The Mighty Morphin' Megachurch Blues
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I have been to that mountain, brothers and sisters, and let me tell you now, it is some damn sight. The parking lots stretch out of sight in all directions, shuttle buses run you down come 10:15, the stench of forty thousand tires still hot from squealing in from six or seven counties wide is overwhelming - till you see the New Cathedral, chrome and glass, bronze and steel, the mighty beacon of our God, laser-lit at night and shining in the brand new day - Glory, Lord, we are here - we done made it to the mountain.

Inside lights are spinning for the warm-up act, spotting choirs in all four corners, choirs of angels, rising up on platforms sunk down forty feet, rising, to the beat of All New Christian gospel, driven, Lord, to the back rows by some sixty thousand megawatts of power amps, speakers ten by sixteen feet, transducers under every seat - angels! Angels, Lord, in matching power blue silk robes, blondes to the North and redheads to the South, brunettes relegated to the alto regions either side - smiling while they sing, blinding those who sit too near with reflected flashes of pure light from pearly teeth, foretaste of what's beyond those Pearly Gates, no doubt, and nearer, nearer, nearer O My God, to Thee. We're up and swaying with them, shouting Amen, Yes Lord, Praise the Lord, we're coming Lord!

Then suddenly the music stops dead cold - the lights go black, the platforms sink with sighs, taking all those blue girls God knows where. Up front in the gloom the deacons glare, their wives fan sweaty thighs discreetly, as the hum of mighty air conditioners drone somewhere, nose-breathers hold their whistles, here and there a baby cries, a sexton sweeps down, whisks her off to Nursery-land, the mighty multitude awaits, and prays - silently - and sways. Look up, my People! Comes the shout. Then, from the dry-ice clouds on high, he comes!

Let me hear you say Amen! Look up and call out NOW, you people! JESUS! Down from the rafters he floats, arms wide, calling out the Name, swigging precious BLOOD of the Lamb, swinging from the Cross like Darwin's own monkey and Praising!, Praising!, Praising! - ALL God's Children gotta Praise Him! Lord! This man was fine. A shout goes up, ringing from the new steel girders of God like mission bells, ten thousand eardrums vibrate to the call, the Call, the CALL, Sweet Jesus he has given them the Call - and they have answered! Hear this, people, now. Look to your immortal soul, look for the One's gonna grab you up by the shorthairs, and Fling your soul to heaven or Smash! you down to hell - look up people and weep for the Lamb! The Time is Nigh! The Bible says - and he commences quoting, stroking that fine leather cover like a woman's breast, swings down, knee-drops, testifying, head thrown back, veins a-popping, yelling - SCREAMING - for the Lord and pointing fingers, just when you thought you could get away he nails you. You, fine sinner - YOU! Have you seen your evil ways? Have you HEARD God call and turned away? Have you? No more chances - not this time - the Word has GOT you, brother, got you by the heart and by the toes…REPENT!

And on and on it goes. Your head is fairly spirit spinning, all around you God is rising up from all this new upholstery, all the tools of that old devil turned on him, the lights, the heavy metal, smoke and sweating women, and, for all the young girls, muscle-shirted Teens for Jesus, even baggy-britches skaters, flying down the aisles on Day-Glo boards, leaping, leaving contrails shaped like crosses. All the hands are raised to catch the blessings, all the checks collected, all the grins of all this feel-good religion pass from lip to lip. We laugh, we sing, we praise the Lord for our good fortune, leave in shifts, and drift on home down empty interstates.

Can't wait, they say.

Can't wait for next week's show. Can't stand this emptiness between. Can't wait… so let's go every Wednesday night, OK?