It must have been some time round about mid-August that Brother Jim Campbell, the pastor at the First Baptist Church of Newtonberg, saw the sign right outside of town announcing in bold, capital letters that THE WORLD-TRAVELING EVANGELIST ALBERT CHAMBERLAIN'S BIG TENT REVIVAL was coming to town, promising MIRACULOUS HEALING BY FAITH and ASTOUNDING ACTS DEMONSTRATING THE POWER OF THE LORD.
Actually, he saw the sign, the posters around town, and the full-page advertisement that made up the bulk of the weekly Newtonberg Sentinel, published by esteemed journalist and boarding-house owner, the Widow Missus Harriet Johnson. Whichever way he looked at the announcement, however, he got the point. And he began to worry.
He wasn't afraid of losing his congregation. The revival was on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday (AT 7 P.M. NIGHTLY! proclaimed the advertisements), so there was no danger of that. Come Sunday morning, the old faithfuls would be back in their Sunday School classes and in the same pews that their families had sat upon since the church was founded. He was worried because in a town like Newtonberg, people are easily misled.
They were not stupid people. Many of the locals had college degrees or advanced training in their chosen profession. They all imparted their knowledge freely to anyone (sometimes without being asked), and the people in town were well informed of the latest news (and gossip) by the Widow Missus's newspaper. But they are very trusting, very gullible; and what they have gained in book smarts, some of them lack in common sense.
The last time the carnival came to town, he had to spend three weeks convincing Orville Nelson that a chicken couldn't play Bingo. The Bingo-playing chicken had really hurt old Orville. He had lost six games in a row, at three dollars a shot, before his wife Mavis could drag him away.
So the thought of some shyster who would come to town with his well-rehearsed stage show and his "cripples" planted in the audience to be healed had him worried that people in his congregation might believe it. He had enough competition as it was with the Methodist and Catholic Churches; but at least that was "friendly" competition. He, Father Louis Nichols, the Catholic priest, and Reverend Edward Stanley, the Methodist minister, played golf every Saturday morning. It sounded like the setup for a bad joke, but the fact of the matter was that they enjoyed each other's company and could relate to one another.
He took another look at the advertisement in the paper and decided then and there that he himself might attend the revival, to head off any problems. He would address it from the pulpit the Sunday before, and he would discuss the matter with the Catholic priest and Methodist minister at their golf game on Saturday.