by Randy Alcorn
“That’s true!”
“See, I watch some of these television shows and listen to some of these radio programs. And you know what I think?”
“Tell us, pastor.”
“I think they’re trying to make God into a no-lose lottery in the sky. Like he’s just a cosmic slot machine where you put in a coin and pull the lever, then stick out your hat and catch the winnings. It’s like God’s reason for existing is to give us what we want. Well, I got news for you, folks. My God ain’t Santa Claus. He’s the Lord God Almighty—and don’t you forget for a moment he’s on the throne and you’re not!”
Enthusiastic applause overwhelmed the verbal responses.
“Now, there’s some people that call God ‘Master,’ but they act like they’re the masters. And God’s the genie. Instead of rubbing a lamp, they just quote a verse or say ‘Praise the Lord’ three times, and presto, changeo, alakazam, the smoky God with the funny hat and big biceps does whatever they tell him to do! Like they’re the ones that have dominion, not him. And that explains why people don’t care about good theology; they don’t care about God. I mean, who cares what the genie’s like? Genies serve one purpose—to grant us our wishes, give us what we want. Then we can just say,” his voice went high pitched and squeaked, to the laughter of the congregation, “You can go now, God. I’ll call you back when I think of something else I want.”
The man was moving, pummeling that big bag from every side.
“See, now, I’ve thought a lot about this prosperity theology. I’ve thought about it as I’ve read my Bible. I thought about it two years ago when I walked through the streets of Cairo’s Garbage Village, shaking the grimy hands of the Christians who live there in poverty. I thought about it when I worshipped alongside faithful believers on a rough backless bench on a dirt floor church in Kenya. I thought about it some more when I met a pastor from China who lost everything because he stood up for Jesus. Well, this health and wealth gospel may look like it works sometimes in California, but it doesn’t work in China or Haiti or Rwanda, now does it?”
“No, sir.” Lots of heads shook.
“And hear me now, folks. Any gospel that’s more true in California than in China is not the true gospel!”
Thunderous applause.
“Now I figure, maybe it’s because they’re hearing a false gospel that we got so many people that claim to become Christians and next thing we know we never see ’em again. You know what I’m sayin’ now, don’t you?”
“Yessir, pastor.”
“Amen.”
“You said it.”
“My good friend Harvey Williams over at the AME church on Albina, he was tellin’ me about all these bats he had flyin’ around in the church attic. I told him, ‘Harvey, we used to have that problem at Ebenezer. Then I figured it out. All I had to do was baptize those bats and then I’d never see ’em again!”
Laughter.
“Now, Brother Daniels, down there, you’re a computer salesman, aren’t you?” The man nodded, obviously enjoying the recognition. “You’ll appreciate this story. There was a computer salesman, a real smooth black cat, showing a video on the screen, called ‘The sights and sounds of hell.’ Well, it showed this handsome man and beautiful woman dancing and drinking and having fun, partying together, havin’ a great old time. The man watchin’ the video thinks this is pretty cool, and he just goes right on livin’ like hell. But then he dies and he ends up going to hell, and it’s horrible and miserable, with no relief. And then he asks the devil, ‘Hey, where’s all the fun?’ Then the devil gives him this sly smile and says ‘Oh, you must have seen our demo.’”
The brother three down from Clarence laughed so hard he almost fell off the pew.
“Well the truth is, the devil makes sin look fun and righteousness look boring. He tries to make hell look good and heaven look bad. But don’t be fooled, folks. My daddy taught me something I never forgot. He said, our time on earth is just a dot. It ends not long after it begins. But our time in eternity, heaven or hell, will be a line that goes on forever. Every man has to choose whether he’s gonna live for the dot or live for the line. You live for the dot and you’re a fool. You live for the line and you’re a follower of Jesus. Now you think about that. You think about that for a few million years!”
“Amen.”
“Yessuh.”
“Can I get a witness?” Pastor Clancy asked, unsatisfied with the feedback. Hundreds of amens and uh-huhs replaced the fifty or so from a moment before.
Men were wiping their brows, and women waving their bulletins like a flock of birds, but no one seemed to be looking at his watch. It’d been ages since Clarence had been in a church where time mattered so little. He realized the pastor hadn’t turned to his Scripture passage. He wasn’t to the sermon yet. He was just warming up.
“Now, last night I drove by Murphy’s Bar down the road on MLK. And you know, there were lots of cars, and folk were hootin’ and hollerin’ and havin’ a good old time. Well, here we are today, and Jesus is our Lord and gives us victory and made a place for us in heaven. We gonna let them have a better time at Murphy’s Bar than we have at Ebenezer Church?”
Lots of heads shook. “No way. Never.”
“I see some people come to church on Sunday. They wear their best glad rags and patent leather shoes. They come in with their curls adrippin’. And maybe they’re thinkin’ how sharp they’re lookin’ instead of how great God is. Now listen to me, folks! God doesn’t just want people who dress up for him on Sunday. He wants people who obey him on Monday! When my daddy told me to do something, he wasn’t askin’ a favor. When God tells us something, he’s the same way—doesn’t want discussion, doesn’t want negotiation, wants plain old obedience. So don’t just amen the sermon with your lips. Amen it with your life!”
“Hallelujah, sweet Jesus.”
“Uh-huh!”
“That boy sho’ can preach.”
“Now we’re takin’ an offering for the poor today. Because truth is, I don’t think you can worship a homeless Man on Sunday, then ignore one on Monday.”
“Amen.”
“Say it again, now.”
The plate came by and Clarence took out a twenty dollar bill, leaving another seventy or so in his wallet. He passed the plate to his father, knowing what would happen. Obadiah opened up his wallet and dumped all his money into it. Clarence knew he’d cashed his Social Security check, and it was still early enough in the month that this might be hundreds of dollars. He’d tried to tell him God didn’t expect him to do all that, but the stubborn old man wouldn’t listen. Clarence looked at the delight on his father’s face and realized this was something that couldn’t be bought. It provoked a longing within him for what this old man had.
After a powerful hour-long sermon full of Scripture and illustrations and a lot of laughter and some tears, Pastor Clancy reminded Clarence of a pilot starting to lower the landing gear.
“I want you to say this after me: We’re gonna learn God’s Word.”
“We’re gonna learn God’s Word.”
“Who am I talkin’ to, the dead in Christ or what? I want to hear you. We’re gonna do God’s Word.”
“We’re gonna do God’s Word.”
“We’re gonna share God’s Word.”
“We’re gonna share God’s Word.”
He went through a dozen more expressions, all of which were repeated enthusiastically.
The choir got up and sang, “Knowing you, Jesus, knowing you. There is no greater thing. You’re my all, you’re the best, you’re my joy, my righteousness, and I love you Lord.”
Pastor Clancy got up to close in prayer.
“Set us free, Jesus. Your Word says you came to set us free. Our people were slaves for centuries, but you set us free. But there’s an even greater freedom. Freedom from drugs and booze and gangs and violence and divorce and abuse and immorality. O God, set us free from bondage to sin. Set us free by the power of Jesus. In his name we ask it, amen
.”
“Amen.”
“Hallelujah.”
People hugged and greeted each other and slapped each other on the back. Clarence looked at his watch.
Two and a half hours?
“Hey now, you’re Clarence Abernathy, ain’t you?” Clarence shook the old wrinkled hand extended toward him. “I’s Harold Hadaway. Seen you over at the councilman’s office t’other day.”
“Really?” Clarence asked. “What were you doing there?”
“I’m the chief custodian.” Harold pushed out his chest. “Takes care of three offices in that building—the councilman’s, a law office, and an accountant. I read your columns, son. Like what you has to say. I surely do.”
“Thanks, Mr. Hadaway. Glad to meet you.”
“Call me Harold. Proud to know you, Clarence Abernathy. Miss your sister, Dani, I do. Yessir, she was always good to me. Always good.”
Clarence introduced Harold to his father. He watched the two instantly connect, as old black men who shared the same struggles and the same faith always do. There was something about this church, this place, Clarence sensed. Something in it that reached way back and way deep.
The family sat around Dani’s big dining-room table, Obadiah at the head, Clarence and Geneva on one side of him, Keisha and Celeste on the other, with Jonah and Ty at the far end. Ty was there under protest. As usual, he wanted to be doing something with his friends.
Obadiah sat straight as his eighty-seven-year-old back would allow. As always, he chewed his food over and over, as if stretching it, savoring it, trying to draw extra nourishment. He ate like a man who hadn’t always had enough to eat. At Sunday dinner he held the family reins, and in the last year or so with Obadiah, you never knew where the conversation would go next.
“Fine message, fine message,” Obadiah said. “I like that Pastor Clancy.”
“So do I,” Geneva said. She passed Obadiah a big piece of huckleberry pie.
“Much obliged, Daughter. Looks wondrous. Looks wondrous.” After one long bite and lots of head shaking, he resumed his commentary. “Good chu’ch. I likes that chu’ch. Good chu’ch, isn’t it boys?” He eyeballed Jonah and Ty.
“Yes sir,” Jonah said.
Ty looked down and grunted, “Yeah.”
“Been to lots a churches in my day,” Obadiah said. “One time went with Cousin Jabal to a church in Louisiana. They put whites on one side and blacks on another. Then they had this big ol’ rope goin’ down the middle aisle, just to make sure no one forgot what color he was. Funny thing, pastor was preachin’ through Colossians, and the text was how race don’t matter and we’s all one in Christ Jesus.” He chuckled, eyes dancing. “I don’t know what more that pastor said. I just sat there thinkin’ about how we’re all one in Christ Jesus and lookin’ at that rope!”
Obadiah laughed long and hard, shaking his head. “You remember Jabal’s boy Rabe, don’t you Clarence?”
“Yeah, Daddy. He stayed with us a few weeks until…until the polin’.”
“What’s polin?” Jonah asked. Clarence glanced at his daddy as if to say, “You’re the one who brought it up.”
Obadiah sighed. “Polin’ was where people would get in their cars, drink enough beer to gets them up some courage, then drive down roads settin’ to whack blacks in the back of the head with two-by-fours. It happened to Rabe. Hurt him pretty bad.”
“Why are white people so mean, Grampy?” Celeste asked.
“They’re not mean, honey, not all of ’em, not even most of ’em. Just some of them, chile, just some of them.” He looked around the table. “Jabal always used to say, ‘Never trust a white man,’ and he said it more than ever after Rabe got poled. Well, Jabal was wrong. I told my chillens then and I’m tellin’ you all now. Never trust a man with bad morals and a weak character, that’s what Jabal should have said. Skin color don’t matter, ’cept to people with small brains. There’s good blacks and bad blacks. There’s good whites and bad whites. You can’t never tell a book by its cover. And you can’t never tell a man by his color.”
Obadiah measured the silence at the table before continuing. “The problem ain’t white folk. The problem’s just folk—black, white, or purple, it don’t matter. Bible calls it sin, and sinners is what we all is.” He seemed to be reaching for a story, and his eyes glowed when he found one.
“When I was a boy, my grandpappy on my daddy’s side was visitin’. It was a hot day and we was fishin’ down by a lake—prettiest little lake you ever seen. Well, Grandpappy, he took off his shirt. And I saw the marks all over his back. I came over and ran my finger over them. They was all healed, but you could still see the pain in his eyes. I asked him, ‘Who did this to you, Grandpappy?’ I knew he’d been a slave, but the stories never made much sense to me till I saw the marks.
“He said, ‘A cruel man did it to me. I’ve asked Jesus to forgive him. I hope he asked Jesus to forgive him too.’ See, he never said it was a white man. He said it was a cruel man. I never forgot that.”
Obadiah looked around the table, and Clarence could almost hear an abrupt gear change in his daddy’s head. “You know what’s missin’ in churches these days?”
“What’s that, Daddy?” Clarence asked.
“The mourner’s bench. ’Member our old church in Puckett? They had a mourner’s bench. That was back in the days when you didn’t need no theologian to explain away the Bible. We just believed it. And tried to live by it. ’Member ol’ Reverend Charo, Clarence?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
“Now that was a preacher. Man had more points than a thornbush.” Obadiah smiled broadly, his white teeth looking like piano ivories. “The Reverend used to say from the pulpit in this big loud voice, ‘It’s no disgrace to be colored.’ Then he’d pause and lean forward and wink at us and whisper, ‘It’s just awfully inconvenient.’”
Obadiah laughed and laughed, mostly on his own, though Geneva managed a few chuckles herself.
“Sunday was the finest day of the week, I reckon. We’d leave behind those cotton fields, that ol’ ramshackle house, and come to the house of God. Without Sundays, we woulda shriveled up and died, worked ourselves to the grave ’fore we was fifty years ol’. We’d put on our Sunday best. Mama, she’d put wheat starch in my collar to glue down the threads on my one white shirt. I’d pick the trousers with the fewest holes. We’d walk the four miles to Sunday school, rain or shine. And we had fun walkin’. ol’ Elijah and me, we was always cookin’ up mischief along the way.”
He looked right at Jonah and Ty and nodded, as an old man who’s never forgotten what it is to be young. Everyone’s eyes focused on Granddaddy. Frail as Obadiah’s body had become, his eyes were strong and he still carried the indomitable authority of a senior black man.
“Pastor served four churches, so he’d be there once a month. We’d take a break after Sunday school, then have a big service. Preacher go up there and say, ‘Remember your mama? How she used to hug you and tuck you in? But she gone now. Can’t tuck you in no more.’ And he’d carry on and on, till we was all snifflin’ and sobbin’. He’d keep remindin’ us of our grandmammies and all our kin that died until we was almost in a frenzy. Then he’d shout, ‘But someday you goin’ to see yo’ mama again. Some day you goin’ to heaven, if you loves Jesus, and there she be— arm’s awide open, waitin’ fo’ you. How many o’ you can hardly wait for that day?’”
Obadiah’s voice had taken on the strength of the preacher’s from seventy-five years ago. “People, they be shoutin’ and clappin’, twitchin’ and tremblin.’ Not like some churches where it’s just a lecture and they has to stop at an hour so you don’t falls asleep. Now, your churches today, they don’t preach about heaven no mo’, not like that anyways. Not like that. Maybe nowadays we thinks this world’s our home. Maybe that’s whys we’s in so much trouble.”
His deep-set eyes surveyed the table as if it were a poker game and he was trying to read in the faces each player’s hand.
“Then there was
revival week. Relatives would come back from all over. Church and family was the same, wasn’t one without the other back then. Lots of eatin’, singin’, preachin’, and lots of offerin’s, sometimes two or three in a service if we didn’t collect enough for the poor.”
“I thought you were poor, Grandpa,” Jonah said.
“Well, compared to most folks we was. But there’s always people poorer than you, and you always gots to help them. You remember that now, chillens.”
He scanned the children to decide which to light his eyes on, and this time chose Keisha.
“We’d come together and focus on a better life—the life to come. Always read the Scripture that said we was strangers and aliens and pilgrims. Slave stock understood that. Property owners never did. See, Keisha, black folk couldn’t own property back then. A few did, but very few. We was sharecroppers; our pappies was slaves. We knew this wasn’t our home. It’s harder when you think you own things yourself. ’Cause then you starts actin’ like a big shot owner instead of a tenant. This here is God’s world, chillens. No man owns anything. We’s all just sharecroppers on God’s land. But he never cheats us—come harvest time, he’ll give us the rewards of our labor.”
“Doesn’t seem that way sometimes, Daddy,” Clarence said. Geneva looked startled. She didn’t remember him ever taking issue with his daddy in front of the children, at least not on spiritual matters. “Lots of bad things happen in this world. Seems like sometimes our labor doesn’t pay off.”
“That’s because it ain’t harvest time yet, Son. You jus’ wait. You jus’ wait.”
I’m tired of always waiting.
“You trust him, boy, and yo’ sweet Jesus ain’t gonna let you down. These television preachers make it sound like today’s the harvest. Give a bunch o’ money and next thing you know there’s a big Cadillac in your driveway. Show me the chapter and verse fo’ that one, will ya? God say at the proper time we’ll reap a harvest, if we don’t give up. Proper time ain’t here yet. Don’t give up, Son. Just don’t give up.”
