by Ken Abraham
Bo looked up as his dad moved through the living room on his way to Eddie’s room. His eyes went wide and he swallowed hard, clearly understanding Eddie’s coming punishment.
Jim entered Eddie’s room without knocking. He shut the door behind him.
Eddie sat on the bed, pretending to read a sports magazine while trying to ignore the hickory switch in his dad’s hand.
“Hey, Dad,” Eddie said amiably. “Have a seat.” He nodded to his bed.
Jim did not sit down. “Son, I want to talk to you about what happened today.”
Eddie dropped his eyes. “Yes, sir.”
“Bend over.” Jim did all the talking from that point. He also did the switching. Jim swatted where he knew it would hurt the most—on the back of Eddie’s thighs.
The whoosh! of the switch traveling at a rapid speed and the whap! of it connecting with Eddie’s thighs could be heard throughout the small house. Betty sat in her easy chair, sipping her coffee and reading the Bible. With each swat of the switch against Eddie’s flesh, her stomach churned. She closed her eyes and tried not to listen, but Eddie’s bedroom door could not silence the hickory stick’s contact with her son’s flesh or the sounds of his cries. She leaned over and turned up the volume on the George Beverly Shea album playing on the phonograph.
She glanced toward her daughters, who busied themselves in the kitchen, pretending they didn’t notice the beating. But they too flinched with every swat. Even Bo grimaced as the hickory stick slapped Eddie’s bare skin.
Finally, it was over. Jim emerged from Eddie’s room and looked back at his younger son lying on the bed, choking back sobs. He stepped into the living room, glared at Betty and Bo, who briefly looked up and then returned to what they were doing, as though everything was normal. Jim stood motionless for a moment. Then he announced: “I’m going out to the garage.” He stormed through the living room and out the kitchen door, as Delilah and Debbie quickly moved out of his way.
It wasn’t the first time Jim had whipped Eddie with the switch. Disobedience in the Sherlin home often brought out the hickory stick. When Eddie delayed too long coming in from shooting baskets or one of the girls disobeyed Betty or Jim or Bo back talked once too often, the switch made an appearance. Although the switch was sometimes a reflection of Jim and Betty’s own frustrations in life, their sincere desire was to raise children who respected the laws of God and man. They were convinced the biblical proverb “Spare the rod and spoil the child” was true, so they took that aspect of parenting quite seriously.
Eddie didn’t awaken on Sunday morning to the swish of a basketball slipping through a net. Instead, he woke up to the nightmarish memories of the whoosh of the hickory switch making contact with his thighs.
Jim Sherlin’s voice broke through the quietness. “Let’s go, you guys. Time for church. Mom’s got your oatmeal on the table. Get a move on.”
The sounds of Betty’s gospel quartet music playing on the phonograph greeted the Sherlin siblings who were still rubbing their sleepy eyes as they slowly made their way into the kitchen. “Mornin’, Mama,” each one dutifully offered.
“Good morning. Let’s go. Eat and then get on your Sunday clothes. We can’t be late for church. Daddy’s got to meet with the choir before service this morning, so we need to be there even earlier than usual. Hurry, please!”
Eddie gulped down his oatmeal and hurried to his room, where he put on a clean pair of pants, a white shirt, and a necktie. He bent over and crammed his feet into the black church shoes his mom had bought for him last year. They were already too tight and didn’t help his gimpy walk one bit.
Bo dressed in much the same way, wearing a slightly larger version of Eddie’s church outfit. The girls, of course, wore their finest flowing cotton dresses and patent leather shoes reserved for Sundays.
Decked out in a dark suit, white shirt, and bright orange tie, Jim Sherlin held the door for his family as they exited the house and piled into their car for the quick drive across town to the Assembly of God church. Wearing a high-necked dress with long sleeves, Betty Sherlin sat stiffly in the front seat and adjusted her beret-style hat that served as her head covering. Most of the “spiritually mature” women who attended the Assembly of God church felt it inappropriate to be seen in a church service without something covering their heads, indicating their respect for biblical doctrine and church traditions. Nobody in the church dared suggest that Saint Paul’s admonition that women should not be seen in church without a head covering had a cultural meaning in his day that had long since been lost to believers in the twentieth century. Quite the contrary. “Saintly” members of the church considered women who refused to wear a hat or some sort of covering on their heads as “loose women” who probably went to dances and smoked cigarettes too.
The pressure exerted by his sisters and brother squeezing into the backseat with him exacerbated the stinging in Eddie’s legs. He didn’t say anything, but he was glad the trip to the church on South Water Street was a short five-minute ride. Jim parked the car between a lined space—their usual spot—in front of a small sign that read Choir Director. The Sherlins arrived well before the service began, piled out of the car, and headed inside the sanctuary. Eddie limped along behind the others.
About the same time, across town, Bill and Tyree Ligon, also dressed in their best Sunday suits, were hobbling into the Original Church of God in much the same manner as Eddie. Although Officer Barton had not spoken to Anna Ligon about the boys’ escapade, she had somehow heard about it. Anna Ligon was not a woman to be trifled with. She was as strict with Bill and Tyree and their sister, Delores, as the Sherlins were with their kids—maybe even more so. Anna’s husband, William Sr., had left the family when Bill was very young, forcing her to be both mom and dad to the kids, and she played both roles superbly. Thankfully, Anna’s mama, Callie Bennett Bransford, lived nearby, as did other relatives, so they all watched out for the Ligon children and made sure they behaved. And when they didn’t, Anna wielded a strong hickory switch as punishment.
Also, the Original Church of God, the “sanctified” church where Anna’s family worshiped on Pace Street, was attended by fewer than thirty people, all coloreds, so everyone knew everyone and everybody watched out for one another. The adults especially kept their eyes on the kids. The congregation was much like an extended family. Bill and Tyree never could have gotten in trouble with the police without their mama finding out.
The Ligon family members were faithful to the Original Church of God and held a profound respect for their pastor, Lula Mae Swanson, a no-nonsense gospel preacher who served three other area churches as well. Pastor Lula Mae, a bishop in her domination, was a small, dark-skinned woman with a slight build. Always impeccably dressed in a black, blue, or white business suit with a matching hat, Bishop Swanson was both a concerned minister and a shrewd businesswoman. In addition to preaching, she managed the first Negro-owned nursing home in Middle Tennessee.
Bishop Swanson was a dynamic speaker, and when she preached, people listened; when she sang, they swooned at her beautiful voice. She had a forceful personality and a quick wit, combined with an abundance of charm. She also hosted and preached on a radio show on WHIN for which Bill and his family members sang gospel songs along with her. Bill’s grandmother, Callie Bransford, prayed down the glory, and, of course, Bishop Swanson always read the Bible and presented words of encouragement.
Sunday morning church service at the Original Church of God was an exuberant experience. Even for people like Bill, who preferred his religion on the quieter side, the energy and spirit of the people—not to mention the Spirit of the Lord—created a contagious atmosphere of hope.
A Hammond B-3 organ played by a middle-aged Negro man backed up, echoed, reiterated, or otherwise responded to everything Sister Lula Mae said from the pulpit. “Let’s have some lively testimonies this morning!” said the pastor, followed by a riff on the B-3 to emphasize her point. “I mean current and lively testimonies,” Bishop
Swanson said. “I’m glad the Lord saved your soul a long time ago, and we’re glad he brought you out of Egypt into Canaan, but what has he done for you this week? Come on, now, get up and tell us!”
Sister Lula Mae didn’t have to beg for witnesses. Men and women popped up all over the sanctuary to tell of what God had done for them over the past seven days.
“I was sick and the Lord made me well,” one woman said.
“I got me a new job, glory to God,” a man in his forties said.
Punctuating each testimony, the Hammond organ added a musical “Amen.”
“My child was having trouble hearing, but Sister Lula Mae and Sister Bransford, thank God for her, prayed for my baby. And today, my little girl can hear!” The small crowd burst into applause and cheers.
With the entire congregation now on its feet, Bishop Swanson looked over the room. “That’s so good to hear from the mamas and the daddies, but where are my young-uns? What’s the good Lord done for you this week?” Her searing gaze searched the room for a young witness, and finding none, Bishop Swanson was not above calling on someone. “Brother William. Young Brother Bill Ligon. What has God done for you this week?”
Taken aback by Sister Lula Mae’s question, Bill did not have a prepared answer. But he knew better than to be silent when the pastor made a special request. “Well, er, uh . . . the good Lord brought me here to church today to hear the Word,” Bill finally said.
The B-3 roared its approval and the audience cheered. Sister Lula Mae looked down from the pulpit and smiled at Bill. All was well with the world.
Inside the simply decorated Assembly of God sanctuary, Eddie and Bo Sherlin sat quietly toward the front on one of the pine-colored pews with padded red cushions. “I hate sitting up so close in church,” Bo leaned over and whispered to Eddie.
“I know what you mean,” Eddie replied. “But you heard what Dad said. He told us to plant ourselves on one of the pews up front.” Both boys would have much preferred a back-row seat, but with Eddie’s whipping still fresh in their minds, they weren’t about to press their luck.
Jim Sherlin stood in front of the choir, composed of about twenty middle-aged women and a few elderly gentlemen, along with two teenage girls and one teenage boy with closely cropped hair. Of course, Betty, Delilah, and Debbie sang in Jim’s choir as well. Jim and Betty occasionally sang together with another couple in a gospel quartet, so they had some experience singing in public. And similar to most churches in the Nashville area, a few of the choir singers were quite good—practically professional quality. Many of the others in the choir were mediocre “gospel wannabees” who regularly attended Wally Fowler’s All-Night Singing, a live radio show broadcast on WSM from the Ryman Auditorium, home of the Grand Ole Opry.
The choir members showed up on Sunday mornings excited to try some of the vocal gymnastics exhibited by the gospel pros. Usually, the results were less than pleasing, but Jim always reassured his choir members. “Christians are instructed to sing and make melody in our hearts,” he said, “and to make a joyful noise unto the Lord.”
Joyful? Maybe. On key? That was another matter.
Following some lively congregational singing, the choir stood to perform “How Great Thou Art,” the number they had practiced especially for the morning service. Jim Sherlin stepped up and smiled at several of the women in the front row of the choir. He didn’t use a conductor’s wand to lead the choir. Instead, he used his hands to keep time and employed exaggerated physical gyrations of his body to help emphasize the music’s swells and crescendos.
The choir sang the majestic anthem as though they were singing at Carnegie Hall in front of thousands of people, rather than in Gallatin before the small but enthusiastic crowd of slightly more than one hundred all-white worshipers. When the choir came to the third verse, Jim nodded toward Violet Johnson, a pretty woman in her late thirties, to sing that stanza as a solo. Wearing a provocative scoop-necked dress, Violet smiled at the choir leader appreciatively.
Nobody else noticed the interchange between the choir director and one of his prize pupils—nobody but Betty Sherlin.
Reverend M. C. Daley, a fireplug of a man and a fireball of a preacher with a loud, gravel-throated voice, brought a powerful message that morning about the prodigal son. Preacher Daley believed in “full-body preaching.” He didn’t merely speak the Word; he flailed his arms, banged on the pulpit to emphasize his point, and even sometimes stomped his foot. The congregation responded with equal excitement and enthusiasm, occasionally shouting out “Praise the Lord!” or “Preach it, Brother!” or whatever came to mind. Some people stood up in the middle of the sermon. Every so often when someone really got “in the Spirit,” they would run a quick lap around the inside of the sanctuary and then back to the front of the church. The more unusual expressions on the part of the parishioners sometimes frightened Eddie.
Preacher Daley railed against the sins of drinking and carousing and “whoremongering” in which the prodigal son engaged after demanding and receiving his portion of his father’s inheritance while the father was still alive. “And after that boy had wasted all of his daddy’s money on riotous living, he found himself in the pigpen of life!” Preacher Daley bellowed. “There he was, looking at the mush and sayin’, ‘Mmm-mmm, that stuff looks mighty good. But wait a minute! Even my daddy’s servants have better food than that. I’m gonna get up and go back home and tell my daddy that I have sinned.’”
Reverend Daley looked right into Eddie’s eyes as he preached about sin. Eddie squirmed. He felt the man of God was staring straight into his heart. Eddie always felt nervous in church. He feared that he might slide right into hell in the midst of every service. He assumed that he could never be clean enough—never quite good enough to satisfy God. To lessen his sense of conviction, he stared at the cross behind the choir loft and avoided looking at the preacher’s face. But looking at the cross only heightened Eddie’s sense of guilt.
Reverend Daley preached on, shedding his jacket somewhere in the middle of his message, walking down among the congregants, pointing his finger in various faces, and then finally returning to the pulpit to conclude his sermon. Pastor Daley didn’t merely preach to impart information, he expected his listeners to respond.
“The choir will now sing hymn number 214, ‘Just As I Am,’” he said. The preacher lowered his voice to a sonorous tone and implored: “If you’ve never come home to your heavenly Father, today might be your day. You come.” He nodded toward the altar railing with a padded step at the front of the church, where several people seeking God were already kneeling to pray. “You may have been out there with the pigs. Your heavenly Father still loves you. Don’t wait another moment. You ain’t gonna get any cleaner on your own. While the choir sings, come and ask God to clean you up.”
Eddie fidgeted as the congregation stood to sing.
Jim Sherlin was already in position, motioning the choir to stand as the organist played the well-known, evocative invitational hymn sung at the close of Billy Graham crusades. Several more members of the congregation made their way to the kneeling rail while the choir sang the first, second, and last verses.
The service concluded, and Eddie felt relieved to have survived another altar call without losing his composure. With all the thoughts and emotions he experienced these days, it was getting tougher each week to escape the searing eye of Reverend Daley. Worse yet, it was almost time for the annual revival, during which the congregation participated in at least a week of services geared toward the evangelism of unbelievers and the rededication of believers. Eddie knew his folks would require him to attend every evening. He shuddered as he thought about it.
Following the service, Reverend Daley and his wife greeted the members of the congregation as they made their way out of the church. While people stood in line to shake hands with the pastor or hug his wife, the members interacted among themselves.
“Wasn’t it a wonderful service?” Francine Smithfield said to Betty Sherlin.
“Oh, yes, it was.” Betty smiled at Francine. Betty smiled at several more parishioners as they inched along toward the pastor standing in the doorway.
“That was a fantastic song you all sang this morning,” an elderly woman said to Jim.
“Thank you, Sister Miriam,” Jim answered. “And didn’t Sister Violet do well on the solo part?”
“She certainly did. That girl can sing like a birdie.”
Standing next to Jim but turned slightly away from Sister Miriam’s gaze, Betty Sherlin rolled her eyes. Oh, yes, Violet is definitely some chickadee.
The Sherlins greeted the preacher and his wife and then made their way toward their car. They were no sooner inside the vehicle with the doors closed before Betty’s smile turned to a scowl.
“And why did you have to let her sing?” Betty spat, refusing to look at her husband.
“Wha . . . ?” Jim put the car in drive and headed out of the church’s parking lot. “Who are you talking about?”
“You know perfectly well who I am talking about. Why did you have to give that slut a solo?”
“Betty! Watch your mouth. Not in front of the kids. And besides, she is not a . . . she’s not that. She’s had a rough time since her husband left her, that’s all.”
“She looked pretty smooth this morning. And it was plain to see that you couldn’t keep your eyes off her. Have you been stopping in to visit her on your insurance route? I’m sure she would love to see you.”
“I don’t even know where she lives.”
“And she can’t even sing. If she didn’t dress like a whore, nobody would even pay attention to her.”
“Betty! I’m warning you.”
Betty turned her head and stared out the window. “You could have given the solo to me. You know I can sing, buster.”
“Yes, Betty, I know you can sing,” Jim growled. “You are a great singer. You have no reason to be jealous. I wanted to give Violet a chance.”
