In 1954 at the age of twelve, my dad got him some religion, and figured he’d better read the Bible, one chapter a day. In no time he just knew he had consumption, followed not long after by leprosy, but the big mother of them all was “divers diseases,” because it sounded mighty bad and seemed to be snatching all kinds of folks who couldn’t have been divers, because there wasn’t all that much water in Jerusalem. To this day he considers his first run in with the Bible a “terrifying experience,” yet he felt compelled to continue.

Today my dad is Ronald K. Messer, college professor and writer. In 1954 he was just scrawny Ronnie, living with his family on a small farm in Cherokee County, South Carolina, bordered on three sides by thick, dark woods where he spent much of his time alone, figuring out the world with whatever tools he had to hand. About this time, somebody told him that if he ran as fast as he could then blew on his thumb, he’d pass out, so naturally, he had to try it. He came to on his back, apparently none the worse for wear, and knowing something he hadn’t known before. He was also neck deep in reading scary comic books, which was how the devil came to trample through his dreams every single night. Ronnie’s devil was bright red with horns, a pitchfork, and enough brimstone to put the fear in any kid. Oddly enough he never did connect the monsters in his comics with the fiend haunting his nights. However, one magic day, he decided not to read those comics anymore, only to be utterly surprised at finding himself nightmare-free.

When he wasn’t too busy dying of leprosy, Ronnie read the King James version of Matthew 5:22 which clearly states, “. . . whosoever shall say Thou fool, shall be in danger of hell fire.” That curse didn’t seem nearly as frightening as divers diseases, until the day he was driving down the street with his mother, and an elderly lady stepped into the road right in front of them. “Old Fool,” his mother said to herself. Young Ronnie stared aghast, and was down for days, thinking certain-sure his beloved mother was going to hell, but he never said a word to anyone. Matthew also yielded another gem, “ . . . whosoever shall say, Raca, shall be in danger of the council.” Apparently, the council was not nearly so formidable as hell, because one day his brother Chad made him so mad, he called him the worst thing he could think of. “Raca! Raca! Raca!” This may have been around the time he hit Chad’s incandescently sunburned back, then took off running, but I can’t be sure. Read More