The Flash and the Spurt

An actor prepares
by Jerry Brown
Black & White Magazine, March, 1993

Suffering a severe bout of actor's depression -- clinically defined as a blithering compulsion for Tombstone Pizzas, triple bacon-cheeseburgers and box-kegged, multi-litred buckets of Almaden swill---after losing out on the part of Martin Dysart, the elegant psychiatrist in Town & Gown's upcoming production of Equus, I decided to switch gears, disguise my wounds, deep as they were, and read for the demented preacher in BFT's next show, Some Things You Need to Know Before the World Ends (A Final Evening With the Illuminati), by Atlanta playwright/actors Larry Larson and Levi Lee.

I didn't get that one, either.

What I got was the part of Brother Lawrence, a hunchbacked, severely IQ challenged, but unshakeably faithful monk, with a limp, who has a series of bizarre, not to mention blasphemous visions.

Like the Virgin Mary, with a slight Spanish accent, in a silver lame jumpsuit. And God, in a prom dress, arriving in a Cadillac Eldorado.

Naturally, I had concerns. But my greatest fear -- other than firebombs through the lobby on opening night -- was the fact that, as a hunchback with a limp, I had to play basketball in a full hood, disguised as Death, and slam dunk a reverse 360.

What made it all bearable -- at my age, everything terrifies you -- was the enthusiasm of the director, Roger Casey, who had directed the show in Florida, and the fact that John Falkenberry had gotten the part of the deranged preacher, Reverend Eddy. Not only was John one of the highlights of BFT's production of Assassins -- among others, like Speed the Plow and Duck Variations -- but many years ago in New York I played in Otherwise Engaged with his brother, George, a production that still ranks as one of my own personal highlights.

Little did I know, however, that this amusing, if serendipitous turn from psychiatry to the scriptures would lead to one of the strangest odysseys of my life.

You should know, by manner of introduction, that I grew up in a mixed family -- my father was Episcopalian, my Mother a Baptist -- and that my earliest memories of God, as a result, are somewhat bi-religious. I listened to two, very different versions of things each Sunday morning and, as each claimed to be the only true and accurate version, I began to wonder what the gig was. I decided, after a particularly testy pair of Easter egg hunts -- "If somebody can come back from the dead, how come there can't be an easter bunny? Huh?" -- that until someone could come up with some definitive answers, I wasn't buying any of it. Still, I suspected there was something more to existence than the day to day squabbles of childhood. I could sense it, the presence of another realm, and at times I could even feel its -- well, its touch. I will also admit, at the risk of a reputation for cynicism, that at various times in my life, and while completely sober, I have seen visions and heard voices. While this is not uncommon for Southerners, and is probably the long-term effect of too much swamp gas and too many paper mills, it can be a bit unnerving for the uninitiated. Still, I always took the advice that was offered, did what I could with it and kept the details to myself.

Until now.

However, after studying the script a little more closely, I became to feel a twinge of alarm. The play is a riotous satire, not of religion or faith, but of the hypocrisy of many popular---read evangelical---forms of religious practice. And since the dialogue is rife with references to scripture and religious ceremony, I had absolutely no idea what most of it was about.

In a panic, I placed a call to the Ave Maria Grotto in Cullman, having heard there was a Benedictine monastery nearby -- at least, I thought, they must drink -- and asked to speak to whoever was in charge. I was put through to the Abbot, who was very patient, and I explained as much as I could about what I was doing. We arranged a meeting the following afternoon.

Gates of Heaven

The Abbot was waiting when I drove up and, to my surprise, he couldn't have been nicer. The monastery itself -- which, for some reason, I half expected to look like a set from Phantom of the Opera -- was surprisingly modern, with a temperate facade of cream brick and limestone. The Abbot led me into a sort of living room on the ground floor and, after I tried to explain to him how an actor prepares, he tried to explain to me how a monk lives. It didn't sound as bad as I'd thought. The only thing the Benedictines seem to do more often than get together for meals is go to church. The Abbot was relieved, I think, to discover that I wasn't a complete fruitcake and invited me to spend the weekend to observe the comings and goings.
When I arrived the following evening, I was put in the charge of Father Jose, a smallish, spry and completely delightful gentleman of 83. Born in Mexico, he had decided against being ordained when he finished his studies, and had gone to New York to become a hairdresser. He ran a successful salon, retired at 64, and only then, having had his fill of secular life, decided to enter a monastery and become ordained. A charmer and surprisingly saucy raconteur, he was definitely not what I had expected.

Father Jose instructed me and the other guests -- two young men on a pilgrimage from Birmingham-Southern College -- before each of the five, daily church services: where we should sit, when we should stand, from which book to read the responses, etc. Unfortunately, as often as I sat there, I still wasn't getting it. Brother Lawrence is a character of unshakeable faith and devotion, albeit somewhat bent, and these guys, when I could manage to eavesdrop, seemed to talk about the same kind of things we all do, with the exception, of course, of who's going out with whom.

I decided on some time alone.

Late that Saturday afternoon, during a walk through an old, overgrown part of the grounds, I came across a shrine in a grotto, one of the many located on the property, which contained a statue of the Virgin Mary. And since I lean more toward Joseph Campbell's version of the Holy Mother than I do toward Rome's, I decided to ask for a revelation, knowing, since I have the complete set of The Power of Myth on laser disc, that I didn't need a dispensation from the Vatican to get a response.

I stood before the shrine, clasped my hands and bowed my head. I asked the Virgin to show me what I was not seeing. I opened my eyes and slowly, ever so slowly raised my head. I saw the dead leaves on the ground. I saw the vines growing up and over the rocks. I saw the spider webs in the stone crevices. I saw the base of the statue and saw the dirt on it. I saw the peeling paint on the Virgin's robe, the chips, the nicks, the weather-worn cracks in the enamel. I saw the dirt and dust buried into the folds of her garment. I saw her hands, her nicked fingers, and, as I looked up, I saw her face. And what I saw, standing in that old garden, was an expression of love so complete, so forgiving, so radiant and all-encompassing, that I stepped back and felt the shock of it run all the way through my body.

And then it was gone. It was just a painted face smiling back at me. If I'd wanted a revelation, I'd just gotten one. Full force. I didn't have the chance to tell the Abbot or Father Jose what happened -- and frankly, I wasn't even sure how to tell them -- because something even stranger happened when I got back to the monastery. The monks, who had been cautious, but curious about my presence, seemed to suddenly turn cold. I told myself it was nothing personal, that it was probably just an aspect of their Saturday evening devotions, but something inside me told me it was definitely time to go. I went to my room, packed my bag and came down to wait in the main hall for the Abbot and Father Jose, who would be on their way to Complice, the evening service. It was dark and quiet and I became increasingly uncomfortable. When they finally came by, I rose to thank them and bid them good-bye. Something in their eyes told me they could sense that something had happened, but, in what I assume is the courtesy of the order, they did not ask about it.

On the drive off the monastery property, turning for a last look at the reflection of the abbey church in a small pond, I suddenly saw a wild flash of red in front of the car. I slammed on the brakes. There, in front of me, was an enormous tree lying across the road, cut down at the roots. A red and white stripped caution barrel, unlighted, was the only indication. I panicked. This was the only road out. What the hell was going on? The tree hadn't been there a half an hour before. I was sure of it. What was this? A signal? Some kind of sign? The only thing that kept going through my mind---and please forgive me---was, "Oh, my god, the Stepford Monks."

In a crash course that would have done Mario Andretti proud, I drove over sidewalks and lawns and gardens and I don't know what else to get out of there. It wasn't until I was safely on I-65 that I began to calm down.

What the hell had happened?

I didn't, and still don't know. All I could remember on the way home was the smile on the Virgin Mary. The forgiveness, the love, and the terror that followed. A new part of my psyche had definitely been breached, which, of course, was the whole point

Sex Wrong Way in Hell

Roger, the director, Melissa Lipscomb, the assistant director, and Falkenberry all took the story in stride---do people in this town just expect this sort of thing from me?---and the four of us piled into John's car the following Saturday for a visit to W.C. Rice, the visionary artist. Brother Rice has planted a "Miracal Garden," known to locals as "Cross City", on his property along a highway outside of Prattville.

"Wild, ugly, impassioned, towering, brutal, horrific---palette-wood crosses that look like they were forcibly torn, limb from limb from some living creature, splattered with red paint like something from a slasher movie, and planted, planted alongside the highway in a futuristic cityscape of jagged, life-defying, hungry, blood-drenched pinnacles---" Thus reads my first page of notes from the visit. The place, to say the least, is mind-boggling.

Brother Rice first heard the voice of the Lord when he was 30. He quotes Him as saying, "Spit that chewing tabacca right out of your mouth!" With that, Brother Rice was on the road to salvation. He started his "Miracal Garden" when the local cemetery made him remove the crosses he had installed next to his family's graves. He brought them home, each one six or seven feet tall, installed them next to the highway, and miraculously, three pine trees started growing right beside each one of them. To Brother Rice, it was a sign.

We spoke with Brother Rice that afternoon, and he gave us a few insights into "the flash and the spurt." Or to translate, the flesh and the spirit. "God, you know, he's a spurt," he told us. "And a person ain't saved, they don't hear nothin'. You got to be born agin to hear His voice. That's the way it works. And bein' saved, that's the happiest time of my whole life. A person just don't know what they're missin' that ain't saved. We still got the battles up and down, but the good part is you've got Him there to help ya'. Whereas before I didn't have nothing but the devil. I was serving the devil and the flash. I was thirty years old. I'd lived with the devil all my life. I thought there wasn't no other way. Ya' know what I mean?"

We said we did. But the thing that bugged me all the way home was something, at least to me, that seemed a little bit sinister. What was the difference between Brother Rice's vision and the ones I'd had? While I might smile at the Brother's signage -- JESUS SAVE'S, SEX WRONG WAY IN HELL -- and while my visions had been about love and compassion and his were about hellfire and damnation, I wondered if I might be missing a much more important distinction? Or more troubling, was there a distinction? And what, after all, is that part of us that sees, feels and experiences this kind of thing anyway? And why don't we all experience it?

In Illuminati, Brother Lawrence's visions usually involve someone in a peculiar costume or late model Cadillac with a message of peace and healing. And he's mocked and abused by the Reverend Eddy -- who has his own problems, thank you -- not because his visions aren't legitimate or don't follow the principles of dogma, but because, in a sea of religious fervor and paranoia, Brother Lawrence is the only one who sees them. That, I suddenly realized, is the solitude of faith. That's what the monks experience. And that's what I experienced, if only marginally, chatting merrily with my cohorts on the way home, a part of me sitting off by itself, remembering the radiance of the face on that statue and wondering, "Why me?"

The following Monday at rehearsal, with several new Bible chapters and a few hours of EWTN under my belt, I still had the hunchback and the limp to work on. Not to mention the visionary scenes where John and I, between us, play Carmen Miranda, Jack Benny and Paul Lynde and Rocky Balboa as an Ephesian contruction workers discussing the state of women.

And then there's the reverse 360.

Scripts in hand and fear in our hearts, we go at it.

"I've got it! The Flaminco!" Roger yells during the scene where John is applying for sainthood and I am hobbling, trying to be seductive, onto the top of a black coffin while wearing a red prom dress that won't zip up the back.

Roger rushes on stage like a man possessed. I watch him choreograph the moves, snapping his fingers and throwing his arms in the air, and I have another vision.

It's about my life as an actor.

This one I'll keep to myself.

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