by Dijorn Moss
“The door is closed for a reason!” a voice says from the other side of the door.
“I know, but Minister Dungy is here. He needs to see you before he leaves,” First Lady Lewis says.
Pastor Lewis doesn’t say anything. I can only imagine what is going through Pastor Lewis’s mind. In truth I could’ve let the whole incident go. I have my money, the church has an exit strategy, the girl is at the hospital, and the church will pick up the tab. But my father used my mother and I as punching bags until I got older, and for that alone I can’t let it go.
The door opens wide enough for me to see Pastor Lewis’s pig nose. Pastor Lewis then opens the door all the way to let me in.
“Could I get you guys anything?” First Lady Lewis asks.
“We’re fine!” Pastor Lewis speaks for both of us as he slams the door shut and locks it.
It takes me a moment to position myself while Pastor Lewis’s back is turned. As soon as Pastor Lewis turns around I cock back my right hand and fire right to his pig nose. I feel the sting of my hand that suggests I will be in a lot of pain later, but for now it feels good. While Pastor Lewis holds his nose and says muffled curse words at me, I use the time to locate the stereo on his desk. Over the last week I have become familiar with Pastor Lewis’s office. I turn on the stereo and James Cleveland bursts through the speakers, which allows for me and the not-so-good pastor to talk.
Pastor Lewis manages to recover from the blow and makes his way toward me. His body is exposed and he has made the mistake of mistaking me for a nineteen-year-old girl. Pastor Lewis swings with an overhand right and I block his punch and counter with a hard punch to the sternum. Pastor Lewis falls down to one knee and gasps for air.
I kneel down in front of Pastor Lewis. “I had to drop a young girl off at the emergency room. Tell me why I had to drop a girl off at the emergency room?”
“You don’t understand.” Pastor Lewis winces as he speaks.
“Explain to me how your meeting to end the affair with a nineteen-year-old ended with the girl having a black eye and other possible bruises.”
“I went to break it off as you said, but she had on this lingerie and I couldn’t resist.”
The one thing I hate worst than liars are pastors who lie. “I specifically told you not to meet with her without me and certainly not at some hotel!”
“She tricked me, man. The devil has corrupted her. She threatened to tell my wife, to confront me in front of the congregation. I lost it, man! I lost it for a split second.” Lewis looks up at the ceiling. “Oh, Father, forgive me! Lord, I don’t want to go jail or lose my family.”
I get up and walk away from Pastor Lewis. At this point I can’t stand the sight of him. I take a seat on Pastor Lewis’s desk and look at the pictures of Pastor Lewis and his wife and three children: Aaron, Janice, and Benjamin. For as long as I shall live, I won’t understand what makes a man give away his treasure for trash.
“What happened to you?” My question breaks the chorus of Pastor Lewis’s sobs. “You used to walk in so much anointing and power that I thought you would be like the prophet Elijah and walk right into heaven. But now . . . now you’re down here on earth with the rest of us. I never expected to get a call from you. Never in a million years did I think that the mighty Pastor Lewis would need my help.”
“Minister Dungy, you got to help me.”
“I tried to help you, but I can’t. It’s done; the church is going to remove you as senior pastor. There’s nothing more I can do.”
“There’s something that can be done. Please don’t let them take my church away from me.”
“No man is bigger than his church. You did this to yourself, and if I were you, I would be more concerned about losing my family. That’s what’s really important.”
That is the one thing I’ve learned over the years, that a title means nothing if your family isn’t in your corner.
“Will you pray with me? Please!” Pastor Lewis is still on his knees begging. It’s a pathetic sight.
At one point Pastor Lewis commanded a church that has over 10,000 members. He now sits on his knees in need of prayer, a need that I can’t fulfill. I know that God has forgiven Pastor Lewis, but I haven’t and I don’t plan to anytime soon.
“Please!” Pastor Lewis says again.
I get up and walk over to Pastor Lewis. I put my hand on his shoulder and say a silent prayer before I head out the door. I leave Pastor Lewis in his office to sob while James Cleveland plays on his stereo. I cannot spend any more time in Detroit. I have a plane to catch and a job to do.
Chapter Two
I am a man without a church, a minister without a pulpit. I hold no official title at any denomination and that means I answer to no one but God. I am also a man of principle. Sometimes my principles exist in a gray area, but I am a man of principle nonetheless. One of my standards is that I fly first class no matter where I go. Since I spend the majority of my time in the air, I make sure that I am comfortable. Sometimes even when I have the best seat in the house, peace and comfort are elusive.
As I struggle to adjust my seat, I am anything but comfortable. I should’ve never lowered my standards and allowed my next job to convince me to fly coach. After all, I was doing this church a favor by coming out; a first-class flight is not an unreasonable request.
From Detroit I head to Houston, Texas. It is a detour from my next stop, but an old friend calls in for a big favor. My friend promises that the job will require no more than a few hours of my time. I have a firm rule that I don’t go anywhere unless my travel has been taken care of and that half of my fee has been paid. My friend went through great lengths to come up with half of my fee and my plane ticket, and his friendship is worth the detour. My body has to switch from the Eastern Time Zone to the Central Time Zone. I find a position in my seat that is somewhat comfortable and close my eyes.
The battered girl is at the forefront of my mind. A pastor who will go so far as to put his hands on a woman is not a shepherd but a wolf. I don’t make follow-up calls to see how things turn out, but I wonder about the girl and what will become of her life.
The flight attendant comes by and I order a drink. After a few drinks, my nerves settle. I can’t sleep but what else is new? My job as an independent problem solver is emotionally taxing. I close my eyes because the most I can do is rest my eyes.
In the morning, the plane has taxied to the runway. The seatbelt sign goes off and I get up without hesitation. I need to stretch because my back feels stiff, one of the benefits of middle age. The one thing I love about flying is that when I am 30,000 feet in the air, my cell phone doesn’t ring. The one thing I hate about flying is that my body always stiffens up during the course of the flight.
I grab my bags and I am held up by the passengers in front of me. What is with people who take all day to grab their things and leave? I wish I could leap over them and walk out the door.
People start to exit the plane and I make my way through the Houston Intercontinental Airport. I haven’t shaved in a week and that is apparent, but my unshaved appearance is offset by my Italian-cut gray suit and white collar shirt. I am a firm believer in wearing a nice suit to work. I am more exhausted than hungry, but I won’t stop to rest nor eat, not until the job is done.
Outside at the arrival section of the airport, a Lincoln Town Car with the words MOUNT ZION BAPTIST CHURCH on the side door pulls in along the curb. My friend and point man, Deacon Thomas Burt, gets out of the driver side and jogs around the front of the car.
“It’s been a long time, Nic.” Burt extends his hand.
“Too long, and I wish it were for better circumstances.” I shake Burt’s hand.
Burt offers to handle my bags, which I decline. I throw my bag in the back seat and keep my briefcase with me as I get into the front seat. We pull away from the parking lot, making our way to Mount Zion.
“You know I don’t normally do this,” I say.
“I know, but I need your hel
p. Pastor is going to wreck his life if you don’t step in.”
“You’re his closest friend. If he’s not going to listen to you, then I doubt there’s much more I can do.”
“You have a skill set that I believe will be persuasive.” Burt picks up the speed of the Town Car.
My skill set is the secret to my success, but my key to employment is that I can do something that most ministerial staff and congregations can’t do: I hold the leaders accountable. I get the leaders help and I minimize a potentially disastrous situation, but I also make sure that the leaders know that I will not be around the next time they blow it.
“Are you sure it’s there?” I ask.
“I wish it weren’t, but it is.”
“Okay, well, I’m going to need a key to his office.”
“I got you.” Burt doesn’t take his eyes off the road.
I go into my briefcase and pull out my laptop. I power on my laptop and connect the wireless device so that I can go online. Once my computer is up I go to YouTube and I type in Pastor Jeremiah Surges. Pastor is quite popular on YouTube since he has a lot of his sermons posted on it.
“Give me the dates again,” I say.
“I don’t remember the dates. I just remember the titles. One was ‘I got to get myself together.’”
I scroll through the sermons and locate I Got to Get Myself Together. I start to view the footage.
“Do you see it?” Burt asks me.
It takes a moment for me to process what I am seeing. “I see.”
“Go to ‘I can’t come down,’” Burt says.
I pull up that video and that image is even more obvious than the previous video. I have more than enough information and I just need to meet with the man face to face.
Pastor Jeremiah Surgess sways from side to side and takes a moment to hold on to the podium. His mannerism is awkward even for a preacher who likes to whoop and holler.
“Yes!” Surgess says with sweat pouring down his face profusely. It doesn’t matter though; the church is a sweat box. Even in the first week of November, I can see water on the walls. Only the ceiling fans provide some relief to the sanctuary. No, Pastor Surgess’s sweat is not a tell-tale sign.
“You see the apostle Peter had a thorn in his flesh. We got it wrong; we think that God put it there, but it was the devil. God gave him the grace and power to overcome the thorn in his flesh. Just like He gave you the grace to overcome the thorns in your life.”
The congregation responds in a fever pitch. Few notice that Surgess cites Apostle Peter instead of Apostle Paul. I am impressed with Pastor Surgess and his sermon and I understand how his sermons can mesmerize a congregation. Pastor Surgess is so robust with a hump in his back and it adds flair to his delivery. He leans forward and holds on to the podium to keep his balance. I take out my mini camera from my briefcase and I begin to record.
“Only authorized personal can record,” an usher says a few minutes later.
“I’m sorry, this is just really powerful. I’ll put my camera away.” I do as the usher asked and I put my camera away. I have more than enough footage.
By the time I put my camera away, Pastor Surgess has taken a break on the steps of the podium to catch his breath.
“Hey, hey, hey!” is Pastor Surgess’s signature phrase he shouts, which is what most pastors are famous for now. That phrase is also an indication that Surgess’s message is near a close.
I have heard and seen enough and with the final slur of speech, I make my way out of the sanctuary. As I walk through the lobby my contact person, Deacon Burt, hands me the keys to Pastor Surgess’s office. I take the keys without eye contact or breaking stride. I enter the office and embraced the cool central air. My suit is practically stuck to me as a result of the heat.
I go into my briefcase and remove my laptop, my mini camera, and plastic gloves. I can’t afford to leave any evidence that I was here. After I put on my gloves, I turn on my laptop and use a USB cord to link my camera and my laptop. I upload the footage from the service and add to my profile. While my computer compiles all of my evidence, I then search for the missing piece to the puzzle.
I make my way to the bookshelf behind Pastor Surgess’s leather chair. I look behind a row of books stacked in a nice column. I remove a few books and in the corner is a bottle of cognac.
The bottle is not well hidden, but who will guess that a bottle of cognac will be hidden in the corner of a pastor’s bookshelf? There is no way I can preach with alcohol in my system, but Surgess can and he has for a number of years until his best friend Deacon Burt’s conscience kicked in. I take a couple of pictures from my camera phone before I remove the bottle from the shelf and twist the cap of the bottle.
The smell from the cognac causes my mouth to water, and if it weren’t for more pressing issues, I would take a glass of this fine brandy. Instead I set the bottle down on the desk and I take a seat in the leather chair.
Thirty minutes later, Pastor Surgess enters the office and in a matter of seconds his expression goes from shock to anger to shame when I point to the bottle of cognac.
“I’ve got to hand it to you. I’ve heard a lot of drunken preachers, but most of them are outside of a liquor store. You’re one of the first I know who can preach from the actual pulpit.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Pastor Surgess responds.
“Denial. That’s a step that you’ll have to work on and you will. I’m here by way of your best friend, Deacon Burt, who is worried about your ministry.”
“I’m not!” Pastor Surgess snaps.
“You were elected into your ministry by a board. They find out that you like to preach while inebriated and it’s over.”
“I’m not stepping down!”
“I’m not talking about stepping down, just stepping aside.” I reach into my jacket and hand him a packet of info to a recovery program with a plane ticket included. “Take time to get help.”
“I don’t need any help. I got the grace of God.”
“God’s grace is not a license for you to sin. Your best friend is an honorable man, but when he came to you, you put your hands around his throat.”
“If I didn’t listen to my best friend then what makes you think that I would listen to you?’
I stand up and turn my laptop around to show all of the footage and documentation. I have a collection that supports my claim. Deacon Burt provided me with footage from previous sermons and events where Pastor Surgess behavior was questionable. I remove from my briefcase documentation of DUIs from the past when Pastor Surgess was just starting out in ministry. I managed to print out the documents from Surgess’s printer while I waited for Surgess to show up.
“Deacon Burt loves you too much to do this, but I don’t. This information along with video footage would not only go viral, but it will find itself in the inbox of other board members if you don’t go into the program. There’s a recovery center in Alabama that I’m sending you to; it’s one of the best. Deacon Burt will tell the other board members that you went on leave. If you choose not to go, well, I’m sure Minister Weiss, who has been eyeing your position for a while, will love for this information to see the light of day.”
“So what’s to stop me from kicking your tail?”
I close my laptop and put away all of my things into my briefcase. I walk up to Pastor Surgess with my briefcase in hand. “For one, you know this is the right thing. And for two, you can’t!”
I move past Pastor Surgess, not intimidated by his empty threat as I head toward the door.
“You know I heard about you?” Pastor Surgess says and his words stop me dead in my tracks. “You fashion yourself as a minister but you and I both know you’re a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”
Maybe he is right, maybe I am a wolf, but I would rather be a paid wolf than a penniless sheep. “Do the right thing, Pastor Surgess.”
I shrugged off Pastor Surgess’s comment and walk away from the office with a smile on my f
ace because my business in Houston has concluded. Now I have just one more stop before I head home.
Chapter Three
In West Virginia the snow falls like ash from the sky. I thought Detroit was cold, but West Virginia looks like a blizzard has taken permanent residence here.
“Thank goodness your heater is working,” I say.
“Yes, sir. You’re used to sunny California, where the weather don’t know what it wants to do these days. Our weather has its mind made up,” Mr. Willard says.
We drive along a road that has endless trees and few neighborhoods in-between. There is one conclusion I draw as I ride along and listen to Clint Black: the people who live out here pay for seclusion.
“Listen, I better not be in danger and those things better be put away.”
“Don’t worry; he doesn’t keep them in the house. He has a caretaker,” Mr. Willard says.
Mr. Willard is the church’s attorney. Given the uniqueness of the services this church provides, I will say that having a lawyer on retainer is a smart move. West Virginia is a drastic change from the cold that Detroit bought and the warmth that Houston brought. West Virginia brings a picturesque setting with tall trees covered in snow; it feels like Christmas has already arrived. The snow is as white as Mr. Willard’s hair. I feel small as the minivan whips around on a two-lane highway.
We continue down this one road and I wonder which is faster: the plane ride or the ride in the car. Right now, the plane ride was relaxing and this car ride is never-ending. I know I am going into the rural part of West Virginia, but this is absurd.
This next case is ripped from a horror movie and even though my instincts tell me to stay away from this case, my greed speaks louder. Finally we turn off the road and towering trees that resemble Greek columns lead to a white mansion. The mansion is surrounded by a gate that needs to be fixed, but it still works. My contact, Mr. Willard, pulls up to the intercom.
