"They're calling our Lord a homosexual in movie houses right here in our town. Children of God, we've got to take a stand. It's time to fight! It's time to fight!," he bellowed in minor key.
The congregation moaned, "Ohhhhhh Go-o-od," in collective appreciation.
Of course Philpot nor any other member of WoG had seen the movie because obviously the movie was blasphemous and it would be a sin to see it. Herein lay the rub, But while a few of us blanched at the dichotomy, the vocal majority pounced on the quest like lions on a gimpy antelope.
George Deakon, a zealot to the nines, took every opportunity to step out, stand out, speak out and be sent forth. The whole idea of a Jesus impersonator who was gay made his blackened and broken teeth flail. He was on his feet jumping up and down arms in the air like a kindergartner threatened by a bowel discharge who was just out of the teacher's hearing range.
There was a definite class structure in World O' Gospel, no matter how much such labeling was formally condemned. Bro. Deakon was as dedicated to the cause as those dubbed elders, but he was treated with subtle condescension and was praised for his efforts with a tone reserved for small children.
Nevertheless he fought the good fight by volunteering to head every street crusade and any other job eschewed by the self-important leaders. He established his own quota for "Do you know the Lord" accosting and forced his too-thin, very meek wife to do the same.
It was no surprise that it was Deakon who volunteered to drive the church bus and lead the charge against the theater on the day of the film's opening. He volunteered his wife to make dozens of picket signs.
Pastor Philpot and the minor-key Mafia spent their time rallying parishioner support. "Are you going to be there Friday? Are you going?" they asked passing through the prayer room pointing to one and then another.
I had been a convert to World O' Gospel for only a year, joining up to atone for many sins of commission during the flavorful 1970s. This meant I had to prove constantly I had indeed turned my life around and was never going to return to my wayward wallowing. My best friends were other recent converts and we acted as a support group for each other when our desires threatened to overcome us.
One night I remember a fateful sermon by a backwoods guest preacher who railed at us for at least an hour. At one point, to make some kind of point, he began comparing Jesus and the church to sex with his wife. The embarrassment could be cut with a knife. The four of us began to laugh and when it reached the snort stage we took turns filing out one by one. So undone were we by the performance that I took refuge in a reefer, Sister Samantha got drunk on cooking wine and Sister Belinda had sex with another new convert, all in the same evening.
Anyway, I was signed up for the silly walk against Monty Python's satirical film. We were told that in the movie Jesus was portrayed as a known homosexual and that this was proof that the end of the world was near. No need to do next week's laundry, I thought.
On the big day a crowd had already gathered in the church parking lot by the time I arrived. Some had been there all night praying for revival of the reviled. The usual old faithfuls and most of the new converts crowded on the bus and headed to do God's will.
I had a knot in my stomach.
"Praise God, sister," said Elder Morton Pazitto, with a tone of command more than greeting. Bro. Pazitto was Philpot's first in command. He remained, as Philpot, a bit aloof and pre-occupied, looking beyond me as he spoke. He wore a serious, knowing expression and of course stayed in minor key.
"O-o-o-o-oh Go-o-o-d," he said using the prayer to break contact with me.
Upon our arrival to the movie parking lot, Bro. Deakon marched around organizing while his wife handed out signs. He brandished one that read," Jesus is not a homosexual." (Duh.) The other signs with similar themes read like a combination of doomsday prophesy and fundamentalist cookie fortunes.
I hung back until all were handed out to other demonstrators. Passing cars slowed as the prayer meeting began and as voices tuned up together like an orchestra preparing to perform Mozart's Requiem Mass. Signs bobbed and arms swatted the air in praise and petition.
"Please God, don't let anyone recognize me," I prayed guiltily...right before the media arrived.