Tomorrow... El Tap

“Danny, I don’t want to ever give another sermon designed to make people feel guilty. If that’s what people call a good sermon, I pray to God I never give another good sermon.”
“That’s simple, don’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“If you don’t want to give another sermon that makes people feel guilty, then don’t. Last time I checked, we didn’t have anyone telling us what we had to do or say.”
Davy looked at Danny. The stress he was experiencing was obvious. “I just–“
”I know. I know.”

It would be a couple of days before Davy and Danny would talk again. But, on the third morning, Danny opened his door and Davy stood there holding a McDonald’s bag. “I’m cooking breakfast,” he smiled.
“Good, come on in. No, better still, sit down on the porch and I’ll get the coffee pot.”
As they rocked, Danny sensed a change in Davy, a good change. His feeling was verified when Davy said, “Thank you for listening the other day. I was really down. I needed to talk and I don’t know anyone who would understand as well as you.”
“You know I’m there any time you need me. And, to be honest, I really didn’t understand what you were going through. Yes, some of your sermons were the guilt stuff–“
”Only some?”
“Yes, only some. But, I assumed when you went Baptist, you accepted that was the way it was and were willing to live with it.”
“No, it’s hard to explain. You still do what we both did when we were children, and I don’t blame you. You have no reason to see it any other way.”
“I really have no idea what you’re talking about. All I know is we grew up Catholic. You changed to Baptist. I changed to Episcopal. For me, it was no big deal. I got rid of the Pope and changed a unbelievably massive hierarchy and set of rules for a difficult to imagine hierarchy but somewhat acceptable set of rules. And no, I didn’t understand what you were saying about the guilt for gold thing, not really. I have never given a sermon that would make anyone feel guilty. I wouldn’t know how, I never tried. There was no reason for it. The Episcopal Church was like the Catholic Church, the guilt was already there. It was built in. If you were Catholic, you automatically felt guilty about something. There was no reason for me to make someone feel worse.”
Davy halfway smiled at Danny. “Okay, obviously I have you confused.”
“Now, we have found something we can agree on.”
“I’ll try to explain. There are Baptists. Then there are Baptists. Then there are other Baptists.”
Danny puffed out a smile. “Oh God, had I known it was that simple–“
”No, wait a minute. If someone goes into a Catholic church today in Rome, Georgia, they’re going to see basically the same ritual and hear somewhere about the same sermon they would hear in Rome, Italy, or Istanbul or Montego Bay, Jamacia. There won’t be a hell of a lot of difference in the Episcopal Churches in the different cities. The languages may be different, but the gist of the thing is going to be pretty much the same, agreed?”
“Agreed, the ritual especially.”
“Okay now, so far, you’re with me?”
Danny nodded.
“Alright, if six different people walk into six different Baptist churches in the same exact town, they’re going to hear six entirely different sermons, see six different ways of doing things. Forget about Rome or Istanbul or Montego Bay. I’m talking about in the same city.”
Danny just looked at Davy.
“And, Danny, those sermons can range from something kind and gentle, like you would expect to hear in a Methodist church, to a damn snake charmer bellowing hellfire and brimstone at the top of his lungs.” Davy grinned, “Of course the snake charmers tend to keep to the mountains.”
Danny nodded, “Of course. But, that still doesn’t explain–“
”Be patient, I’m getting there.”
“My first exposure to the Baptists was in the Marines. There was a chaplain at Camp Lejune who was absolutely wonderful.”
“Let me guess,“ said Danny. “The kind, gentle Methodist type.”
“Exactly,” smiled Davy. “I fell in love with what he was doing, with what he said, with the way he related to the Marines in his congregation. I loved his one-on-one. I wanted to be just like him. For a long time, I was just like him, or I hope I was like him. To me, he was Baptist and I was Baptist. It was good.”
“Then came your step-father.”
Davy nodded.
“Danny, I never for a moment saw one bit of difference between my step-father and Captain Miller, the chaplain at Camp Lejune. The two opened their mouths and magic came out. I was actually jealous of them both. But I promise you that I did not see for one minute. No, for one second what my step-father was doing. Not until Reverend Green at Green Valley. I heard him and I was disgusted. He was using the Bible to make people feel guilty. And, what really got to me was that when I was listening to Green, I was also hearing my step-father.” Tears welled up in Davy’s eyes.
“And Danny, I was hearing some of my own sermons. My own damn sermons,” he shouted.
“Danny, I heard Green and I heard the lowest rung on the religious ladder, a bottom feeder, and Danny, I was hearing me.”