James Campbell © 2003, 2004
When I was in high school, my family lived in Richmond, Indiana. Richmond was one of those industrial gateway cities out of the hard life of Appalachian Kentucky. And Richmond had a distinctive hillbilly air. My father used to amuse himself, and drive the rest of us to distraction, by reading aloud all the obituaries: “Beulah Mae MacWilliams, 81, born Hog’s Head, Kentucky—died Richmond, Indiana. Raymond ‘Pee Wee’ Hardy, 69, born Renfro Valley, Kentucky—died Richmond, Indiana.” You get the idea . . .
Religion in Richmond was also distinctly Appalachian. While there were some high falutin,’ high-steeple, downtown churches, most folks belonged to smaller fundamentalist congregations. My dad was the pastor of one of them—of the Pentecostal variety. And while we didn’t handle snakes or anything like that, we did have healings and visions and speaking in tongues.
The summer I turned seventeen, my parents gave me a 1967 candy apple red Plymouth Sports Fury. It was this huge boat of a car with absolutely no suspension. And my best friend, Jim, and I would cruise and whoosh and bounce all over town.
One day while driving down Chester Boulevard, toward the poor north end of the city, we noticed that a big yellow and white striped circus tent was being erected. That could only mean one thing in Richmond. The circus certainly never came to town—a tent revival was coming to town! And Jim and I were both confirmed religious thrill seekers who knew this revival would be the best show of the summer.
A few evenings later, I pulled the Plymouth into the parking lot of the tent. The front flaps were open and faced the boulevard. It was very invitational. We parked as close as we could to enjoy the show without actually participating. It was kind of like going to the drive-in.
The tent was full of poor, plain, and devoutly religious people. They looked sad. These people always looked sad to me. Suddenly, three musicians emerged from the wings and took their places as a voice intoned: “Welcome to Brother Kenny’s Hampton’s Old Time Revival! Tonight on the Hammond organ we have Sister Sylvia!” At this, Sister Sylvia pumped up the volume and gave us a flourish through the huge Leslie speakers. “And on the drums, Brother Ronnie” who gave a drum roll that finished on the hi-hat. “And on the ‘lectric guitar, Brother Billy!” Now Brother Billy was the closest thing to a rock star that Richmond got. He was young, lean, with golden hair and pearly white teeth. His rayon shirt was unbuttoned to reveal the brown fur of his chest and the glittering gold of his chains. And he had on the tightest pants I had ever seen. When he was announced, Brother Billy let loose with a Pentecostal paean à la Jimi Hendrix that vibrated my spine. Then all three joined together in a wonderful rock-a-billy rhythm that set your toes a tappin.’ And all those sad, tired people began to sway and to smile as they entered their familiar world—and their burdens, at least for a moment, seemed to lift away.
“And now, brothers and sisters, the moment you have all been waiting for, God’s man of the hour, BROTHER KENNY HAMPTON!” From stage left a fat middle-aged man with a pompadour and a cheap white suit bounded into view, shouting “Praise the Lord” as he made his way to the center. Just behind the pulpit, there was this clothes rack contraption. With one seamless movement, Brother Kenny whisked the red cape off the rack and around his own shoulders. And then he turned around dramatically to reveal the cape’s secret. There, written in large white cursive were the words “ELIJAH’S MANTLE”:
“This cape is anointed with the Spirit of Elijah! When I put on this mantle, I have the power of the prophet, the power to perform miracles!” The sense of excitement was palpable.
Brother Kenny began to build the crowd into a frenzy of religious ecstasy as he paced the platform preaching in his hypnotic Pentecostal rhythm. Suddenly struck by a spirit, he began to quake and to speak in tongues: “Hubba bubba, hubba bubba, español!” “What did he say?” I asked Jim. Before he could answer, Brother Kenny let us have it again: “Hubba bubba, hubba, bubba español!” Now, Hubba Bubba was my bubble gum of choice at the time, and Español was my favorite subject in school, and I had heard speaking in tongues my entire life and this was not it. “He’s a fake!” I declared to Jim who sat beside me giggling. Brother Kenny let loose once more: “Hubba bubba, hubba bubba, español!” Unable to control myself, I stuck my head out of the driver’s window and echoed it back to him: “Hubba bubba, hubba bubba, español!” I shouted. There was a pregnant pause in the tent. A look of confusion crossed the prophet’s face as he tried to understand what had happened. “Stop it!” Jim hissed from the passenger’s seat. Before I could even think about Jim’s advice, Brother Kenny recovered and tried once again: “Hubba bubba, hubba bubba, español!” And out the window went my head again, echoing his silly refrain. This time, Brother Kenny realized what was happening and sensing that he risked loosing control of the crowd, acted decisively. He pointed his fat finger in the direction of the Plymouth and said with authority, “There’s a demon-possessed man in that red car—right out there! Everybody pray for protection!” Well, that shut me up—at least for a while.
Triumphant, Kenny shifted gears. He morphed into something small and pitiful-looking as he told the faithful about the great expense of his ministry, how all the good people on the stage needed to be paid, and how they had been forced to buy a brand new tent since the old one had blown off a mountain in West Virginia. Ushers appeared and the people began to dig for the little money they had. Apparently the ‘haul’ was not big enough because fifteen minutes later the ushers were back. This time, Kenny laid it on even thicker. “God is speaking through me tonight. And God wants you to go to the credit unions in the morning and borrow against your house to give all the money you can to give to this ministry. How many of you love the Lord enough to sacrifice like that?” Hands popped up all over the tent. A second offering commenced and with that, the service drew to a close. But as Kenny was winding down, I was winding up.
I put my hand on the door handle. “You won’t go up there,” Jim taunted. “You just watch me,” I said as I stepped into the night.
God’s man of the hour was chatting with some of the stragglers. Being the polite boy that I was, I waited my turn. “Brother Kenny?” I finally said. “Yes son, how can I help you?”—He didn’t know who I was! How could he be a prophet when he didn’t know that the demon-possessed man was right in front of him? Emboldened, I continued, “Brother Kenny, my dad is a pastor in this city and I have seen all kinds of religious experience in my seventeen years—and this, by far, is the biggest sham I’ve ever witnessed.” Stunned horror crossed his face momentarily as people gathered to listen. And then he recovered. “What do you mean, boy?” he demanded. “Well, for starters, I didn’t see you perform any miracle. All I have seen you do is ask for money. If you ask me, I think you’re a fake.” Now I was standing with my back to the stage when suddenly I was knocked forward with such force that I staggered forward and almost hit the ground. When I turned around to see what had happened, I realized that Brother Billy, the guitar golden boy, had leapt off the stage and onto my back. With his fists up, he shouted: “Come on, boy! Come on, fight me! No one talks to the man of God like that!” Well I had to think fast because there was little doubt that Brother Billy could have kicked the crap out of me. By this time, a crowd had gathered. Despite my fear, I was suddenly focused, like a laser. I looked at Billy, then at Kenny, then at the people. “Can you imagine Jesus doing this?” I asked pointing at the enraged guitar player. The crowd looked confused. “Do you see the love of God in what just happened here? If so, then stay and give him your money. But if not, then take responsibility for your lives and go home . . . GO HOME!” There was silence for a moment. No one moved. And then Brother Kenny began to rumble: “Call the po-lice, Sylvia. Call the po-lice!” and Sylvia disappeared into the darkness.
I felt like I was in a dream. I could feel my pulse in my throat. I was dripping with sweat. But I knew I had won. With deliberation, I turned toward the parking lot and slowly walked away. As if from a distance I heard the gravel crunching under my feet; I heard Kenny behind me doing damage control; I heard the creak of the heavy car door as it opened; I heard Jim plead, “Let’s get out of here!”—And so I sat down, took a deep breath, turned the key in the ignition, backed out of the parking lot, and drove . . . I drove into the cool freedom of that summer night.