeper. She wouldn’t leave it alone or let it go long enough for me to forget it. I knew one day sooner or later I would have to give all of me. Not just my future but also my past.

You’ve talked about the two years you’ve lived in Salem City and that’s it. So unless you were born a grown man from out of nowhere I know there’s more to you. That one made me laugh a little. But she was right. I’ve been dancing around telling her about my past and maybe it wouldn’t be fair to keep it from her. Thing is I’m not sure how she would take it all.

If you’re worried about what I might think, or if you’ll scare me away, don’t. Like I said, unless you’re on the run for killing people I’m not going anywhere babe. I’m yours.

Once again, like always, she saw right through me. This must be; we must be something real. I began to turn my plate and arrange my drink as if its proper alignment would allow me the balls to put it all on the table and tell her all that I was.

So, babe, where are you from originally? With a smile that implied I would tell it all right then and there. Cute though. Adorable she was. And she knew it. She knew I couldn’t resist it if I wanted too and never could.

Okay, alright. Where am I from originally? My mouth fell open for a second or two and nothing was coming out of it. Kelly, I’m not all too comfortable with my own past. I am with my future right now. Tell me that counts for something.

It does. I feel it.

You feel it. Good. Then can we just leave it there and leave some things right where it is, and move on together.

I can’t move on with someone if I don’t know where they’ve been. She reaches across the table for my hands and that disarming feeling I get every time she touches me, opened the flood gates. I took a deep breath. Reached into my memories for the answers she desired. I had no idea where to start or how to start. Then it simply came to me to tell her where I come from. Originally.

*     *     *

I don’t really want to be here. I can’t remember ever being excited to stand in front of a building full of people looking to you, expecting you to talk all their problems away. Waiting for your feel good, don’t worry about the sins you’ve committed the night before sermon and send them home floating on clouds feeling closer to God.

This thing isn’t getting any easier for me. Not since my first sermon at sixteen. Now I’m twenty-three and feeling more lost than when my father first started grooming me to carry on his legacy.

When I stood from behind the desk in the pastor’s study, my legs stopped working properly like always. Short forced steps, deep breaths, and a pounding heart that spoke clearly, this, this is not your destiny, this is not who you are.

Only seventy steps from the door of my study to the pulpit. Long and loud, I could hear my own footsteps over the band, over the congregations’ shouting. This is my beginning to an end, my destiny so I’m told. My father, a son of a pastor, has been making this perfectly clear to me since I knew what preaching was. What church meant in my future and who God is in my life.

This Sunday felt heavier than normal, as I get closer to the sanctuary, and my body still won’t cooperate with me. This isn’t my first sermon but it’s becoming the worst of them all starting out, and I still haven’t made it to the pulpit. I stopped just six feet short of the doors of the sanctuary, forty two feet to the pulpit from there. I turned to look for my father who wasn’t there to push me on past those doors to preach the gospel.

I buried my father, the son of a pastor, on Saturday morning. Now I’m back here on Sunday, ready, or somewhat ready to keep my father’s legacy alive like he’d desired. No one by my side but my wife Karen of seven years, married since we were sixteen. My two young ones sit with her and one waiting to be birthed. Stair step em, get em in and outta there early per my father. His advice or demands really, even though I was an only child, conceived while my father knocked on forties door.

My mother, my mother I miss the most. She decided to leave this world quietly after my first year of marriage. Her embraces and quiet way of easing all of my pain with a kiss to my forehead, a hug to help hold back tears, hers and mine. She taught me compassion without ever saying a word. Never a there, there, hush now, momma will make it all better, make it all go away. She barely spoke words of encouragement while I was taught scripture, groomed in pulpit etiquette, being led to believe that I was meant to preach God’s word on a greater scale than that of my father, and his father before him.

Since my father wasn’t there behind me, I technically didn’t have to go in. I didn’t have to go in, I never wanted to go in but I did every single time he beckoned for me to do God’s work. I did it to his exacting. From Genesis to Revelations the Pastor’s son drilled scripture in me relentlessly without mercy.

I don’t have to anymore. I took a step back. He’s not here. He’s dead, I buried the man yesterday. They were waiting for me. The praise leader introduced me; I took another step back from this so called destiny of mine. I can leave, right now, and never look back. I’ll do it. Leave everything and everybody in this church behind and never look back. My wife and my young ones.

I clutched a book I knew better than the back of my own hand. I looked through the small window leading into the future set forth for me. Exhale all my fears and retook those two steps I lost. I walked on into the sanctuary. I had to do it; I didn’t have to like it. People do things they don’t like all the time right.

I didn’t want to preach, I didn’t want to pastor two churches, I never wanted to be my father, but here I am nonetheless, the good son to a man whose death excited me. Now I’m up here, in this pulpit, delivering a message meant to manipulate and calm the sinner in its host. I preached like daddy taught me. I gave the folks a reason for the season of giving and sowing. I charged a cover for these feel good sensations, and like my father once taught me give em a show and they shall give freely unto thee.

The second church was one hour away from Bailey in Wilson County. First Christ could hold about one hundred members. New Living only held a little over fifty, half that of New Christ. My father left New Christ to me while Karen’s father, former pastor of New Living, who didn’t have sons, left his church to me through my marriage to his fifth daughter. I never met Karen’s sisters. She didn’t talk about them at all, so I didn’t ask questions.

My father and Pastor Randall got along all too well. They spent time together planning for the days to come even after they were long gone. I would be the obedient drone to carry on a united union. Keep the legacies alive. Groom my own sons for the pulpit and absorb other churches. All the while keeping their portraits hanging in the sanctuary for all to see who started it all.

The drive was silent as always. My babies napped, and Karen peered out of her window. She was never one much for words. A quiet spirit I guess, like my mother. Our relationship was an odd one to say the least. I can’t ever remember telling her that I loved her because truthfully, I wasn’t in love with her. Odd. But I did have respect for her for the fact that she birthed my children, she worked hard around the house and she was more than good to me. But still, this union wasn’t fair to either of us. We lived with each other and slept in the same bed. But barely spoke more than fifty words to one another in a day. Our marriage was more like an agreement to have children, and maintain the image my father perceived for me. One of a godly couple, nearly sinless, almost blameless in the eyes of the people. Well; for the people’s sake.

After the first service, at the first church, my nerves had settled. And I felt more at ease. Same atmosphere and mentality only with less people. I always preached the same sermon. I always repeated myself at both churches on Sundays to conserve material in the hope that I didn’t run out. These days more and more, I have to force myself through my sermons. I find myself more and more glad to just get it over with. My father lived for it. The way the people put him on high, and praised him then gave to him; he ate it like greens on Sunday. It satisfied his belly, filled him although sometimes to me it seemed his appetite was insatiable.

I never really had a hunger for ministry. I pretty much did what I was told since I first held a Bible. Strict teachings of scripture and pulpit etiquette. I was my father’s clay, his inanimate object to mold and conform to his specifications. So much so that even after I put the man in the ground, I still followed his orders.

This service would be quick. I allowed the people to praise a little longer so that I wouldn’t have to be in the pulpit for long. I didn’t lay hands on anyone or call anyone up for prayer. There were times I felt like I might have been lying to them. They watched me with hopeful eyes in hopes that God had a word for them. If he did, he didn’t speak it through me. All I ever did was read people as best I could and tell them what I thought would lift them a little. Not today. I simply didn’t have it in me.

The service ended with ease but I anticipated getting on home. I wanted to go home, but at times I felt nothing was there for me either. I am not my father. But I lack the suppleness to play with my babies. I am not my father. But I failed to find or create intimacy with my wife. Home life was mechanical. Monotonous. Easy with the knowing that my wife would never leave me because she was programmed quite well to be the perfect wife totally submitted to her husband, her head, her minister.

At least at home I could sit on my back porch and shut myself out from all others. I’ll help get the kids to bed then I’ll be off to my own world. Karen wouldn’t mind. She never complained that I had those moments to myself. She never asked for much. She was kind to me. I don’t think she was in love me either. She just did what she was told. Faithfully.

We go through the motions. The kids are bathed and laid to bed. I kiss one child on the forehead, Karen kisses the other. Then we switch. Say our prayers, and then say our good-nights and sweet dreams. Walking out, I catch a look from Karen that I’ve never seen in her. She walks close to me while I close the kid’s bedroom door. Her hand covered mine still on the knob of the door. That’s when our eyes meet like never before. Are you, coming to bed?

Nah, I think I’m going to go out back, sit out there for a while, clear my head of some things. She then clutched both my hands and looked even deeper into my eyes. Are you okay? You don’t seem yourself.

Maybe not. Maybe you’re right.

Come to bed Husband. Come to bed with me. Let me hold you. The last time she was so very tender, was on our wedding night. She held me then. She eased me, she is my wife.

I’ll be back up in a moment. I turned to walk away and I could feel her eyes still on me watching me walk away. I could feel her stare and it burned my backside with worry. At that moment I didn’t give it a second thought and went on outside for my time of self. For that moment I was selfish. I didn’t want to think about what might have been on Karen’s mind. She needed her husband. Her husband wanted his time alone away from this holy image. That’s all this was. A holy fabricated image. One I believed had no life. Karen’s eyes told me different. I should have turned around, went back to her, and listened to her. But I kept walking down the hallway and down the stairway leading to the back of the kitchen to the outside porch for my minute. I thought to go get my father’s Bible but soon declined to the notion. Let it collect dust and rot like his bones six feet below.

My thoughts went back to Karen upstairs waiting for me. My love for her could grow someday. My life may not be so bad. I might even pack the family up and move away from this place; pack my young family up, sell the churches, the farm, and this blasted house. Start over someplace else.

Maybe.

CHAPTER 2

I COULD TELL by Kelly’s look this may have been too much for her all at once. We had been sitting in the restaurant for almost two hours and the food she’d ordered had gotten cold. This is what she wanted. She wanted me to be open and honest. Really I never lied to her, just never told her everything. Now I wonder if I might scare her away.

I don’t think I can eat this now.

I’m sorry Luv. I didn’t mean to make you lose your appetite.

I didn’t lose my, well, you were a pastor. Married with kids. Oh my God.

I know it’s a lot all at once.

You think?

But it’s the truth. That was my life then.

You know what, I’ll take this home. We can talk more at home. Better yet, let’s talk more in the morning.

We can do that. Shouldn’t open the flood gates all at one time. A little bit here and there.

Oh my God. Do you still own the house and the farm?

If it’s still there. I’ve been gone now for two years. All the papers, I left at the house. The house, the farm and the churches. When I left Bailey, I left with nothing but the suit I had on. I didn’t even bother going back to the house to pack or go through my paperwork. I didn’t want pictures of my family or anything that would remind me of them. I vanished.

How could you leave your family behind? That’s not you. That’s not the Donald I know.

That’s another long story. I didn’t leave them. I would never have left them. I don’t quite know how to tell you this part but the day I left Bailey was the day of my wife and young ones funeral.

What? I don’t know rather to be relieved or sad for you.

A little bit of both would be understood. Kelly this is lot to take in, I know. But what if we took a road trip. I got some time I can take off from work and I could use a small vacation. How does that sound to you?

Pretty good. I guess it would be good to get away. Where would we go? I might have hesitated a moment, she caught on quickly to exactly where I had in mind. She answered her own question, Bailey? You want to go back to Bailey?

Well not ‘want’ in a sense that it’s the spot to be in but to bury some things and leave some things behind. Really, so I can move on. I have so much to look forward to now.

Kelly was quick. She picked it up fast. I wanted to move on with her. Let’s take this home; we can talk more later on.

Back in Bailey I shared a big drafty house with Karen and our three young ones. A four bedroom house my parents left us with six acres of land. In that house we slept in the same bed, me on my side watching the wall. We barely, if ever touched.

With Kelly, we shared a small studio apartment. Before she moved in, it was sterile, void. But she added some nice touches here and there to make it homely and comfortable. Here and now, we couldn’t keep away from each other. A first for me to be entangled with someone, someone who wasn’t my wife who came from what some might define to be a sordid past profession. Simple things I failed to have with Karen, I cherished with Kelly. It’s a small joint. We didn’t have much. Most of its contents belong to Kelly. But in this small space we have merged, as it seems. Her skin has fused into mine. I hold her all night and her scent eases me to sleep. Her lips on the crease of my neck, and her hands lay on my chest. In our small space we became one without paperwork or a preacher. The strangest most beautiful thing I have ever known.

It was early in the morning before the new light. The air conditioner barely worked and left us to thin sheets. She lay with her head on my collar bone, curled into me. Her breathing told me she was still awake. Half awake. This would normally lead to intimate things. I was sure she had other things on her mind.

You awake Luv?

Sort off.

Where are your thoughts?

With you.

I can make the call in the morning to work if you would still like to go with me.

Okay. I still want to go. But even if I didn’t go, would you still go?

Maybe, possibly.

Are we leaving because of me.

You’re a part of it.

So if you’d never meet me?

Who knows.

Baby it’s funny how things play themselves out huh. One minute you’re preaching the gospel the next, laid up with a sinner.

We’re all sinners Luv. And have fallen short of his glory.

Is hell waiting for us then?

I don’t know. I studied scripture, preached lies, told people they would be fine so long as they paid tithes. I did what I was taught to do. So there’s a good chance hell maybe waiting for me.

Man, but what about the babies, your babies? They didn’t deserve that.

I believe they’re okay. Karen too.

Do you?

You would have to know them. Sincerely I’m not worried about them.

I’m worried about us.

Don’t.

You’re not?

I think we saved each other.

She came closer and kissed my jaw line, then again calling for my lips, her savior of sorts. Not the heat in the room or the threat of hell itself could keep us apart. We were drawn to each other. Just as the morning light came I enjoyed Kelly’s silhouette and kisses as it got brighter in the room. My sunrise, my savior.

*     *     *

I was dead tired from handling church business all of the day. I had visited two of my elderly members who had taken ill, and bedridden. I had been to the county jail house to pray for those about to be moved to more hardened penitentiaries. Paid both mortgages on the churches and made all of the utility payments.

I had scheduled a meeting with the elders but called them all to cancel. Miss Telomere, I’m going to go on home now. I’m good and beat and I just want to go home. She looked at me with concerned eyes, is there something else you have for me before I leave for the day?

No ma’am. You can leave whenever you like. Miss Telomere was like an aunt to me. She looked after the church business very carefully. She worked for my father too, and knew her way around fairly well. I gathered my things to leave and just before walking out Miss Telomere stopped me just short of the door, Pastor, when are you taking a vacation?

Not sure, hadn’t given it much thought.

It’d be nice you know, you and First Lady go somewhere for a while, leave the babies here with me and you young people go somewhere, do something, see something new.

I’ll think about it Miss… .

I remember when you were just a little boy, the sweetest little boy you never made any trouble for nothing. But you ain’t never been nowhere outside five counties. She took a few steps closer to me and pinched my nose as if I was ten again. You young people need some time alone to know one another baby.

We know each other Miss Telomere.

You know each other’s names. That’s about it, just think about it pastor. I’ll be happy to look after the babies for you when you leave.

I’ll think it over then.

Well alright then baby you go on home to your wife and rest then I’ll see you later on.

She put a smile on my face. The notion of a vacation never crossed my mind. A vacation with my wife and no children sounds kind of nice. On the drive home, the thought began to really sit with me. It was really bringing my spirits up. I really didn’t know my wife that well and all. It seemed we, well, Miss Telomere was right, it would be good to get away, just the two of us.

What is usually a long and dismal drive home had become quite pleasant thinking about taking my First Lady off for a while. I imagined her smiles and gratification. To my knowledge, she had been just as confined as me.

Two miles closer I noticed a car pulled over with someone under the hood. He was a young guy, surely not from around here. I was feeling pretty good at this point and decided to stop and help him out. When I stopped and got out of the car, I saw there were two more young men in the vehicle, all noticeably younger than myself and from out of town.

Hey brother, can I help at all?

Yeah, I don’t know what’s wrong with this muthafucker; the muthafucker just stopped on me.

That’s some kind of language, some kind of dress too. They were surely from outta town.

You see, in these old cars, if the carburetor goes dry you could have some trouble getting it to start. I went to my trunk to get my gas can. I might have had maybe two cups in it. This should get you started and hopefully up to the next gas station not even half a mile up the road. The kid had on a steel cross just like the one my father left me. I didn’t give it a second thought. It seemed to be just a coincidence at the moment. A little gas in the carburetor and they were set to go. Not even a mile on up the road and you’ll be fine. Then they were gone. Really don’t see a lot of out-of-towners around here. Without a second thought I headed on home.

Taking the gravel road leading to my front door, I noticed that the front door was open which was unusual for my house. What was Karen doing? Had she decided she needed some air while she cleaned. Still the feeling was off and unusual. When I got out of the car and started for the front door things got even more unusual. The door wasn’t open, it was kicked in. The frame was splintered to shreds when I walked in. KAREN! No answer. Things were not just out of place but thrown all over the house. I didn’t know what to think, where to start. From the foyer to the living room, the house was run through and ransacked. Into the kitchen I saw a trail of blood and my heart fell even more. KAREN! Still no answer and the silence was causing me to rush for the answer I was afraid to find. The blood trails led to the stairs at the back of the kitchen that led upstairs. I followed it, KAREN! At the top she laid still at the end of the trail. She was still. I ran over her for the kid’s room. I prayed like I never prayed before. I prayed that my young ones had escaped what their mother couldn’t, that somehow she was able to save them. Into the children’s room I found no one, until I glanced towards the closet. Then what I saw turned my legs to concrete pillars. A closet door riddled with holes. What looked like bullet holes?

I couldn’t move. For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. I had to open it. I needed to see that my young ones weren’t in there. I needed to know that they got away somehow, hid away somewhere, anywhere. I forced my hand towards the door’s handle. Then opened the door.

Oh my God the kids! Please tell me not the kids. I could hear it in Kelly’s voice; tears would follow. I hadn’t thought about that day in so long I had to fight back tears myself. "Don, I’m so sorry. Did the police ever

Reviews for The Pastor's Son

[roarer-1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Pleasing yarn, and much easier to read than I had expected.

[dougwood57 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Second only to Voltaire's Candide: Or Optimism (Penguin Classics), Henry Fielding's Joseph Andrews is the funniest, most intelligent, satirical commentary I've ever read. Actually, let's get rid of the qualifiers, Joseph Andrews is one of the two funniest books I've ever read. (I first read it in college and it introduced me to the idea that important old books could also be highly entertaining, interesting, and illuminating.)The book was first published in 1742 under the title "The History of the Adventures of Joseph Andrews, and of His Friend Mr. Abraham Adams" to some controversy. Fielding did not hesitate to poke merciless fun at just about everything 'respectable': religion, the law, lords and ladies, and sexual mores. Fielding attacked the moral hypocrisy of Joseph Richardson's popular Pamela: Or Virtue Rewarded (Oxford World's Classics). (Fielding also wrote a short work, Shamela, that was a direct response to Pamela. Shamela is often sold together with Joseph Andrews See e.g., Joseph Andrews and Shamela (Penguin Classics).) Pamela created a huge literary controversy; Shamela and Joseph Andrews were just two of many mocking responses, although few others survive (see, e.g. Anti-Pamela and Shamela).Joseph (who is Pamela's brother!) is a genial but naïve rustic and a footman in the service of Lady Booby (wink, wink, nudge, nudge). When Joseph rejects her very direct and bawdy advances, Lady Booby sends him packing. Joseph then begins walking home from London to the country to seek out (and marry) Fanny Goodwill, his lifelong sweetheart. Along the way he meets his hometown friend the amiable and forgetful Parson Abraham Adams. Parson Adams is on his way to London to sell his sermons for publication. When Adams discovers he has forgotten to pack said sermons, he and Joseph decide to travel home together. The trip is the departure point for many adventures and mishaps that expose the society's hypocrisy and inequities. Along the way, the reader meets many colorful characters whose pretensions often land them in dire circumstances - furnishing much hilarity to us.Fielding purported to aim at nothing less the invention of a new literary form, the "comic epic-poem in prose". He says in his Preface, "it may not be improper to premise a few words concerning this kind of writing, which I do not remember to have seen hitherto attempted in our language." Fielding, however, was also known to write 'serio-comic', ironic introductions to his works, so some caution is in order. Nonetheless, the Preface accurately describes his "comic epic-poem in prose" as "differing from comedy, as the serious epic from tragedy: its action being more extended and comprehensive; containing a much larger circle of incidents, and introducing a greater variety of characters. It differs from the serious romance in its fable and action, in this: that as in the one these are grave and solemn, so in the other they are light and ridiculous; it differs in its characters, by introducing persons of inferiour rank, and consequently of inferiour manners, whereas the grave romance sets the highest before us; lastly in its sentiments and diction; by preserving the ludicrous instead of the sublime."Absolutely the highest possible recommendation.

[robfucious · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

In all honestly, I'm getting rid of this tome.I would like to chuck this book at my college professor who assigned it to us for Short Stories and Literature. He praised the book six ways to Sunday, claiming nothing short of this book being written by Divine sources.I believe he meant Infernal.There was nothing remotely funny (as he said) or interesting about the story, the characters...not to mention that I went from a high B to a low D because he based the final on nothing but Joseph Andrews.He must've been Fielding in a former life.

[stillatim · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Richardson seems to me to be a prig; Defoe completely insufferable; Swift and Pope perhaps too smarmy even for me. And I like smarm. According to the introduction Fielding's meant to be more conservative than Richardson (these novels both take their main characters from Richardson's 'Pamela'), but as far as I can tell, this is an almost meaningless statement. Unlike Richardson and his characters, Fielding and his are warm and kind; Fielding attacks the stupidities of human kind that need attacking, and he's smarter than everyone. As for the story, it must be better if you've read 'Pamela,' but since that's almost impossible to do, I recommend just skipping to 'Joseph Andrews' and getting to know a couple of wonderful people.

[osbaldistone · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is a fine work both to allow the reader insight into England in the 18th century away from court and cathedral, and to provide a peek into the early invention of the English novel.Fielding's characters paint a vivid picture of how well, or how poorly, people reside within their assigned class levels. Parson Adams, though often playing the naive fool, establishes an expectation of noble Christian behaviour against which Fielding's 'Canterbury Tale'-like characters can be measured. At the same time, Fielding uses Adams to allow the title character to evolve from the pure innocent, who falls into difficulty, to become resurrected as the fully realized, real-life hero.As a story of life among the lower and middle classes, this is a fine read. But I found the brilliant excellent construction of this novel to be a real eye-opener as far as the development of the early novel is concerned.

[antiquary_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I recall it as being amusing but I read it 40 years ago so details are vague.

[seriousgrace · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Joseph Andrews starts off as a parable of the Good Samaritan with chastity and charity the central themes. Main character Joseph Andrews is a footman for Lady Booby. When her husband dies suddenly, Joseph is forced to ward off her amorous advances. In an effort to get away from Mrs. Booby Joseph travels to see his true love, Fanny. Along the way he is robbed and beaten but no one wants to help him. Sound familiar? It seems as if Fielding is fixated on responding to Samuel Richardson's Pamela. There are other ties to Pamela. Fielding makes Pamela the brother of Joseph.Along Joseph's journey is accompanied by tutor and pastor Mr. Adams. A large chunk of History of the Adventures is Parson Adams's adventures.As an aside, what is up with all the goofy names? Mrs. Slipslop, Mrs. Booby, Tow-Wouse, Peter Pounce, Gaffar and Gammar Andrews, to name a few.

[readingrat_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A classic comedy of errors.

[martinbodek · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

I've read Cervantes. I've reviewed Lyly. I've perused Nashe. Defoe was an admiree of mine. Andrews, you're no Cervantes, Lyly, Nashe, Defoe - or Swift.

[mbmackay · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Written in 1742, this book is remarkably modern. Beautifully exaggerated caricatures of key players and Mrs Slipsop as a later Mrs Malaprop. Written as a send-up of Pamela, it still works long after the target has been forgotten. Read April 2009.