Scott Cheshire - High as the Horses' Bridles

Brother Bob Pullsey approaches him.

Bob Pullsey is a tall man, tall as two Josiahs stacked. He has the face of the men Josiah has seen sitting alone on Forest Park benches. In his sixties, Pullsey is old for an assistant servant, not yet an elder, not one of the older men of distinction, the elder shepherds of this great fleshly flock. Today he’s in charge of the onstage amplified sound.

“Brother Pullsey,” Josiah says, a little bit loud.

He’s seen before how this older man is set apart from the other older men. He’s one of them, but also not one of them, and Josiah thinks he likes that. But Pullsey makes him uneasy, too. Josiah gets a queasy feeling in his stomach sometimes when he sees men not like the others. If God rewards those who worship him, why is the old man still handling microphones and helping elder brothers half his age? Josiah doesn’t like math, but this seems like a bad equation, something doesn’t add up. He knows that God is supposed to reward.

He calls to Brother Pullsey again. But Pullsey puts a finger to his lips — Shhh, I’ll be right back — as he walks toward the pastor onstage.

The pastor, Elder Brother Thad Kizowski, is locally famous for his mid-sermon animated gestures. But his aren’t the wild gesticulations you see on Sunday morning TV. He’s not your televangelist preacher who cries and wails in an Easter-colored suit, the kind that reasons with the camera, a salesman for the divine. A serious man, Brother Kizowski is especially serious today. This is the inaugural morning worship of a half week’s convention here in a newly purchased theater. Every New York congregation, even some from out of state, friends in Christ from across the great ministerial map who have thicker wallets have focused their prayers and financial efforts on this for going on five years now. They have filled up donation boxes with children’s change, quarters, nickels, dimes, and spare adult dollar bills, and sometimes paychecks Pay to the Order of … The Lord has seen fit this year to provide them, for the first time, a place of their own for large conventions. A place to congregate, and feel as one. A new home.

Kizowski is a gray-haired Polish man who buried his father not two weeks ago, a camp survivor undone by a bathtub slip and fall. Kizowski’s hands remain motionless and at his sides for much of the time, except for when, like in karate, they cut the air to punctuate a special point or phrase. Slice upward when you speak of Heaven, to the side when you speak of Earth. Brother Kizowski, in his dog-brown suit, straightens his back and lapel, and waits for the bustle in the great room to settle. He welcomes the crowd as Bob Pullsey walks onstage.

“Good morning, brothers and sisters!”

Kizowski waves to the audience with both hands and nods at approaching Brother Pullsey. And at first they’re all of them out there wondering, even Josiah, what’s this, why is Brother Pullsey onstage with the pastor? Pullsey whispers something into the pastor’s ear …

Kizowski booms: “What a special day on God’s good Earth! Is it not?”

But now it’s clear, even kind of comic, why Pullsey is interrupting the speaker. It’s the microphone — the threaded grip has loosened, and the mic is slowly shrinking down inside its metal sleeve. With Kizowski’s hands slicing out, the way he does, and with the mic stand lowering, Kizowski appears to be growing in stature, like he’s levitating just above the floor. The mic continues to slide slowly down. A staggered laugh moves through the crowd, slightly checked but growing steadily. You never really know when to laugh in church. Especially when Kizowski’s onstage.

He steps back from the microphone to let Pullsey have his way with the stand, and he gives the audience a cold sneer. Accidental maybe, annoyed at the timing, he’s just gotten started for goodness’ sake. He pulls exaggeratedly at his collar. “Really, I mean I’m standing here telling the truth, brothers and sisters, the life-giving waters are flowing. And maybe, just maybe I’m getting carried away.” He looks up. “Is my time up already, Heavenly Father? Is this a message, the vaudeville hook? We haven’t even had the morning song and prayer yet!” And the entire theater breaks into laughter, a hearty family-table peal of laughter, laughter of relief. Kizowski’s just like us.

“But seriously, brothers and sisters. This is a very special day. Our first day in this new House of God.” He’s backed up considerably from the microphone now, hardly within its reach. Test those lungs, and talk to the cheap seats: “Can you all hear me out there?”

A throaty and high-pitched “Yes!” from the back row answers for all.

“Good,” Kizowski says. “Because I just might save your life!” Some more hesitant laughter from the crowd as Bob Pullsey continues to wrestle with the mic stand. He takes a step back and stares at the mic as if willing it to stay put. It finally does.

“Thank you, Brother Pullsey. Do all of you know Brother Pullsey? No, I’m sure you don’t. We have how many here? More than four thousand, I’m told, from all five New York boroughs. Even Kansas City! I met a sister who came all the way here from Kansas City! But state and borough lines don’t matter in here, not even your ballot! Because we’ve cast our vote for Christ, for the one true God and His Heavenly Kingdom. Let it rule from Heaven over Earth, and over His ever faithful subjects. And are we not faithful? Are we not proud of our Lord God who has paved the way for an authentic service, a fine, clean worship just like our first-century brothers and sisters? And is our God not so generous to provide for us this beautiful house to congregate and have fellowship in these Last Days? A place for us to meet, and associate, and encourage. For today we sit within the House of God!” In a stretched, extended position, he appears to be mid-dive. His pants cuffs lift, revealing three inches of hairless pink ankle. “Are we not a cared-for people? A curious people in search of the unbound soul? Are we not explorers of a true metaphysic? And who else could lead this great expedition but our one true Heavenly Father? Now let us show an appreciation for the brothers and sisters who have worked so hard to get his house ready, brothers like our Brother Pullsey. Welcome to this year’s convention, this year’s New York chapter of Brothers and Sisters in the Lord!”

There is a thundering of applause, and Kizowski himself is clapping as Bob Pullsey bows to the crowd.

* * *

Up there, in the balcony, claps Sister Hilda Famosa. She claps for the pastor, and for his speech, but looking everywhere except the stage. She’s looking around for her family. Where are her boys? The service is starting and her family is nowhere in sight. She doesn’t need this kind of aggravation. Not to mention her vertigo. The seats are so high it’s making her flushed.

No seats left on the main floor, so they had to sit in the balcony. Should’ve left the house at least an hour earlier, but nobody listens. And when you have to get two boys — no, wait, make it three because Havi brought his mejor amigo, little Issy, because his mother’s all high again, who knows where his father is, and all of them fighting for the shower this morning, plus a husband who keeps giving her trouble. Like she doesn’t have enough since Carlo Junior got his driver’s license. She’s never on time anymore. Why am I without my family? Havi and Issy said they were going to the bathroom, and that was twenty minutes ago. And so Carlo Senior went looking. You better go find mi revoltosos. And who knows where Carlo Junior is, lately chasing any rump that walks. And so their Bibles, and their jackets, and her snake-plastic purse all on the chairs beside her, so nobody tries to sit. She mumbles a prayer to herself, and wonders if this long suffering will make her a better bride for Christ.