Exodus Oktavia Brownlow

Honey, Mississippi 1968

 When it gets cold in the south, the pastor of the church reaches into the better parts of himself. These parts are mostly lies. Lies that he has told himself, and lies from others, but they are the lies that get him to do the calling that he has been divinely chosen for. 

“Hail-ridden roads are safe to drive on for those who keep Jesus close to their hearts. Who find their way to the necessity of Sunday bible study in spite of the weatherman who shouts on the radio to stay home, to only go out unless it is an emergency. But family, Jesus isan emergency. And his blood covers those who keep the fear of death, and a little ice on the pavements away from their hearts. Who keep the taste of that fear from tainting their tongues, and covering the words of the bible with the filth of that fear. Save the end of the world warnings for well-read men of the Book of Revelations, Godly men. World-ending predictions cannot be forecasted by a man whose sayings always stray. Always stay shifting this way, and that way. How can a man who claims that there will be rain tomorrow, maybe! Sunshine tomorrow, maybe! Never mind, it’ll be overcast tomorrow, ever tell you what is safe, and what isn’t? You can never trust a weatherman’s words fully, only Jesus’s, and only the men who allow Jesus to speak through them. A weatherman’s preaching is just a pretty kind of wording to the public. 

“When you preach from the deepest parts of yourself there should be a little ugliness to you, a little sweat, at least. Because the word of God is a heavy work, so you must be strong, and the back must be sturdy. The breath must be well-paced, and labored with Jesus’s love.” 

‘A glass of water on the stand to soothe the pastor’s thirst. 

‘Pristine white-cloth napkins to dab away at the pastor’s perspiration.

‘And, yes passasfrom the crowd to praise the pastor’s sermon. 

___

There are the women of the church, with their thighs biscuit-pressed-baked into the benches, baking into the next woman’s thighs. Neither one says anything because it’s cold, and the baking of their thighs together feels so nice, and warm. It is the comfort of this warmth, of the pastor’s words that keep them in a safe, heavenly kind of space that is free from the demons of their past, the pressures of their now, and their concerns of the future. In this space, there are no pants needing to be pressed, or dishes needing to be piled up with food, or hair combed out and plaited. For just a few hours, the thoughts that make them think how they ain’t so saintly after all, all quiet themselves down. 

‘Chanel No. 5 for the boujee, middle-aged women of the women. 

‘Russian fur hats for the humble, elderly-aged women of the church.

‘And for the sweet, youngest women of the church, not very much, because youth in itself is always the best kind of accessory to have.

___

There are the children of the church, who’d rather be home because they are bored by how much Jesus has been praised today. They are cold, and have been robbed of the very best part of that cold—the snow that it sometimes brings. And none of their mamas will make snow ice cream from it before it blackens and browns, or go out of their way to buy them proper gloves to play in it. There is a stinging that the children carry with them. Like the nails that Jesus felt in his hands, only the stinging is a little in their hearts, and a lot in their heads where it’ll remain without any invitation to stay. The children’s mamas are Jesus-smitten, and Pastor -pleased, so their presence is mores-so a meddlesome one. They cannot compete with such strong love and devotion. They barely even register to their mama’s minds.  

‘Laps as pillows for the smallest children of the church to rest their heads on. 

‘Pops to the backs of the napes for the biggest children of the church acting up.

‘And a piece of candy as a compromise for the in-between age children of the church, who are getting a tad restless. 

___

There are the men of the church, who also love Jesus but not as much as their wives do. Their love for Jesus is just enough to keep them from going to hell. Their strongest love is saved for the things that they can touch, and feel with their hands. Real thingsthey’d like to say to their wives, but know best to keep to themselves. Things like their jobs that they work daily at, and their homes where they go to rest in the evenings. They love their hands, and all that they can do with them.  How hands can hold forks for the eating that they adore so much. Grab ahold of their sons to play-wrestle. How their hands can slip their way over, and into their wives when all is quiet, and settled at night, to chase away the cold with the warmth their bodies can make.For the men of the church, heaven, is a thing that you can feel here, and now and not just for after you are dead and gone, no longer able to hold anything. 

‘Dress pants and button-ups for the men of the church who grew up in it. 

‘Baking soda and Vaseline as deodorant for the men of the church who tend to the fields.  

‘And a good haircut for most men of the church because dressing up for them is only a more thorough kind of clean, and they like to leave the peacocking to their wives.

___

God’s favorites are the ones who get to sit up front. Who can justifiably turn their backs against everyone behind them in betterment. Who keep their fronts faced forward, towards their betters, in hopes of receiving the best blessings. 

‘Up front, sits the pastor’s wife. 

‘Up front, sits the pastor’s mother. 

‘Up front, sits the pastor’s girlfriend. 

The pastor’s wife doesn’t very much care for the pastor’s girlfriend because she a little too big in the tit, and she knows it. What, with how she always goes out of her way to wear things to make the bigness of them known—low-cut blouses she be practically spilling out of, and tight little ole dresses she be pretty much popping out from. The pastor’s wife knows all about the filthy things that she allows her husband to do to her. How she actually enjoys these things! How every openness that’s in her or on her has become filled by him. The pastor’s girlfriend is not a woman of Godliness, only heathenness, and Godly women are supposed to spark saintliness in men, decency, and not the devilishness that hinders underneath them. 

The pastor’s girlfriend cares very much for the pastor’s wife, because she has the first lady’s seat. She ain’t the prettiest woman in the church, but what does that matter when you have so many pretty things on you? And oh, how she craves to be a Givenchy-Wearing-God-fearing woman, too. And oh, how the wife could be a little prettier if she lost a pound or twenty, if she did things for the pastor, and let him do things to her, too. No, the wife wasn’t the prettiest but she was absolutely the best cook in church, and that’s how she got to get all she has. Because men are so easily ‘suaded by the things that satisfy their bodies the most. 

The pastor’s mother doesn’t make too many thoughts over the pastor’s wife, or the pastor’s girlfriend. But the thoughts she does make are always the worst kind. How the girlfriend is much too loose, and the wife is much too tight. How the wife is too busy checking herself, and all her finery, and not tending to the home well enough. How the girlfriend is trying to get too big for her breeches, and will never be the wife, and oughta to be satisfied with what she got. How the wife wasn’t even all that good of a cook if you asked her, because her biscuits just sort of sat in your stomach for days at a time instead of passing on through like well-buttered biscuits should. How the girlfriend always has a slight smell to her breath, and a light coating of white on her tongue, and most times never knew when to shut up well enough to make this not known. And how both them, both, after all they didn’t do and yet still received, expected more from her son. How they had not given him no children to speak of, and a man needed to see his seed out in the world. How both the wife and the girlfriend were not nearly good enough for the greatness of her son, and he could’ve married better, girlfriend’ed better. How he deserved children, and maybe that would’ve took the taste out of him craving these babies’ attention so much. 

Of course, all of this is known by everyone in the church, but it’s one of those things that is never spoken about out loud. Only kept within a small space inside of themselves like the Catholics do during confession. 

___

The pastor, is beginning to close out his sermon, but there is still just a little more left for him to say. 

“When you see me dab away at my head,” and the pastor does this as a form of demonstration. “And you see the water that it leaves stained on my napkin,” again, he shows it to the church as proof. “That lets you know how heavy the truth of what I say is, how pure the words are. Look around family, are there any of us missin’? Are there any church members who did not show up today ‘cause of a lil ice on the roads? No! And that is because the weatherman does not speak for God. He speaks for the checks that he gets paid with. I speak through, and for God. In rain, sleet, snow, and hail. And I would never turn you stay away from His house where you, and your husband, and your children are always safe!” 

The pastor continues on, as if it will not have to be over with soon. He has come to love the sound of his own voice, how the congregation demands that he continue and take his time. He lets these affirmations take away the heat brewing in his body from the lower parts of himself, from the devil deep down which he tries to beat away, keep away, but can’t. He has tried to overcome this with his wife, his girlfriend, and his God. In secret, he has asked his mother to pray for him. But the trying ain’t never enough, the beating down only makes the inside parts more tender, fertile, where the devil seed grows, and rises up to bloom to become a fruit. 

Each time when he plucks the pretty, thorny, thing, eats it all up to relieve himself, something drops from its core, and a seed falls back down into him again, where a new thing will grow. Sometimes the growing is a slow sort of thing, like a persimmon on a tree, 3 or 4 years before it becomes anything at all. But lately, it’s been akin to a summer berry bush, ripening as soon as things get just a bit hot enough. The outside of it blackening, the juices like blue-blood.  

The pastor catches the eyes of a girl who is not quite a woman, yet, but a little farther off from being a girl. He looks at her quickly, but not quick enough.           

‘From the minds of the women of the church—she doesn’t even have any sitting to her, yet. 

‘From the minds of the children of the church—he stares so funnily! 

 ‘From the minds of men of the church—there ain’t even no swinging to her yet. 

‘From the minds of the pastor’s wife, the pastor’s mother, and the pastor’s girlfriend—but it will all happen soon, and she’s just so young, and just so pretty, and that’s already enough. 

And the church folks keep churching on.

‘Keep churching on, because every man has a touch of the devil to ‘em anyway, but not all men can praise Jesus as well as the pastor does. ‘Keep churching on, because no man can promise their entrances into heaven as gloriously as the pastor is able to.