On the Other Side

Music and photographs…doors that open to the other side, to graveyards and scrapbooks full of memories, awaiting resurrection. My violin opened the music door this week. Here’s what staggered out.

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Brothers and sisters, it’s Jubilee time in the South. Campground Revival meetings are hotter than dog days in Dixie. Bible sightings are everywhere. The air is thick with humidity and confession.

Our church just concluded one. It was an indoor event, no food on the lawn, a low-budget affair. Methodists avoid outside in August. Methodists ‘swelter’ inside on cushioned pews and in cool sanctuaries. We’re a civilized people. We only sweat when the preacher warns of the harsh conditions on ‘the other side.’

Our youthful minister is long on wind, short on color coordination. He sheds his black robe and dresses down…open collar and jacket. He takes a walk on the wild side in blue patent leather loafers and a lavender jacket with glittering sequins. The congregation forgives his fashion statement. However, it probably does little to advance his reputation with the conference bishops. His wife is conspicuously absent.

For repentance I work on perfecting the music of the spheres…with a violin. It’s not yet music, really, just a few notes resembling screams from the lower regions. My dogs flee to the other side of the house and doors slam. Even heaven cringes.

This week I’m wrestling with an oldie, “When the Roll is Called Up Yonder.” Sing along with me:

“When the trumpet of the Lord shall sound, and time shall be no more,
And the morning breaks, eternal bright and fair;
When the saved of earth shall gather over on the other shore,
When the roll is called up yonder, I’ll be there.”

I bombed out on Rock of Ages and The Old Rugged Cross. These were written by psychiatrists. They’re designed to convict the heart and open the wallet. They guarantee contrition and an overflowing collection plate. My tears of sorrow soak the horsehair bow as I glance up to the other side for affirmation. Meanwhile, black storm clouds gather on the other shore.


Country campground meetings are miracles to behold. Like Mecca, multitudes migrate. It consists of a wooden open-air ‘tabernacle’, the preaching place. Tiny ‘cabins’ with dirt and straw floors encircle it. Twice a day for a week guest evangelists with names like Brother LeRoy summon the Holy Spirit from the other side. They come with a religious fervor to collect alms and to exegete ‘The Word.’ The faithful come to sing a little, eat a lot and occasionally repent.

This is old-time religion in the South. ‘Getting saved’ is paramount, especially for wayward teens who think heaven is found on this side, especially at night. Scare tactics are prominent themes—the other side is a hellish scene. Snakes are sometimes seen to amplify the experience.

Gospel singing mingles with glossolalia. The most favored tunes tend to be Love Lifted Me, Swing Low, Sweet Chariot and Amazing Grace. It’s rumored that Newton wrote Amazing Grace not as a precept, but in remembrance of his exceptional girlfriend….if you know what I mean.

Late at night the preaching grinds down. Men slip outside and gather in small groups in the shadows. They speak in low tones and pass among themselves a small paper bag. The bag does little to disguise the contents, only the brand.

Inside the bag is another spirit. It has the peculiar power to make temporary reparation between men of all denominations. If you’ve never experienced this spirit of reconciliation, then you don’t know Jack….Black, that is.

With a surfeit of this spirit, reprobate husbands lose control of their tongues and their guilt-ridden conscious takes over. They ‘come down’ and spill the beans, exhuming things better left between themselves and the Ruler of the other side. The congregation gapes in shocked amazement and sordid amusement.

Such public revelations support legions of divorce lawyers. They lurk on the other side, busily writing legal writs to reconcile all things financial and ultimately who gets the house. Some even blame them for writing the preacher’s text. Most blame them for everything.

At week’s end the people have had all the religion they can take. They return to this side of the world with memories of the experience. I do likewise.

Before putting away my violin, I sing again When the Roll is Called Up Yonder. A light explodes in my brain. Wait, there’s no mention of violin music on the other side…only trumpets.

You already know what I’m going to do!

Bud Hearn
August 9, 2013