John Sayles - A Moment in the Sun

The subject is the Lost World.

“The Spirit of God tells us that we shall carry our memory with us into the Hereafter,” says Moody, lifting his iron gaze to the volunteers standing by the rear of the tent, still whispering among themselves. “Memory is God’s officer, and when He shall touch these secret springs and say, ‘ Son, daughter, remember ’—then tramp, tramp, tramp will come before us, in a long procession, all the sins we have ever committed.”

The whisperers fall silent, not sure whether to retreat or hold their ground. “Do you think Cain has forgotten the face of his murdered brother, whom he killed six thousand years ago? Do you think Judas has forgotten that kiss with which he betrayed his Master? Do you think when the judgment came upon Sodom that those wicked men were taken into the presence of God, or did they find themselves in the other, darker realm, in the Lost World of Hell itself?”

Mam made him swear upon the Bible — Earl can feel the dry leather in his hand — to walk the path of Righteousness no matter where the Army might take him. That she is back in Arkansas, breathing still, is a comfort, for if the dead can indeed look down upon the living, oh, Lord, the sins she be witness to!

“Many in that Lost World would give millions, if they had them,” Moody continues, “would beseech their sainted mothers to pray them out of that place — but all too late. They have been neglecting salvation until the time has come when God says, ‘ Cut them down, the day of mercy has ended! ’ ”

A note of laughter from the men standing by the entrance. Moody does not deign to look their way.

“You may make sport of ministers, but bear in mind there will be no preaching of the Gospel in that Lost World. There are some people who ridicule these revival meetings, but remember, there will be no revivals in Hell.”

Little Earl wonders is there a rope, a line of barbed wire perhaps, that separates black and white sinners in Satan’s realm? Or will their bodies be hurled unsorted, stewed together like offal in a cauldron, and that wicked proximity yet another torture they must bear? And in the place above, should he somehow rise to see it, will his people there be asked to sit to the left, crowded on unpainted benches?

“A deacon was one day passing a saloon as a young man was coming out, and thinking to make sport of him, the young man called out, ‘Deacon, how far is it to Hell?’ ” A chuckle from the audience as they sense what is coming.

“The deacon gave no answer, but after riding a few rods he turned to look after the scoffer, and found the man’s horse had thrown him and broken his neck. I tell you, my friends, I would sooner give my right hand than to trifle with Eternal things.”

At least, if what the lieutenant said is true, they won’t be going right away. There is time to repent. It strikes Little Earl that timing figures larger in the stories the preachers tell than the amount of wickedness engaged in — a monster of lechery pardoned at death’s door while a Godly man might transgress only once, but if struck down leaving the address of sin, be cursed forever.

In Missoula he sported with most all of the women who made themselves available outside the Fort every payday, before settling on the Man-killer sisters, Jewel and Ortha, Flathead girls who weren’t really red. Copper maybe, with long, coarse black hair that took his breath away sliding against his bare stomach and strong legs that didn’t let you loose till it was finished. Ortha was moody while Jewel was gay, but both knew your company and rank and called you soldier—“ Get those trousers off, soldier ”—and Jewel even gave Elijah Barnes a free one to celebrate when he made corporal. Then the one in the Chattanooga house he visited a couple times, dark little thing with the beautiful eyes who called him Daddy and could bend herself like a pretzel and now the whole shooting gallery available over in Ybor, Francine with huge breasts that have a life of their own, pillowing his ears as she works on top of him or Zeidy who snarls words in Spanish he doesn’t understand but thrill him all the same and Caridad his exact same shade like they were formed from the same patch of clay and Esther who could pass for white or the skinny Chinese girl the guys call Poon Tang with her nipples like the tips of his little fingers or any of the other ones, all shades and all sizes, all the other ones he’s looked at but never tried in Ybor or here in Tampa City.

Little Earl shifts on the bench to cover the evidence of this line of thought. Moody seems to be looking directly at him.

“We are trying to win you to Christ,” says the man with the patriarch’s beard, sincere, forceful, singling Little Earl out from the others. Can the man read minds?

“If you go forth from this tent straight to Hell, you will remember this meeting, and the golden opportunity we have offered you here. For in that Lost World you won’t hear the beautiful hymn Jesus of Nazareth Passeth By , no, He will already have passed by. There will be no sweet songs of Zion there, only the mournful lamentations of the eternally condemned. If you neglect this salvation, oh sinner, how will you escape? Remember that Christ stands right here—” Moody holds his arm out to indicate the Redeemer is standing only feet away from him, “—here in this assembly tonight, offering redemption to every soul. For the reaping time is upon us, brothers and sisters — if you sow the flesh you must reap corruption! If you sow the wind you must reap the whirlwind!”

The evangelist pauses dramatically, and Little Earl can hear the life on the street beyond the tent, hear horses passing and carriage wheels rolling, the drunken shouts of men, can hear, as if they are calling to him, the brazen voices of the women of the night. They are out there, a hundred Jezebels, no, a thousand, waiting with eager lips and soft skin, with enticing words, with—

Moody changes tone.

“I was called once to the bedside of a dying man, a man who had tried to follow the word of God but let the opinion of his worldly acquaintances obstruct his progress, a man who had turned away from the Light to bask in the false warmth of his comrades’ admiration. ‘You need not pray for me,’ he said, ‘for my damnation is sealed.’

“Nevertheless I fell upon my knees and tried to speak with the Almighty, hoping in His charity He might comfort a sinner come to the final day — but my prayers did not go higher than my head, as if Heaven above me was like brass. ‘The harvest is gone,’ said the poor unfortunate from his bed, ‘the summer is ended, and I am not saved.’ ”

Moody turns his lion-like head slowly, seeming to look deeply into the soul of every person in the tent, black and white. He speaks softly, sadly, yet such is the silence in the tent that even Little Earl, crammed in the rear of the colored wedge, can hear his every word. “He lived a Christless life, he died a Christless death, we wrapped him in a Christless shroud and bore him away to a Christless grave.”

The Golden Orator of Chicago slams his hand down on the top of the podium. “ Fly to the arms of Jesus this hour! There is yet time! You can be saved if you will!”

And then the choir, bursting into song with Sankey’s beautiful voice rising above the others, the man nearly blind now but God-possessed, calling them, calling them forward to Glory—

What means this eager, anxious throng

Which moves with busy haste along,

These wondrous gath’rings day by day,

What means this strange commotion, pray?

In accents hushed the throng reply,

“Jesus of Nazereth passeth by!”