The Black Mass of Brother Springer

by Charles Willeford

  I finished my prayer and looked at the woman. Tears were streaming down her face, and her eyes were tightly closed. Her breathing was labored, and her chest heaved convulsively.

  "Trent!" the bus driver announced as he braked in front of a small cafe on the edge of the tiny village.

  The fat woman opened her eyes, picked up her hamper, and got to her feet heavily. She turned and looked at me for a long moment, and I stared her down. After dropping her eyes she whispered, "God bless you, Father," picked up the hamper and left the bus.

  I shrugged. Evidently the woman had mistaken me for a Roman Catholic priest. However, I was well pleased with my first forage into the land of the true believers, and with new confidence I slept the rest of the way from Trent to Jax.

  Jax, Florida had a population of approximately 200,000 people. Half of these were Negroes, and the remainder was fairly divided between white people from Georgia and white carpetbaggers from the north and elsewhere. There were also a great many sailors; Jax was one of the main Atlantic stopovers for naval stores and the refueling of Navy ships. The city was considered an excellent port; it was well sheltered from the sea some twelve miles away; there was a wide well-dredged channel in the Saint John's River, and ninety or more bustling piers to take care of ocean-going vessels. In addition to shipping, Jax did a fine business in lumber, concrete blocks, cigars, boat-building and the fashioning of orange crates for the rest of Florida.

  It was a busy, growing city, and although the pace of its inhabitants was a lot slower than those of an eastern city of comparable size, there was great interest in the making of money. Steel towers shot high in to the humid air, pneumatic jack-hammers rattled away, and new motels and insurance companies appeared on the skyline almost daily. The influence of Georgia, however, was everywhere—in the snuff-laden drugstore windows, in the faded straw hats, in seersucker trousers and blue workshirts, and in the selection of music on the juke-boxes. This Florida city was the last stronghold of the white traditional southerner—a city where a northern lawyer in an office building would call a Negro client Mister, and where the same Negro would be arrested if he tried to drink out of a drinking-fountain labeled White.

  I couldn't have cared less. The social conditions and the making of money were none of my concern. All I had to do was to preach an honest sermon for my congregation once a week, and in return, the congregation would provide me with a house, some pin money, and the opportunity to write. This thought was uppermost in my mind as I threaded my way through the crowded bus station to the street.

  I reluctantly parted with $2.98 for a straw hat, but I considered the hat a necessary purchase. A minister of the gospel doesn't go around bareheaded, and I settled for a straw floater instead of a heavy dark fedora. Bing Crosby always wore a straw hat when he played the part of a priest in the movies, and a straw hat with a gaily-colored band added a dash of necessary worldliness to my black, ministerial garb. I returned to the bus station and took my small bag out of the locker, then looked up Dr. Fred Jensen's address in the telephone book. Another problem confronted me. As a minister, was I supposed to take a taxicab, or was I supposed to take a bus? I didn't know where Dr. Jensen's office was physically located even though I had the address, and a taxicab offered an easy solution to getting there with the minimum of effort. I didn't know the city transportation system either, and in my black suit I hesitated to ask anyone. Mine was an all-Negro parish, and at that stage of the game, I was apprehensive about letting any white man in on my new job. There was no reason to be embarrassed, but I didn't like the idea of saying to a stranger, "Pardon me, I am a minister looking for a church."

  After consulting a street map at a nearby filling station, I walked. And I walked for two hours before I found Dr. Jensen's office. His office address was 71714 N. Tremaine Street, and the other three-quarters of the building was a grocery store. The time was 4:42 p.m., and I asked a Negro boy polishing squash if Dr. Jensen was upstairs.

  "I didn't see him leave, Reverend," the boy said, and I climbed the narrow stairway to the dentist's office.

  I have always been more than a little leery of dentists. There is something peculiar about any man who deliberately plans to spend eight hours a day with his fingers in somebody else's mouth. I concede that dentists are necessary, but all the same, there is an area of suspicion about dentists that cannot be ignored. Dr. Fred Jensen, although he was as black as a modern picture frame, resembled other dentists I had known. He maintained an anonymous dignity, a serious countenance, and he had strong, capable hands. As I entered his office—or workshop—he was seated in his dentist's chair, smoking a filtertip cigarette, and gazing pensively out the window.

  "Dr. Jensen?" I inquired.

  The dentist wheeled the chair about with a practiced whipping motion and smiled as he got up to greet me.

  "You caught me napping, Reverend. Yes sir, you sure did!" He laughed pleasantly, deep in his throat, and extended a hand for me to shake.

  "I am the Right Reverend Deuteronomy Springer," I said calmly, surprising myself with the ease of my claim, "and I'm the new pastor of the First Church of God's Flock here in Jax. Abbott Dover told me to contact you upon my arrival, and here I am."

  "That's wonderful!" Jensen said. "Wonderful! We have needed a pastor sorely for many months, ever since the Reverend Wannop passed on to meet his maker, God rest his soul." Jensen rolled his eyes upward.

  "And I am happy to be here," I replied. "Abbott Dover said that I had lived too long in my hermitage, and it was time to preach God's word to those who need it. Is Jax a wicked city, Dr. Jensen?"

  "Yes, sir, it sure is, Reverend. It is just about as wicked a city as anyone could find in a month of Sundays, and you are sorely needed. Now, have you had your supper?"

  "No, I just arrived on the bus from Orangeville, and I walked from the bus station directly to your office."

  "You walked all the way over here?"

  "Of course."

  "I wish you hadn't done that, Reverend. If you had called me on the telephone I would have come over and picked you up in my Buick automobile. But now you're here, and I know you're hungry. Do you like ribs?"

  "I am quite fond of ribs." I admitted.

  "Then we'll go right now over to Jackie's Bar-B-Cue and have some. Jackie Linsey is one of our trustees, and I know he'll want to meet you right away, and I'll call on Mr. Clyde Caldwell to join us. He's the third trustee of our church, and a fine Christian and an excellent barber he is too."

  Dr. Jensen made his telephone call, and twenty minutes later I was sitting in a back booth inside Jackie's Bar-B-Cue Palace with a pile of hickory-smoked spareribs in front of me, and a huge plateful of french fries on the side. Accompanying the meal was a deep dish of cole slaw, well soaked in mayonnaise, a pitcher of iced tea, and the friendly rumble of Dr. Jensen's voice as he plied me with polite questions. Jackie Linsey, a short bald man with a thick middle and narrow shoulders, had pulled a chair up to the table instead of sitting in the booth, and he nursed a cup of black coffee while Jensen and I stripped greasy meat away from the ribs with our teeth.

  Slightly nervous, I was grateful to be eating during the questioning. If I wanted time to answer, I had the perfect excuse of a full mouth to allow an adequate pause to think of a reply.

  My replies to the polite, interested queries were cautious because everything I said was an out-and-out falsehood. It is very easy to lie, but the liar who cannot remember his lies is a liar who gets caught. Dr. Jensen was not an ignorant Negro; I had spotted his degree of dental surgery on the wall in his office. Jackie Linsey had a thriving business in his Bar-B-Cue Palace. In addition to a lively drive-in trade the inside section of the cafe contained seven booths and a dozen tables, most of the seats filled with hungry rib and chicken eaters. Although I was the only white man eating inside, many of the drive-in customers I could see in automobiles through the windows were white men ordering ribs and barbecued chickens to go.

  "Yes," I said to Dr. Jens
en, wiping my greasy mouth with a paper napkin, "The Church of God's Flock offers the true Christian an opportunity to return to the basic truths of the Gospel. My early theological training in California at the California Bible Institute convinced me of the necessity of true meditation. That was my primary reason for entering the monastery at Orangeville. Have you been there, Dr. Jensen?"

  "No, sir, I haven't, although I have always intended to visit it some day."

  "Have you been there, brother Linsey?"

  "I can't say that I have, Reverend. The Palace keeps me pretty busy, and although some may consider it a sin, I have been forced to stay open on Sunday. Oh, I go to church regular," he added hastily, "but many people have told me how nice it is to be able to get ribs on Sunday. I figured that by staying open on Sunday, many churchgoers are able to get out of their kitchens and go to church. By buying ribs here, you see, Reverend, they are free to worship in God's house without worrying about something at home on the stove."

  "I see what you mean," I nodded, "but you must never lose sight of the fact that Sunday belongs to the Lord. Do you allow your help time off to attend church?"

  "Yes, sir. Some I let off in the morning, and the rest for the evening service, but they all get a chance to go."

  "Then I suppose it is all right. Who has been conducting the services while you have been without a regular pastor?"

  "I have conducted some of the services," Dr. Jensen admitted modestly, "and Jackie has conducted a few, but most of them have been ably handled by Brother Caldwell, our other trustee, who should be along any minute. We have also had guest ministers from the Abyssinian Church of Lambs, the Truth Baptists of the Infant, Jesus, and the Afro-Cuban Missionary Society. Reverend Ruiz, from the Afro-Cuban Mission, didn't speak English, and we trustees voted not to have him back after his sermon in Spanish. Although we feel he is a very fine minister, of course."

  "It is all very well to listen skeptically to the faith and beliefs of others," I said solemnly, "as long as you are not influenced away from the basic truths in the Holy Bible."

  "Amen!" Dr. Jensen and Brother Linsey said together.

  At this moment we were joined at the table by Clyde Caldwell, a thin, narrow-faced Negro with a high sloping forehead and a closely cropped head. His lips were thin and the corners of his mouth curved sharply downward. His dark eyes were alert and never still as he looked about the cafe. This was a man to watch, I thought. If Caldwell had conducted the majority of the services he had a working knowledge of religion, and he was not a man to get into a theological argument with until I had my feet on the ground. Introductions were made, and Caldwell sat down in the booth next to Jensen, facing me.

  "I say it is about time, Reverend Springer," Caldwell said sharply. "I've written no less than seven letters to Abbott Dover requesting a new pastor, and I believe Dr. Jensen has written several letters himself."

  "Three." Jensen nodded.

  "Have you ever visited the monastery of the Church of God?" I countered.

  "No. I work hard six days a week, and on Sunday I worship the Lord."

  "Worship is not enough," I said sternly, "you must work for the Lord. Our monastery, gentlemen, is without funds, and without monks. At the present time there are no laymen in training for the Church of God's Flock, and the monastery may close, leaving us to our own resources in Florida. To depend on Birmingham, except for the wisdom of their experience, is not feasible. They have their own churches to consider, and there are three in Birmingham, as you know. Where are our new ministers to come from unless we work and work hard? Why isn't there at least one Church of God's Flock in every city and village and hamlet in Florida? Why, indeed? It is because we are not working for God, gentlemen. Abbott Dover, a saintly man, prays daily for the strength to carry on his work and he is at the end of his tether. Let us pray for the rejuvenation of our church and the increased entry of holy devoted men to our monastery at Orangeville."

  I bowed my head and the others followed suit. I steepled my fingers, moved my lips silently for the time it took me to count to one hundred, and then I said, "Amen!"

  "Amen!" repeated the three trustees in unison.

  "And now, gentlemen," I said. "Let's get down to business. Where is my church? Where is my residence, and how much do I get paid?"

  We haggled, and we dickered.

  Down to practicalities and away from nebulous discussion of religious topics, these were fine, realistic men I was dealing with, and I admired their business sense. There is more to administering a church than meets the eye, and these trustees had been through the mill. The church was a labor of love to these businessmen, but it was also a way to prestige in the Negro community. As the money talk began, with the inevitable haggling, they began to talk to me as a person as well as a minister. Some of the oily veneer of politeness dropped away, and I realized that much of the respect I had enjoyed earlier in our conversation was due to my being a white man in addition to being their new pastor.

  After a pleasant hour with figures and the discussion of practicalities, e.g., rent, taxes, upkeep, amortization, etc., I was well pleased with the final settlement we had all agreed upon.

  My residence, next to the church, was rent free. A combination cook-maid named Ralphine, who was very old, they said, but capable, would clean the house, cook my meals and do my laundry. The trustees would pay her twenty dollars a month, and I was to give her free meals on the days she worked.

  My salary, based on church attendance records of the past three years, was to be eighty dollars a month, payable in cash at twenty dollars a week on Sunday night, after the evening sermon. Brother Caldwell asked me if I would rather have the money all at once at the end of each month and I refused, pointing out to him that in a period of three months there are thirteen weeks, not twelve.

  In services I was to receive a free haircut from Brother Caldwell once a week if I would agree to have it cut on Thursday. Saturday was his busiest day, and I agreed to Thursday providing I could get a free shave as well. After a brief argument I won my point.

  Dr. Jensen generously offered to clean my teeth and give me a free examination of my mouth twice a year. I was grateful for his offer and I promptly accepted. I never would have thought of that concession.

  Jackie, no doubt to salve his conscience about staying open on Sunday, stated that I was welcome to have a free rib or chicken dinner at any time I so desired, and he hoped that I would visit him often. My agreeing with his policy to serve Sunday dinners earlier in our conversation had been a wise move on my part.

  In return for my house, my salary and the free services from the board of trustees, I was to preach a two-hour sermon from 9 a.m. to 11 a.m. and an evening service from 7 p.m. to 9 p.m. every Sunday. Also, in the event enough interested students could be found, I was to teach a two-hour Bible class on Friday evenings. Funerals and weddings were left to my own discretion, but the previous fees charged for these important services, Dr. Jensen reminded me, had been ten dollars for weddings and five dollars for funerals. I could plan the elaboration of my services accordingly.

  To relieve me from money worries, Brother Caldwell explained, the board of trustees always took charge of the morning and evening offerings and administered all funds collected. They also paid the bills of the church and the utilities on my house. Any expenditures I desired to make had to be cleared first by the trustees, and I was assured that no restrictions were meant or implied by this ruling, but that the rule had proved to be sound in the past, and at the present time there was no reason to change it that any of them could see.

  I agreed wholeheartedly, thanked the board for the consideration of my time, and told them that I appreciated their kindness in refusing to load me with time-consuming administrative details. Such time was much better spent in visiting the sick and in the preparation of sermons, I informed them.

  We parted amicably, and Dr. Jensen drove me to the Church of God's Flock. The building was a square clapboard box on a small lot next t
o a Do-It-Yourself laundry. A false-front steeple had been added to the church in front, but there was no bell because there was no belfry. Inside, the church contained benches enough to seat two hundred people, and there was an ancient upright piano next to a choir-box large enough for a choir of ten. A rough cross fashioned from undressed pine logs was nailed to the wall behind the altar, and on the altar itself there was a pewter loving cup, and two pewter candelabra holding six candles apiece. The pulpit was a crude affair put together with unpainted knotty pine boards, and there was a large Bible chained to the slanting lectern inside the pulpit. There were six windows on each side of the church, badly in need of cleaning, and overhead light was furnished by a dozen exposed 100-watt bulbs dangling at the ends of cords from the low (for a church) fourteen-foot ceiling.

  "At one time, our church was a garage," Dr. Jensen offered, lighting a cigarette.

  "No smoking!" I said sternly. "Not in God's house!"

  Dr. Jensen left the church immediately and I followed him out, switching off the lights before I closed the double doors behind us. I accepted a cigarette from him and we took the short well trodden path across the unkempt lot to the residence provided for the minister. It was quite dark by this time, and Dr. Jensen cautioned me before I climbed the steps to the porch.

  "There's a hole in the gallery, Reverend, so watch your step till I get the lights turned on."