Church Tales: Kenny Davis, You Are The DEVIL!

I’ve been called many things in my life and rightfully so by most accounts. I’ve been labeled incorrigible, wicked, mischievous, trouble/troublesome, wild, “touched” (in the head), “not right”, shameless, “crazy as hell”, “the HR Nightmare”, and so forth and so on. 

My personal favorite is the description a teacher made in reference to me in the high school Teachers’ Lounge (so I was told):

“The most predictable thing about Kenny Davis is that he’s unpredictable”. 

Yeah, I am a great many things, but one thing I am NOT, despite my impish ways, is The Devil.  Unfortunately, I’ve been called that on waaaay too many occasions.

That being said, I’m about to contradict myself by introducing a new theme to my blog series, which I’ll call, “Church Tales”.  And ain’t NONE o’ them honorable enough to give you the confidence that I’m bound for that casual escalator to Heaven on the Day of Atonement.  If anything, if I DO make it (and by the skin of my teeth), I’ll enter The Pearly Gates, desperately roller skating uphill.  On mud.  With 5 wheels missing.  Backwards.

Let’s begin, shall we?

Church Tales: Kenny Davis, You Are The DEVIL!

Tallahassee, Spring – 1987.

By this time in my college career, I was in hot pursuit of a gorgeous, caramel-skinned, long curly haired (my weakness at the time), Journalism major whose innocence made her an absolute “must have” (dang, that DOES make me sound like the devil already). 

I saw her on her way to class in Tucker Hall at Florida A&M University one day and immediately conjured the nerve to approach her.  After my introduction, I quickly found my opening to share a few laughs with her while walking her to her classroom.

I patiently waited an hour outside of her class just to greet her when it was over, much to her shock and (what she displayed to be) delight.  I missed my class as a result, but hey, sacrifices must be made…

…and I got that phone number. Let the games begin…

After days of playful phone time and hanging out in the cafeteria, I asked her out on a date, to which she agreed.  I had worked hard to keep my horns from protruding from my head (along with any other revealing “growth”) while in her presence and during conversations to ensure that my intentions remained a secret. 

Her only condition for the date was that she pick the event. 

No problem. 

No matter what she chose, the POST-date was my endgame.  My plans for her involved smooth talkin’, slow undressin’, hidden body part kissin’ and of course, my “Baby, I’m so weak.  We can’t do this” plea. But only AFTER she had reached her “Kenny, don’t stop NOW” point.

And what did she choose as the location and activity for our date?
Well, if you haven’t figured it out by the title and introduction…

…her invitation was for me to accompany her to WEDNESDAY NIGHT CHURCH SERVICE!

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Fast forward to Wednesday night church service: the two of us, standing and clapping in rhythm to a gospel song. 

Service was held in a rented space located in a strip mall north of campus.  There were about 30 people in attendance. To be honest, I thought I was standing amidst the members of some two-tambourine, one-guitar cult from the Bible Belt (in fairness, they had a lead guitar, bass guitar AND a drummer, so I’ll give them that). 

Anyway, that’s how it appeared to someone like me, who had grown up in a fully-sized church with carpet floors, stained glass windows, choir loft, pulpit and cushioned pews with plum-colored seats. Definitely a different feel.

And the pastor?  The pastor was the very same heavy set, heavy-breathing, still-had-an-early-80s-jheri-curl, oily-skinned man who had served me on many occasions at the soul food shop, located RIGHT next door to the church. 

Thank God I never acted a fool in the deli or took a date.  Or had I? My memory fails me.  Oh well.

But it gets worse (I know, the Christian in me should be telling you, “It gets better”. Sorry, not during THOSE years).  For the record, I’m not that guy today, so don’t go gathering a small mob and a bunch of stones.  This was back then…

Towards the end of service, the pastor began “seeing” the congregants’ individual needs for prayer and healing.

“I see someone…” he began, “…who is struggling with indecision.  Someone who is at a crossroads in life.  Someone who is fighting for family unity… “

Of course, someone rose and scampered to the front of the church, as I’d expected. In fact, a random person came forth with each and every “vision” he received.  Shortly after, each was blessed with the anointing oil and “laying on of hands” as he pressed his large palm firmly against their foreheads while the other hand held them in place by the nape of their neck. 

He prayed mightily before pushing each person into the waiting arms of this gargantuan bust-sized, middle-aged woman who caught them as they fell backwards, arms outstretched.

“Blessed by Breasts,” I thought to myself.

I know, I know.  Kenny Davis, you are the-

Hush.  Keep reading.

I was trying my best not to laugh because through it all, I was waiting for the traditional “man in the wheelchair” to receive his healing before struggling to his feet, eventually executing mind-boggling cartwheels back down the aisle. 

I’m sorry, y’all.  I love the Lord and always have, but I had a different agenda that day, so my heart wasn’t right.

Anyway, the pastor spoke again…

“I see someone… …who is drowning…”
(the church answered “AMEN!”)

“Fighting for air but spiraling downward in a whirlpool of sin…”
(AMEN!)

“Enslaved by LUST in the HEART and DESIRES of the FLESH…”
(AMEN!)

“It’s KENNY, right?” he asked, looking directly at me, supposedly feeling my name.

“Come on up here, son…”

“AMEN!!!!!!“

Wait.  WHAT?!?

LUST?!? ME????
(He was right, but HUSH)

I froze in shock before looking over at my so-called date with my “Woman, you set me up!” face..

She smiled, clapped and shouted “Amen” as the nearby worshipers helped me to the front.

I stood before him, associating his sweaty, greasy face with those delicious pork chops and gravy that he so skillfully cooked and served during the week.  Pavlov’s Dog syndrome made me salivate with the thought.  I guess to him, my facial expression was that of a lost soul, possessed by king demon Pazuzu, in need of exorcism.

The oiled palm reached my forehead.  In my mind, I swear I could hear the “Kali Ma” tribute chant from Indiana Jones And The Temple Of Doom as I waited for Mola Ram to remove my beating heart from my heathen chest. 

I respectfully closed my eyes as he prayed fervently for me.  I had no choice.  I had already been publicly shamed and made to look like a sleezy porn-hound, thanks to her.  I wasn’t about to insult the church as well. 

As he continued to pray I wondered what he actually knew about me. 
Had she told him what she perceived to be my intentions?
Had he already deduced my “sin state” from some past activity in his deli?

Like I said before, my memory fails me.  Oh well.

It didn’t matter, the moment had arrived.

He completed his prayer and then gave my head a soft shove as I stood with one leg braced behind the other.  Surprisingly to him, I didn’t move.  He pushed again, only harder.  I stood firm and held stronger.  He exerted even greater force, but I wasn’t budging.  The unstoppable force was about to learn that there was indeed an immovable object.

The battle continued as I fortified my stance, strengthened by the devil on my shoulder, who whispered the Wakandan war cry “Yibambe” (Zhosa for “hold strong”) in my ear.  And Yibambe I DID!  There was no explanation for my supposed reluctance to accept the Holy Spirit (and shed my original devious plan). Unless you consider that I was trying too hard to maintain my “cool”.

Seeing that he wasn’t going to win (Lord forgive me for that), he told me to turn and rest in the “bosom of mother” as he weakly rotated me to face the big-boobed woman (NOW we’re talkin’!!!) who welcomed me with outstretched arms. 

She pulled me in tight as beads of perspiration from my previous battle of wills rolled down my face. The church rejoiced, applauding and shouting in unbridled jubilation.  I held her for as long as I could, enjoying the comforts of her “pillowy” resting place as I took in her sweet, aromatic combination of perspiration, perfume and baby powder.

Shortly after, I stumbled back to my metal folding chair as my “date” received me with an additional huge hug and grin. As she held me, my arms rested down my sides in defiant expression of both betrayal and disgust (cause this “heffa” sold me out). I don’t think she caught the gesture, but I did it anyway, in hopes that she would.

---

I sat, angry, for the remainder of the church service, resigning myself to the possibility that I had a cold shower ahead of me. But it was cool.  I got what I deserved for my heathen ways.  I had plotted and schemed, as apparently had she. 

In the end, she won the day and as we all know, “you win some and you lose some”.

---

During fellowship I hugged and shook the hands of various church members as I prepared to walk my deceptive host down the street to campus and her dorm.  Before our exit, I made sure to get a second, a third, and eventually a FOURTH extended hug from “Mother Mounds” (as I had privately named her), who kissed me and told me she’d always be there for me if I needed her (and I don’t care what you say, I’m quite sure that the smile and embraces she gave me were not the same as the one she gave others).

Now, before you accuse me of being Damien Thorn in The Omen, please note that I did NOT burst into flames in there (maybe a little smoke).  No monkeys went wild at the zoo, nor was I struck by lightning as I walked home alone in the rain (which strangely didn’t fall until AFTER I dropped her off).  I DID however get horribly splashed by water as a car sped by, so I’m sure God found a subtle way to miraculously display His disapproval in me.

Thank you, Lord. I know You could easily have sent a lightning bolt. I appreciate Your kindness.

Was I wrong for my intentions and actions? Yep.

Am I in need of Jesus? Absolutely.

Did I return to that church the following Wednesday night for more healing and FEELING from Mother Mounds?

What do you think?

Kenny Davis… …you really are the DEVIL!

Coming soon…
Church Tales: “My Growing Affection”

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