DIARY CHARLES MOORE
Jackson, Mississippi an an American commit a mortal sin?' This question was once put to me, rhetorically, by an American Roman Catholic. He argued that his fellow coun- trymen could not accept such a final and pessimistic idea. I thought of this last week when I found myself watching an extraor- dinary television programme. Called Geraldo, presumably after its oily, mus- tachioed presenter, the thing looks like a chat show with guests, flashing lights and studio audience. But its speciality is hor- ror. When I switched on, a grotesquely fat woman with piles of dyed black hair was being interviewed. She was the lover of a man whose Christian names were John Wayne and who had murdered 33 people. Mine host asked her questions like, 'How does it feel to be the lover of one of the most horrible murderers in American his- tory?' She would answer, 'I just love him,' or, 'He's real nice to me'. Sometimes she jogged herself into saying that he was innocent, but most of the time she seemed not to believe this. Members of the audi- ence asked her how she could respect herself. She told stories about how her ex-husband used to cut her hands till he got to the bone. Geraldo then produced the woman's daughter (aged about 13) and asked her how it felt that her Mom was in love with one of the most horrible murder- ers in American history. 'It's OK,' said the girl, and, 'He's real nice to me.' I saw the same show a few days later. A woman whose teenage son had been murdered was being interviewed with a young man who had committed a murder. This, too, was presented with the same jaunty optimism that everyone has a point of view worth hearing.
Ifound a similar hopefulness in the church I attended in San Francisco. The Church of St Gregory of Nyssa has a gathered congregation (no parish) of middle-class people interested in liturgical experiment. There are drums and gongs and various dances which the priest has unearthed from early Christian practices. After the sermon, there was a period in which members of the congregation got up and said whatever they thought fitting, and in the intercessions they interpolated their own prayers. The communion leaves out the confession since the priest believes that since we have all been forgiven already there is no need to talk about sin. In this Californian version of the redemption of the world, religion has nothing but 'up- side'. Human possibilities are infinite, and good.
Even in the distinctly less experimental state of Texas, people look to faith not so much as a comfort as an opportunity. In the town of Tyler, by whose citizens I was royally entertained, God comes easily into conversation. He blesses families, friends, business endeavours. He is talked to be- fore a meal and thanked for a successful social occasion. 'I have always found Christ very attractive,' one multi-millionaire told me, in the tone of voice an Englishman might use if the word 'Christ' were re- placed by 'the Dordogne'. In this highly respectable community the idea of atheism is almost incomprehensible, and certainly not to be stated. Faith is so established a part of life that there is not the smallest embarrassment about promoting it. If men have money, they give a great deal of it to the Church, not just, as in England, for its fabric, but for its work. The danger is obviously that religion is exploited for profit. But the advantage is enormous. There is none of our feeling that it is good or holy to be inefficient. Churches are well run. They attract members by using direct mail letters, television advertising, compu- ter records. As a result, Christianity reaches Americans. This may be a nation with far too many literalists, narrow- minded bigots and religious charlatans: it is also a place where far more people try earnestly to find out what God wants them to do and to lead a Christian life.
Tyler's Baptist church, which I attended, is as plush as a good cinema, with a thick carpet, a floor sloping down to the stage (no altar, of course) and sophisti- cated lighting. Its congregation is all white. Here in Mississippi, the state with the 'It's unnerving how their eyes still follow you round the hut.' lowest economic attainments (and the most charm), it was time to see all-black Christianity. On Sunday, Dr Mary Cole- man, a black don, drove me out into the flat lands of the delta where the 'New South' (yuppiedom, equality, opportunity) has made little impression. As we drove she sang me the songs, plangent in their words and made much more so by the tear-jerking style of delivery, which are sung every Sunday in black churches. Dr Coleman told me of one woman, a particu- larly heart-rending soloist, who has a stern, harsh deacon for a husband. In church this woman sings a song about being too far from the Lord and as she does so she walks right up to her husband and sings it at him with tears pouring down her face. Black Christianity speaks of hope, too, but a dream of freedom, not its present reality.
Driving along a side road we come across a rickety, clapboard church standing alone in a field surrounded by the old cars of the congregation. Inside, the preacher is in full swing. It is Mothers' Day and he is preaching about the power of Christian example in the home. At virtually every sentence the audience cries 'Yes' or 'Amen' (pronounced Aymen), and stirs and sways with his rhythms. He strides up and down, a fairly old man, flashing gold teeth. Suddenly he pushes back his jacket as if reaching for a gun: 'If there's to be peace, I've got to be the first to put down my .45. I've got to take off that holster.' In the village of Louise, we visit the Church of God in Christ, almost equally shabby. Bible study is going on. Two groups of children, aged from four to 14, are being noisily instructed by women. A third group, of women, some with little babies, is listening to a very young minister in a white suit as he speaks about building up the local church. A woman testifies that all God's teachings must apply to her, not just to other people. God speaks to her in her car, she says, and tells her to amend her own life.
Louise has its pub, or `juke-joint', where I got the feeling that a white face is rare. The place is dark and noisy. We are greeted at the bar by one Hezekiah Jones: `Where are you from, my good friend?' 'London.' A blank look. 'I have two daughters in California. I have six daugh- ters and two sons. But one son is a scoun- booger and the other don't like me, but I treat him like he's mine and I love him. You're good people. I like good people. I ain't no roodiepoop.' A scoun-booger is a rascal, a roodiepoop is a person of no account, and Hezekiah Jones is the sort of man that modern Mississippi would prefer not to exist. I am so glad that he does.
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