Losing My Religion by David Fleming Today my eternal soul is up for grabs. And believe me, here in Atlanta where you've got a preacher with a wad of pamphlets in one hand and a megaphone in the other standing on every street corner, there are lots of takers. The lure of millions of souls to save has brought every evangelist within a church bus ride of Atlanta here to the Olympics. And why not? If saving souls from the fires of hell is your gig the Games are a Godsend, so to speak. No need to hike out and preach to the world when the world will walk right past your milk crate pulpit. Never mind that all those sinners are just trying to get into the rhythmic gymnastics venue behind you. This page from a cartoon pamphlet hit a little too close to home for the author. Contending for my spirit today are Jews for Jesus, the Camp Hope Missions and Mime Team, the singing Youth with a Mission, some guy named Brother William, Koreans for Jesus, Christian Clowns, Jesus on Stilts, a barefoot group with a 20-foot wooden cross, the church of Scientology, two guys with sandwich boards that target all fornicators, masturbators and homosexuals, The Pocket Testament League, a guy named Michael Woronieck, a former football player at Central Michigan University, stationed with his family of eight and a synthesizer right down from Planet Hollywood and, of course, the ubiquitous Jack T. Chick cartoon booklets. For the uncleansed the JTC book ends with a comic Everyman character being cast into a lake of fire. OK. On your mark, get set, preach. "Wake up and seek Jesus or you're going to hell, mister." Eh, not bad. As I listen to this women a guy trying to squeeze by yells "Jesus is it crowded here." This women then condemns that guy to hell and adds if I write a story mocking her I too will be taking an express elevator to Hades. Two things will prevent that, I tell her. First, everyone knows God has a sense of humor. I mean, How else can you explain Izzy? And, thankfully, my sources tell me the big guy has let his web account run out after the first 15 free hours. The crowds prefer sports to salvation. "HallelujahHallelujahHallelujah," says a guy with little red crosses painted all over him. I'm no theologian, but turning your soul over to some one who frightens you can't be such a good idea. Next. "God is here-yuh. God is here-yuh. God is here-yuh," says the guy-yuh on stilts. Yeah, God was here last week, I wanna say, but He took one look at MARTA and the prices for Dream Team tickets and split. "We don't believe in heaven and hell or in crystals or new age stuff," says 17-year-old Scientologist Assist Team member Shannon Ullman while periodically adjusting her mirrored wraparound shades. "We don't use a lot of (street preaching) techniques, either." Uh huh. The "processed" Shannon would like to tell us more about how Scientology differs from the other quacks on the street but right now she's looking for her group's subtle double-decker bus with the pop group Jive Aces playing on top. Who's next. Despite repeated inquiries, she wouldn't reveal John Travolta's whereabouts. "The Olympics are important. But you can't take the gold medal with you when you die," says Emmaus Bible College student Angie Jones, 20 who passes out hundreds of More Than Gold booklets each day. "Going to heaven for eternity, that can be your gold medal." Angie is nice. God love her, she keeps handing out stuff despite the screams of "Just go away" from people. But no sale here either, sorry. First of all her group is one of many in Atlanta that uses the biblical version of the bait and switch. They hand you something like a pin or a pamphlet that looks like it's Olympic material but it's really just religious stuff. And, more importantly, I'm quite sure this group employs mimes. The same stinkin' mimes who cost me the gold in the SI Online decathlon. Finally, I come across Mike "Crazy War" Woronieck who is wearing a JESUS YES, CHURCH, NO air-brushed t-shirt. He has leather straps on his wrists and head, hand painted pieces of cloth attached to his arms to form angel's wings and a headset microphone like Madonna. His literature says that most men are "disgusting wimps ruled by a modern day witch of a wife." He and his wife, Rachel, and their similarly clad six kids, dance around in the street and carry crosses while dad taunts the crowd with something that's a mix of my high school wrestling coach and Jimmy Swaggart. Once again, I'm more than a little scared. You want fries with that eternal life? "You don't have the guts to seek Jesus! Or to dance around and be made fun of in the streets for him!" he says. "My king is Jesus, not Michael Johnson...Those people handing out pamphlets are self righteous hypocrites! Mickey Mouse Christians led by fat cat preachers!...The church? Full of homosexual priests...I used to be a wild man in college throwing Coke machines off roofs. Well everyone cheers for you when you're running to the wrong goal post. Now I'm running the right way--toward Jesus!--and people stand and laugh at me. Fine. Because if you reject me you reject Jesus and you'll go to hell." Go to hell? I've been down here in the heat of Atlanta where the carnival tents--the ones that weren't shredded by the bomb--are connected by trails of garbage, the stench of Port-a-Johns and the deafening wail of ticket scalpers, Coke vendors and religious zealots. Go to hell? I've been here for three weeks, pal. photographs by Peter Kay     SI Olympic Dailies Day: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18