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Preachin'
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Street Preaching by Steve Batson Peachtree Street in Atlanta. The center of a South reborn. Gritty and smelling of new money wrested from the hands of old enemies. The tattered gray pants and natty shirt marked him as an outsider as he stood and watched the city dwellers pass on their way to new prosperity and a brighter tomorrow. He slipped the small worn Bible out from under his coat placed the worn felt hat on the ground and began to preach. As a crowd gathered, he reminded them all of their position at the center of this new Sodom and encouraged them to change and return to the land, their families and God. The scuffed and worn hat in front of him began to catch a few pennies as he increased his intensity to match that of the crowd. Carefully watching the hat and the crowd he reminded them of the cost of having much . . . in a land of starving children. He gleaned a few pennies from the hat as he spoke of the cost of worshiping the coin of the Satan . . . the pennies quietly disappeared into the worn pants. More and more people began to crowd around for the man was very moving and his eyes flashed with the truth as he spoke. The hat continued to fill and his hand flashed into the hat to draw forth a handful of pennies and place them in the worn pocket. "Unto Caesar that which is Caesar's and unto God that which is God's," he implored. The crowd began to grow restless and started to drift off. "Run you children of the beast," he spoke, "but you who are faithful join me in a verse of Amazing Grace and help God Speed this prophet on his long and lonely journey." He picked up the hat, empty now as if by magic, save for two or three coins. He begins to sing in the cold clear voice that was like an Appalachian waterfall. "Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound..." the crowd joined him and the hat began to fill as they each felt compelled... nay driven... to drop some coins in the hat of this lonesome stranger who had appeared like a prophet of old out of the desert. The song finished and the evening approached. They drifted off to the safety of home and hearth, each grateful that he was not like the street preacher, trapped in his prison of poverty and Gods blinding vision. The lonesome whistle of the night train blew long and hard and the grit and dirt of the train yard surrounded him as he stood in the hobo jungle and watched with practiced eye for the car that would carry him to Greenville. A car with an open door and some hay. Perfect he thought. He swung himself up with practiced ease, the long limbs of the mountaineer moving with the grace of a dancer. No railroad dicks tonight, he thought. He lay back on the hay and emptied his pockets and began to count as the hypnotic click of the tracks began to play the hobo's lullaby. Six dollars and thirty-seven cents, more than enough to buy the copper, corn, and sugar he would need back in the mountains. He took off a well darned sock and carefully bound the change up in it. He placed the sock in his pocket and began to drift off to sleep. With any luck he would be in Greenville tomorrow night and home to the mountains in another half day. Secure and wealthy the Gray Fox drifted off into the long lonesome night on the soft bed of hay. |
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God Save the South - Visit our members - Join the Southern Circuit - Dixieland Ring - Heartbeat of the Southland Browse the South through the Dixieland Ring . .
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