The table of Christian Things.

On some mornings, as I’m entering the Town That Was, aka Scooba, I have a small (though at one time it was) visual delight, usually, to my right, just as I bump over the railroad tracks, situated all alone in front of what may very well be a defunct fire station.

And this is what my small (though at one time it was) visual delight consists of:  a faded tent, no doubt purchased “as is,” from some desperate funeral home, I imagine. Beneath the tattered green fabric sits a cheap a la Fred’s-Giving-Away-the-Store-again! plastic table precariously atop four brittle fold-out legs.

Adorning this table is a wide array of accoutrement which might slip unnoticed to the average passer-by were it not for the handmade markered poster that is taped over where I assume the name of the funeral home would be, in the middle of the awning.

The sign says in multi-colors: Christian Things.

I take this as Improvement. The first time I came across this dandy jewel of self-enterprise, the sign read: Christian Stuff.  And was written only in black magic marker.

I used to love smelling those when I was in fifth grade. I don’t know why. They certainly didn’t have the odor of authenticity that the “candy” markers did. I may well have had a slight addiction to the purple one through most of my junior high years.

Grape is as grape does, though, right?

Anyway.

So dead is what’s left of Scooba that I take perverse pleasure in driving past the nine storefront buildings that comprise its Main Street, though it’s not named Main Street. It’s named Railroad Road, no lie. This is because only one side of the street has buildings; the other side is, as you might guess, a railroad.

Though I’ve never seen a train.

I’ve never really even seen people on that street. Other than this once, I saw two kids throwing rocks at one of the empty storefronts, but as soon as I turned fully onto the street, they took off, running.

I often drive down Railroad Road out of a morbid desire to get lost somehow on my way to the office, which is simply not possible to do. That’s a real indicator of how small or dead a place is if you can’t even get lost in it.

There are, to date, only five ways to get to my office, after you turn off Highway 45. Only five. Just so you know.

If the truth is to be told, I was for the better part of this semester, merely an average passer-by, myself. I’d see this earnest man under his funeral tent, several times, with his various and sundry accoutrement, and I’d drive a little faster, to be honest.

Like everyone else who commutes to this den of education, when my classes were done and my office hours met, I wanted to get the H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks-That-Couldn’t-Find-The-Puck-If-It-Was-Glued-To-The-Blame-Stick out of town, too.

The other day, I had a different feeling about it, on my way home. And I can tell you exactly what that feeling was: guilt.

That happens to you a lot down south. You see the word “Christian”, attached to anything, and the very guilt you tried to drink into oblivion rears its ugly head and you’re compelled to pull in by the defunct fire house and get out and “peruse” his wares.

It’s time like these that you should remind yourself that God is God because He keeps quiet. Man isn’t because he wants to make a dollar.

Or, I don’t know, maybe it’s just my own personal upbringing, but it’s impossible for me to continuously drive past any sign that has the word “Christian” written on it and not feel guilty if I don’t try and contribute in some way. In this case, I was under the pretend-impression that the man was an out-of-work Jesus Freak trying to support his wife, three kids, and her sister, recently recovering from an addiction to both deadbeats and ham.

So, I pulled in. I got out of my car, thinking I’m doing a good thing here. Not even two steps toward the tent and I realize I’ve been had…or I’ve gravely misunderstood what constitutes a Christian Thing.

I was confronted, as it were, not with back-ordered Bibles, as I’d thought, or Witness Wear, a popular form of T-shirt in this buckle of the Baptist Belt. I wasn’t offered multiple copies of old Carmen CDs or the latest from Sandi Patti. There wasn’t even one of the gajillion books written by Bishop T.D. Jakes available.

No, what this man was passing off as Christian Things included several inflatables of Dora the Explorer, alligators, and what I think was, at one point, a skeleton, as well as several vinyl records, one of them from Grease, which I would have bought had I not already stolen my sister’s years ago; there were also several assortments of novelty salt-and-pepper shakers, and postcards.

Not all of which were from Mississippi.

There were, to be sure, T-shirts for sale. But they were emblazoned with 1980s tours of Whitesnake, Poison, and get this, the Oak Ridge Boys, from a concert they gave, oddly enough, in Jackson, Mississippi, one of three concerts I’ve ever attended in my life. Off in the corner of the fishing line, on which they hung, was a Tupac shirt; they seem to be ubiquitous.

Not one item was Christian, in the least. Not one thing for sell was even remotely “of the Lord.”

I don’t know if I was feeling brazen or just gleeful that the day was over and I was headed back to normal people, but I asked him where the religious paraphernalia was.

“What?”

I should have realized that paraphernalia might not have been in his vocabulary. I should have just assumed.

I took a breath, “Where are the actual, you know, Christian Things? Do you have any Bibles, or I don’t know, hymnbooks, or something?”

“Nah, I don’t have anything like that.”

“But, this is called, I mean, you call this, Christian Things, right?”

“Yeah, I know. My name’s Christian…and these are my Things. If you want, I’ll give you Dora and the alligator for one price?”

I politely refused, but it wasn’t that easy. I’d forgotten, Christians, both in faith and namesake, are a haggling breed; I should know.

I managed to get away inflatable-free, but the damage is far from done.

See, he’s right off Highway 45, the one turn I have to take, regardless of which of the five ways I drive to my office.  And this naturally, makes it less of a delight to see, on any given morning.

I’m afraid this battle has just begun.

And so, in Jesus’ name, Amen.

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