Revelations from the Sanctuary Floor

by Casey Thompson

Jesus Is King

When early Christians proclaimed “Jesus is Lord,” they did so in part to negate the pretensions of anyone else. Jesus is Lord — not Caesar, not Zeus, not Peter or any of the other disciples. Today, we make the same vow in our baptisms. “Do you accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior,” we say, and though the Book of Order doesn't specify an answer, it's presumed you'll say yes. Jesus is Lord. It's so important to us that many churches even take up the assertion in their name, though they change it a bit: Christ the King.

Christ is king — not money, not power, not government. In Memphis , it's wise to add another pretender to the throne — not Elvis.

Last August during Death Week (that time in Memphis when we commemorate the anniversary of Elvis' death), I'm sitting in the pulpit when the pastor next to me starts giggling. We don't giggle much at Idlewild. Smirk, yes. Hearty laughter, yes. Giggling though is just too low church for us.

My friend leans over and whispers, “Elvis is in the house.”

“What?”

“Elvis is in the house.”

I look up. Two thirds of the way back, there he is, an Elvis impersonator looking through the bulletin. I giggle. When he lowers his bulletin, I give a hearty laugh. He's wearing a clerical collar.

I'm not sure I pay appropriate attention to God during the following hour of worship. After all, there's Elvis confessing his sin. There's Elvis, passing the peace. There's Elvis, singing “Come Thou Font of Every blessing.” And there's Elvis, the king of rock 'n' roll, standing the affirm the faith of his ancestors. All in all, a surreal experience, like watching Shakespeare do his laundry or Jane Austen rebuilding a carburetor.

Following the service, he shakes my hand at the back of the sanctuary, “I'm Dorian Baxter.”

“I believe you're a visitor with us this morning.”

“Yes, I am,” he says, “I'm delighted to be here. The service was beautiful. Really lovely. Thank you.”

“I couldn't help but notice your collar.”

“Yes. I'm the archbishop of Yorke, an ordained priest in the Anglican church of Canada. The only priest in the world who also does Elvis. I've been doing Elvis for thirty years now.”

He hands me two business cards. The first reads “The Most Rev'd. Lord, Archbishop of Yorke, Dorian Arthur Baxter B.A., O.T.C, M.Div.” The second, “Elvis Priestley, Bishop of Beale Street.” It catalogues his other honorifics as well.

“You're an honorary member of the Memphis City Council?!"

“Yes,” he replies with a lopsided smile, “they gave me that honor last year.”

I squint my eyes at him to better size him up. Could he possibly be serious? I assume from his response that he's seen this look before.

“Are there two people we love more than Elvis and Jesus? I just try to make Christ known by bringing a little fun to it. I love impersonating Elvis and I love talking about Christ.” He was serious. He was also genuinely nice.

Two nights later, I'd experience the Elvis phenomenon a little differently. Two seminarians I know drag me to Graceland for the vigil. They don't have to drag too hard. Following Sunday, I was eager to see more.

The street in front of Graceland has been turned into holy ground. Shrines dot the pavement. Candles, quick and alive, offer glimpses of Elvises (Elvii?) peaking out from record covers, black velvet portraits, even icons. Attentive pilgrims are dressed in jumpsuits, diamond studded shades, with cigarettes dripping from their fingers, and beers grasped in their other hands. They sport mutton-chop sideburns — some giving the impression that they've been carefully manicured, some the impression that the wearer can't be bothered to shave.

The pilgrims speak in whispers. The vigil has begun.

Past the gates of Graceland, a river of candles flows toward the grave, a silent phalanx, quietly attending to the memory of a man. A hushed spirit presides, ripe with wonder, the envy of every pastor who longs for such a sacred ache at Sunday morning worship.

I don't know how to take it, quite frankly. Jesus has left the building.

Despite Colonel Parker's assertions, Elvis is not king. Maybe of rock 'n' roll, but not of this — the Spirit.

I'm confronted on one hand with a man of deep faith, who manages to marry the joy of his faith with a joy he finds in Elvis, and on the other hand by a misplaced longing of people to experience the sacred through a mere mortal. We call the first a unique vocation. We call the second idolatry. And, no, they aren't that far apart.

St. Augustine wrote, “Thou hast made us for thyself, O Lord, and our hearts are restless until they find their rest in thee.” And that's the difference, isn't it? When our desires for other things distort our desire for God, we've slipped into idolatry. We become impoverished by a substitute for God, something that ultimately offers no rest for us. However, when those desires enrich our desire for God, they become conduits of grace.

When we have trouble telling the two apart, whether Christ is King or we've made a Lord of something else, there's nothing like a conversation with St. Augustine to clear our thinking. Does your desire render you to God, he asks? No, you say? Then if that desire disrupts your aspiration for God, it's idolatry, it's unhealthy for you. Yes? Then all is right and go ahead and have that vigil.