Renaissance Redneck in a Megachurch Pulpit

 Growing up in New Jersey, my first impression of that strange terra incognita known as Appalachia came from my high school guidance counselor. Do well in your classes and on your SATs, he’d warn us, or you’ll have to spend the next four years at Creampuff U in the back hills of Kentucky. About the same time, I was introduced to Deliverance, a terrifying film that convinced me Appalachia wasn’t only a preserve of ignorance but of violence as well. Not a place for the squeamish or for those who lacked a taste for moonshine.

When I moved to Texas and became more involved in the evangelical world, my mental landscape of Appalachia shifted to incorporate stereotypical images of fiery Pentecostal revivals, oily faith healers, and half-crazed snake handlers. Though I’ve never doubted the continued existence and manifestation of the spiritual gifts of tongues, prophecy, and healing, the stories I heard about charismatic worship in Mississippi, Alabama, and Tennessee led me to wonder if any good could come out of such seemingly anti-intellectual, unrestrained emotionalism.