Killing the Buddha

by Peter Manseau

  But the transformation everyone noticed most was what the deacons did to Sister Twin. That mad bitch of a woman, who despite being a regular attendant at the Ethiopian United Federated Church of Christ never put a cent into the collection plate, not even when it was passed around twice, was changed just like everything else at the church, only this time the congregation noticed. For the last eleven years Sister Twin had shown up for both the morning and evening services and thrown a holy fit in the third row of pews from the front.

  Always midway in the service, Twin would begin to mew, and then it was on. She’d tear her clothes, hop on top of the pews, and march back and forth while bellowing the lyrics to “Oh, Happy Day.” She’d hurl extra songbooks and her Bible at the congregation, and her aim was deadly. And if the spirit so moved her, she’d dive headfirst, fists flying, into the deacons’ pit. So every month some poor church officer had a swollen jaw. But the deacons fixed her. And despite the regular congregants noticing, their relief was so heady, the solution so simple, that no one questioned just what the deacons were up to. Sister Twin, at the request of the church, became an usher. No more jumping and carrying on. Instead, her malice was channeled into making newcomers sit at the very back, making sure none of them had a direct line of vision of the pulpit. Some took Twin’s promotion as the last straw, jealous that their own mothers had been overlooked for the position, but others saw it as the deacons did. “At least she can’t carry on the way she does if she has to keep busy. You know?”

  Microphones were brought in. Suddenly there was no need for Reverend Carl to scream from the pulpit; his praises to God could be whispered. The microphone hurt Carl in a way no other change had. Its introduction stripped the yearning that had surrounded Wednesday and Sunday services. Come early and often had been the mantra, since those in the middle pews could only guess at what sort of salvation he uttered. Now, without mystery, he stood before them vocally naked, unable to stop his voice from becoming a feminine screech when he caught the spirit. It was as if the microphone had exposed him as a fraud. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t understand the amplifier’s frequency response, directionality, and sensitivity. Even to his own ears his sermon sounded unpracticed. The all-wooden church he loved had become an enemy, swallowing the very best of his words. A stringy sound, as wobbly as a young boy’s, echoed throughout the church. Every Sunday he strained and crackled, unable to find a deep pitch that suited him. And both he and his congregation suffered.

  With its preacher forced to whisper his sermon, the Ethiopian’s reaction decreased in volume. The call-and-response stuck and stopped at odd places. Instead of responding to Carl’s voice, the parishioners answered his echo. Seconds of silence would eat away at his sermon while the congregation waded through white noise. With Twin busy as usher and Carl scared to lift his voice beyond a murmur, the congregation wavered, unsure when and how to react to the service.

  For the first time, those who attended the Ethiopian came out of obligation. Brothers and sisters gathered as if preparing to be chastened. It had changed into a place where children could take midday naps. And when Carl brought the problem to the deacons’ attention, he was unable to refute their ready answer. “There are those in the back who are incapable of hearing you, Reverend. We had thought a microphone was the best way for those who aren’t able to sit in front to hear your wonderful sermons.” A few began to fall away, unwilling to endure the pastor’s jarring voice, but they were quickly replaced by associates of the deacons; nothing stood in the way of certain ambitions. A bourgeois mocha-colored set looked up at the Reverend from the front pews with closed mouths and arched brows. It took everything Carl had not to jump down from the pulpit to stop their polite clapping.

  “You’re out.” Ralph, the pastor’s assistant, blurted the news before he closed the door to Carl’s office.

  “What?” Carl looked up from his latest sermon, bleary-eyed. He had been working on the First Book of Kings for days and come up with nothing. Woefully blank of any real strife. Solomon was wise. The baby and the prostitutes. Who hadn’t already heard that one? Solomon wasn’t a three-hour sermon; he was an aside, an architect’s delight.

  Closing the door, Ralph stood in front of the pastor, breathless, though he hadn’t run from anywhere. It wasn’t an act, he had panted himself into a state of nervousness outside of Carl’s door. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on,” he said, but that was a lie. The deacons had been quite explicit as to what they wanted Ralph to say. “Tell him he is being replaced. And that the decision is final.”

  Carl stood up from his desk and stretched. “All right now, breathe.”

  “The deacons found somebody else. A new—”

  “What?”

  “The deacons, they got a new pastor for the church.”

  “I been head reverend at this place for almost eleven years. They can’t just—” Carl dropped back into his chair but then stood up again to pace around his tiny office. Sons-of-guns.

  “Look, the deacons have come up this new cat. Right out of seminary. They tell me that’s where it’s at—”

  “You think the sheep are going to take this? Who did everything but jump into a ditch to get that new drum set?”

  “This guy they got, ’spose to be a real dynamo.”

  “Eleven years, almost twelve long years, I put my love and heart into that pulpit and now you want to take it away? And you got the nerve to come to me and tell me, ‘You’re out’? I’m out, Ralph?”

  “Look, are you even listening to me?”

  “’Fore I came, you couldn’t even get fifty dollars out of the collection plate, and now—”

  “I know. But this new cat the deacons cooked up—”

  “I heard you: a real dynamo.”

  “He is, man. You gotta see him.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “They waiting for you in the conference room.”

  Carl walked in, noting they all sat on the same side of the long conference table. On the other side a single chair had been placed in the middle of the floor. Someone had a provided a glass of water, half-filled.

  “What is it? I can take it. Come on, you got the nerve to try to sic Ralph on me, so out with it.”

  “Have a seat, Reverend. And please lower your voice.”

  “Can’t tell me what—” But he checked himself, knowing that they were capable of waiting until he broke down and did exactly as they demanded. “Okay. Okay.”

  “It’s, it’s…” As one, they all mouthed the same stutter. Carl was suddenly frightened. In the eleven years he had known them, they had never been at a loss for words. Light enough to garner respect, dark enough to quell suspicion, the deacons of the Ethiopian United Federated Church of Christ, Carl realized, had decided to use their absolute power. The youth choir had recently begun calling them the Holy Men, a title they neither rejected nor affirmed. Cabbies may have passed them by, but they slowed down before their fear got the better of them. These twelve men sat before him without mirth or music. “Reverend Carl, thank you for coming to see us today.” Carl moved to the edge of his chair. “Let’s begin, shall we?

  “The Ethiopian has had its door open to tend its flock for sixty-seven—no, sixty-eight—years. And I will tell you a strange fact, Reverend. Since our inception we have never had a white, or should I say, European-American, as a parishioner. Yes, yes, I am shocked as well. Perhaps the closest we’ve come is that young man about seven years back. Please help me with the name, Brother Dan.”

  “I believe his name was Timothy.”

  “Yes, Brother Timothy. He was one of those mulatto fellows, but he fell away from the fold.” Deacon Gad paused to sip his glass of water. “In all those years, one lone young man. His wife was black, so she doesn’t count. I find that fact odd. Don’t you, Reverend?”

  “We’re smack in the middle of Harlem…Brother Rueben?”

  “I’m Deacon Gad.”

  “We’re in the middle of Harlem, Brother Gad.”


  “Yes, well, that can’t be helped.” Tapping the edge of the conference table, he signaled the switch of conversation. “What we mean to say is, we want change. And after long, thoughtful discussions amongst ourselves, you understand, we’ve come to the conclusion that you, Reverend Carl, cannot usher forth that change.”

  “Now wait a minute—”

  “Really, Reverend Charlemagne, don’t interrupt. The drum set was a…What is the word I’m thinking of, Brother Levi?”

  “Lovely.”

  “Yes, it was a lovely idea. But we have moved beyond that now. The Ethiopian should be about inclusion. We should open our arms and embrace the greater metropolitan area.”

  “And quite frankly, we have all wondered about your…How can I say this? Indecision.”

  “My indecision?”

  “Yes, Reverend, your indecision. There is the problem you seem to be having with the microphone. Have you noticed the look of horror on some of the parishioners’ faces when you begin to speak? Tut, tut. Please, let me finish. And of course, we all know that Twin should have been made into an usher, well, years ago. Brother Issachar and his swollen jaw can attest to that.” A low murmur of affirmation rose in the room.

  “And that’s why you want to let me go, ’cause Sister Twin can’t help but to sock one you guys when the Lord overcomes her?”

  “Reverend, I erred in giving particular examples. The problems are greater than that. We feel you have lost the Ethiopian’s flock. And over the past few years, all of us have taken note that your calling doesn’t seem as strong as it used to be. Of course it saddens us to come to this end. We are not heartless men.”

  “To be sure,” Deacon Judah added.

  It was their inflection, its slow rise and fall, that cornered him. While in his office, he had thought for once the deacons would fight with heat, shrilly, they would tell him to get out, but without a crackle of anger he wasn’t sure how to respond to their accusations. Didn’t the numbers say it all? Close to four hundred folks came for Easter. He had poured every goodness he possessed into the church and now these twelve men gathered in judgment and said it wasn’t quite enough. Perhaps he should have prayed, right then and there. Requested from the deacons a moment of silence in order to ask the Lord for guidance. But the long conference table, their demure expressions stopped him.

  Now was the time to turn to King. He searched his memory for an appropriate line. He lifted his small hands, folding left over right. Unwittingly mimicking their cadence, his next words sounded as if he should swallow. “Who is it that is supposed to articulate the longings and aspirations of the people more than the preacher?”

  But the deacons knew the Reverend better than he thought they did. Sooner or later, they knew, he would rip a sentence from the great one, and they were prepared with more than one of their own. “Yes, Reverend, but King also said, ‘This is no day for the rabble-rouser. There is no place for misguided emotionalism.’

  “And of course the sermon we love best, contains the advice ‘The church is not an entertainment center. Monkeys are to entertain, not preachers.’

  “One last question: Have you been taking the protein shakes we suggested?”

  Carl pursed his lips. “Deacons, my wife is a fine cook…”

  “Yes, yes, we thought so.” Brother Dan clapped his hand lightly on the table and then drank a sip of water. “We’re done here, don’t you think?” They all stood up, unnecessarily straightening their ties in unison. Deacon Dan quickly moved from behind the long length of table to give fluttering, consolatory pats that never actually touched Carl’s shoulder.

  “I want to give next week’s sermon to say good-bye.”

  “No, no, that won’t be necessary.”

  “But I think—”

  “Yes, we’re sure you do; but we all believe the transition would be that much easier if your leaving was not only immediate but absolute. There’s no looking back. And a final sermon of good-byes would suggest regret in some way. We can’t have that now, can we? Come, come, Carl. We want you to meet the new Reverend.” Ralph walked over to the side door and ushered him in.

  Excuse me, Lord, but goddamn he’s big, Carl thought as he watched a young black man, the color of creamed coffee, tuck his head in as he moved through the door. Like most people, Carl didn’t notice the space between the top of the preacher’s head and the top of the doorframe because he couldn’t take his eyes off of the man’s curled neck. At six foot six, at least two hundred fifty pounds, dressed in a dark gray wool gabardine suit, the man was more than impressive. Yet it was the tuck into the chin that connoted bridled power. Never mind that the new pastor’s head was a full foot and a half away from the top of the doorframe. The gesture did its job. Carl couldn’t help but gasp as the new guy walked into the conference room.

  “Hello.” His voice was as big as he was. “Jasper Hass. The H is silent; the a is soft.” An enormous paw lifted out of his pants pocket and swallowed Carl’s small hand. “You have a beautiful church, Reverend. Perhaps a touch too much wood, but the deacons assured me they are trying to rectify the problem.”

  He couldn’t remember how he got home. Packing up his office, how many hands he had shook on his way out, whether or not he had eaten dinner, all had been blasted from his memory. That night he talked his wife into a state of confusion. “I mean, ‘To be sure.’ Who says that?”

  “Obviously the deacons, Carl.”

  “All right now, don’t you start. ‘To be sure.’ You should have seen him. As big as a goddamn bull.”

  “Language…,” his wife gently reprimanded him.

  “Shit, I’m no reverend now. It don’t matter.”

  “Carl…”

  “As big as a building and the color of cream. Couldn’t get through the door. Had to tuck his head in.”

  “Well.”

  “Could you just let me finish? Could you do that for me?” Regina answered her husband with silence, though she wanted to ask him practical questions. What were they going to do for money? Though her eldest son had graduated from college in May, the middle child would start in the coming fall, and their youngest needed new shoes every six months. She hadn’t held a job since they first married, and did the deacons expect them to give up their apartment?

  “Are you paying me any attention?”

  “Of course, Carl.”

  “All right, then.” Carl readjusted the sheets. “It’s not just that I’m bony. You know. I don’t think that’s it. Deacon Levi made that the last word, like me not being able to put any weight on was the last straw, but that ain’t it. It’s politics. That’s what it all comes down to. They think I’m too black to run it right. Wouldn’t even let me put on a show for Kwanzaa. You know that ain’t right, Regina. Plucked me out of Arkansas like they was doing me a favor, but I tell you what, it was the other way around. When I first got there, they didn’t have a window to piss out of.”

  “Carl…”

  “Can you just let me be mad for a minute? What man in they right mind lets himself walk around in a pair of socks just like eleven other niggers? Just tell me that much. That’s right, nobody.” He stopped, suddenly disgusted that he wasn’t able to clamp away his anger. It wasn’t just the deacons, Carl realized; the clamor from the pews had gradually been subsiding. He should have pulled a Twin, hurled the microphone with its long tail into the air, and refused to ever use it again. That’s what he should have done. He should’ve, he should’ve…

  For thirty days, Carl’s dreams were tortured.

  Then, on the last Thursday of the month, Twin rang his buzzer.

  She began before he could close the door. The deacons had moved out of the pews and were now sitting on the stage, just behind the pulpit. “It’s no secret they’re pulling the strings. That big-ass nigger Jasper is just a puppet. You should hear him. He’s got a good voice, I’m not going to say he doesn’t. Like he just got over a cold, but nicer. But he talks to the congregation like he’s conducting a bu
siness meeting. Half of us don’t even know what the fuck he’s saying, but don’t nobody wants to stand up and admit it.” Carl winced as she told him the choirs had been given new choral music. “My Rock” and “Precious Lord” had been replaced with Armenian medieval liturgical chants and “Ride la primavera” by Schütz. The youth choir had been told they were allowed to perform only three times a year, because their voices weren’t mature enough to handle the intricacies of the new music.

  Three weeks ago, the deacons had issued a statement saying there was to be no more carrying on (“Their words, Reverend, their words”) during Sunday services. Those that Carl had originally brought to the church were being ostracized, separated into a smaller midday service. “That fucker Jasper doesn’t even bother to show up, and parishioners are forced to conduct themselves. Pitiful.” And, and, and…And some Sundays there were more white people than regular parishioners. Somehow the deacons had managed to get the Ethiopian United Federated Church of Christ on several tour guide lists, and now buses lined up, full of German and English tourists, every Sunday morning. It was only because the regular congregation had threatened to revolt that the tourists had to stand in a separate line in order to attend service. They had been arriving earlier than the congregation and had begun taking the best seats.

  The taste of bile filled his mouth while he listened. “Anything else, Sister Twin?” She hadn’t expected such calm from him.

  “And they told me to get the fuck out. Yesterday.”

  “Twin—”

  “I been going there since ’seventy-four. Even when I was sick, I made sure to go in the morning and in the evening. They got no right to cut me loose. I got a taste now for it.”