YOUR WORDS CAN COME BACK to bite you in the rear end. I had a tremendous worship experience Sunday. Still basking in the afterglow, I arrived home to hear a relative tell me there were only two reasons to go to church: 1.) to catch a husband; and 2.) to network, in case you were looking for a job. You and I know IT'S SO MUCH MORE THAN THAT. His sarcasm left me cold. I just hope when they do return to bite him he has to get stitches . . .

MY DAD WAS VERY SMART. He taught me two lessons, in particular, that have stuck fast: 1.) Always carry a spare car key; and 2.) Don't take your religion to extremes. In fact, he hauled me straight to the locksmith to have a spare cut when he found I didn't have one.  I bless him for the first lesson, every time I stand outside my locked car door looking in.

But is has taken me YEARS to understand what he meant by the second. I think he was saying something like: "don't let your religious fervor lead you into hurtful behavior", e.g., thoughts, words or deeds that damage you or someone else, done with the assumption that God is standing by clapping His hands in approval.

 

Yeah, you can damage yourself with religion. Just look at the deluded people who followed Jim Jones to the death. God didn't tell us to do violence to others in his name, but to love and reason with them. I listened to a preacher talk about herding gays into a pen and waiting for them to die off, like a group of stray dogs waiting to be euthanized.  This kind of talk is UNCHRISTLIKE to the max and makes me ill.

Old Sugarloaf and Me

“If you don’t be good, that ole’ indian chief will rise from his grave on Sugarloaf Mountain an’ carry you away!” Dad’s tall tale, designed to scare a stubborn little girl into behaving, rang in my head. Now I was driving back to the rural area where I was born to climb this peak of the Cumberland Mountains. It sat practically in my back yard when I was small and still had a place in my heart, even though I had long since moved away. Six miles from Flemingsburg I arrived in Mt. Carmel, the tiny village where I lived my first seven years. A few more seconds and there was my old house, and in the back . . . the mountain. It was a living thing to me. I had never climbed it as a child, but I planned to now and perhaps, heal it, with divine help.

Dad and his brothers had also grown up in this village. He explained that the peak got its name because the summit looked like a “loaf” of sugar. The sweetener was sold in loaves before contemporary packaging. My uncles talked about climbing Sugarloaf as youths and the incredible views from the top. Dad chuckled about sitting in the loft of the family barn and watching a solitary plume of smoke rise from a still on the mountain. He loved it that no one would rat out the moonshiner to the revenue people. Most of all, Dad and my uncles told how the mountain was a sacred place to the native Americans. They had kept the land around Sugarloaf as a communal hunting area and used the peak as a burial ground for their honored chiefs.

But Sugarloaf developed a dark side. Uncle Charlie told how he had watched torches from the KKK filing up the side of the mountain as a boy. They had used it for their “trials” and even hung an African American man there. The local sheriff and deputies had staked out one of the meetings and threatened the group with swift justice in an effort to end the violence. In the 1930’s, Uncle Charlie said, archaeologists had descended on the mountain, excavated some of the graves and carted off their contents. You could still see the desecrated graves, he claimed. Such a rape of sacred space! I reasoned that if one could say prayers to cleanse a house of evil, you could do the same for a mountain. I meant to try, Lord willing.

I passed the mountain then turned down a side road that ran into the community of Pleasureville. All the country lanes were in full bloom with nodding queen anne’s lace, chicory and daisies. I intended to drive down a small road that ran parallel to the mountain, find a place to park off the road, then climb to the top. If I needed to cross any fence lines, I would, confident that I wouldn’t get caught for tresspassing. Even if I did, all I had to do was mention my family name, which was well-known in these parts, or tell the landowner that I wanted to visit the summit to get closer to God. Surely no good-hearted property owner would fault me for an honest intention to worship.

I turned down Black Diamond Lane near the Pleasureville grocery, a narrow, winding road and stared across the thick green pasture. The cedar covered hill that rose up didn’t look anything like my beloved Sugarloaf - - it seemed to rise like a mighty giant from the flat land that surrounded it. Maybe I had miscalculated the distance. I drove on down the road, staring intently at the knobby, rolling hills piled up in the distance. How did all these get here? The farther I drove, the less familiar any of these looked, and they certainly weren’t as high. I even drove through the gate of Sugarloaf Christian Camp: it was supposed to lie at the base of the mountain, but I couldn’t be sure this was the right one either. How could I lose something so big?

Then it occurred to me. I had never once seen the backside of Sugarloaf, only the side that fronted our house. Moreover, from a distance, the loaf summit was plainly visible; unlike up close, all one could see was endless undergrowth going up the slope and no distinguishing top. Perhaps the fact that Sugarloaf seemed to spring on its own from the flat land around it made it seem much taller than in reality. Frustrated, I had blown most of the day simply trying to find my way around, and I readied myself for the return trip. My pride prevented me from stopping back at the grocery to ask where the mountain began. How my brother, a seasoned mountain man, would laugh at my poor orienteering skills!

On my way back through Mt. Carmel, I looked again at Sugarloaf. I thought, "This has surely been a lesson in humility." Maybe it was God’s way of telling me to let go of my pride and ask for help when I need it. Anyhow, when I go back, and I will, I’m taking along a map, a GPS, a compass, my Bible, a prayer book and my brother, just in case all else fails.

Where To Begin?

A chanteuse, just in case you didn't know, is another word for a singer.  While my singing voice is weak, I express myself best with the music of written words, and I hope the thoughts and feelings I lay out here might strike a chord with you.  Things like the nature of faith and how to keep a sane mind in an insane world interest me most.  Comments are more than welcome:  in fact, I dearly love a good dialogue.  So, fasten your seat belt, 'cause it might be a bumpy ride.