The Profane Pastor

You’ve got to fuck Satan up.

Satan is fucking evil and you have to kick his ass.

Don’t be so fucking weak.

Fight the fucking temptation shit.

If Satan comes calling, you tell him to fuck off.

It’s time you and Jesus start fucking with Satan.

And so it went between a loud pastor and a whispering parishioner a table away from me in a tiny cafe not far from Coos Bay. We were the only customers on a weekday morning. I was trying to write something, but forget it with the obnoxious ministry going on.

What was the parishioner’s sin? Porn, gambling, booze, pills?

Actually I did keep writing: I recorded some of the pastor’s better lines, all of which contained profanity. His other lines were all cliches ripped off from the 700 Club teleprompter readers.

Is this what passes for personal evangelism in Coos Bay? They didn’t even have a Bible out on the table with their order of biscuits and gravy.

A half century ago I was a preacher’s kid in Oregon City. My dad never ministered to his flock like this pastor did. If only he had and I happened to overhear it! That might have forestalled atheism by at least a decade.

My dad loathed ministers who did their work in public places like restaurants or parks, where everyone within earshot had to listen to people (mostly the grandstanding preacher) performing Christianity. The work, if that is the correct word, should be done in private with humility. If you need an audience to seek within yourself, then you don’t know how to seek.

The session went on and became less interesting. I got up, left a full cup of coffee, and walked out the door.