"Lead us, O Lord, into the light, and guide us through the week, and help us every day in every way to lead better, cleaner, holier lives. Amen."
"Amen!"
Following my final prayer, Dr. Jensen and Jackie Linsey each took an aisle and passed small wicker bread-baskets back and forth along the benches for the offering. When they had completed the canvassing of the standees, Dr. Jensen waved to me from the back door, and I stated: "There will be an evening service tonight at seven-thirty." As I left the pulpit I remembered that I had forgotten to mention the proposed Bible classes, but I was too tired to return for the announcement. I could do that little bit at the evening service...
As the members left the church I shook hands again, standing on the porch, and accepted compliments right and left.
"You are a real sin-shouter, Reverend Springer."
"An inspiring sermon, Reverend."
"I don't know when I've enjoyed a sermon more."
"Wonderful. Simply wonderful"
Everyone had something nice to say, and they were sincere besides. Why not? They felt good, clean, washed in the blood of the lamb. I answered each compliment with the reminder, "I'll see you tonight at the evening service."
After the last member had departed, Dr. Jensen lingered and congratulated me warmly. "Inspiring, Reverend Springer. Your sermon was a joy to behold and listen to. Would you like to come home to dinner with me?"
"No thanks," I said. "I'm exhausted, and believe I'll take a little nap. But thank you very much."
"All right, sir. But there's plenty, in case you change your mind. I'll talk to you tonight."
I was exhausted. Every muscle in my body ached. As I walked across the lot, my coat over my arm, I staggered slightly with weariness. Ralphine had not put in an appearance at either the house or the church, so I assumed it was her day off. Under a faulty trickly shower I let cold water pour over me for fifteen or twenty minutes, slipped into my shorts, and flopped on the bed. My head missed the pillow; I reached for it, and fell asleep before my hand touched it.
The sound of feminine voices filtered into my head, and I sat up suddenly, looked at my watch. Five o'clock. I had slept through the entire afternoon, and I could hear women talking, their muffled voices coming through the closed bedroom door. I had a headache from not eating, and my stomach growled. I slipped into my shirt and trousers, and padded barefooted into the study. Mrs. Kern, Miss Rosie Durrand, and a woman I identified as Mrs. Linsey from an introduction that morning, were grouped smilingly around the kitchen table which they had brought out into the study. A clean, white tablecloth, a candlestick and lighted candle, and a small blue bowl of tiny red pintas decorated the table, and by a single place setting there was a foot-high heap of fried chicken, a bowl of potato salad, and a glistening cut-glass cupful of lemon-colored jello.
"Well, now," I said pleasantly. "What's all this?"
"We brought you some dinner, Reverend," Mrs. Linsey said, following up her statement with a short happy laugh.
"That's very nice of you ladies," I said, and I sat down at the table. Miss Durrand pushed the chair under me a little bit closer to the table.
"Thank you, Miss Durrand," I said, grabbing a chicken thigh and salting it, "I wanted to see and talk to you before the evening service anyway—about the music." I smiled at the other two women.
"I done wrote out a list and put it on your desk, Reverend," Miss Durrand said.
"Thank you. Thank you very much."
"We'd better go on out and let the man eat." Mrs. Kern said sharply. "The coffee's on the stove, Reverend."
The three women left by the front door and I did as well as I could by the chicken and the potato salad, which was very well indeed, poured a cup of coffee, and smoked a cigarette. It was time to be thinking about the evening sermon. I moved over to the desk with my coffee, opened the Bible to Revelations and began to make notes.
It hardly seemed possible, but if anything, the evening congregation was larger than the crowd that had attended in the morning. In the face of good Sunday evening television programs such attendance was remarkable. But I was far from being overjoyed. After performance like the one I had given that morning would lay me out for a week. And I didn't intend to go through that experience again, not until next Sunday morning anyway.
Clyde Caldwell was sitting in the front row with his wife and he looked at me eagerly and expectantly as I entered the pulpit, so I nodded to him and announced: "Brother Caldwell will lead us in an opening prayer."
Again Caldwell rattled off his staccato repetitious prayer with many "washed in the blood of the lambs" and when he had finished I pointed to Miss Durrand. The girls sang sweetly to her pounding piano, and when they finished two hymns, I began my sermon.
The Revelation was written by St. John The Divine. If he were alive today he would probably be classified as a schizophrenic, but there is some good writing in that book. The members of my church didn't have such a wonderful life, here on earth, particularly in Jax. They were all hardworking people, sweating for every dime, and they lived in a substandard section of the city. And they believed in the Bible. This belief was important to them, and I thought that if I could tell them about a better life to come, after their death, maybe they would feel a little better about the life they were leading on earth. Why not? St. John's revelations, however, are too ancient for present day use, and I updated them in my sermon.
"And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes, and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.
"How does that sound? This morning, in all sincerity, many of you in this church came forth willingly and shook my hand, stating that you were saved; that you accepted Jesus Christ as your Lord and Saviour. You who have been saved are the most fortunate of God's flock, for you shall have everlasting life. Nobody would want life on this globe of terror, pestilence and suffering. Who would want to work at a sawmill or mow lawns or sweep the dirt from the streets forever and forever into eternity?
"But those who are saved do not really perish. The saved are lifted to Heaven, and God personally wipes the tears away from their eyes. How fortunate you are to have such a kind and benevolent God. If you have sinned, you need but repent, and give yourself to the glory that is God's, and your reward is everlasting life at God's right hand!
"You will work no more. You will cry no more. Every pleasure shall be yours forever. Your loved ones will be with you, and your enemies will be destroyed. To eat, you only need to open the freezer compartment door, and it will be filled at all times. You will sleep on clouds of downy softness. If you want to, you can sleep for a month; deep, dreamless sleep, and awake refreshed. Should you want the sunlight, it shall be yours. Should you want love, it shall be yours. And there are no time payments. You make your payments on earth, and your rewards shall be given to you in Heaven. Will your name be in the Golden Book? Only you can put it there. But it will be there if you accept God."
I talked for about an hour, and using my novelist's imagination I put out the good word about the afterlife. The big cars, the free barbecues, the free jukeboxes, the colorful raiment, and so on, and as I got deeper into the sermon my imagination really soared. But I spoke quietly, and didn't try to frighten anyone. All in all, it was a fairly successful extemporaneous sermon.
Following my sermon, Dr. Jensen and Brother Linsey collected the offering, we sang some group hymns, and I made a brief announcement about a men's Bible class I was starting the following Friday evening, inviting all who were interested to attend.
If this congregation of mine really believed, they should have all gone home that night with a big spiritual lift. I felt empty, and envied them their blind, unreasoning belief.
Dr. Jensen accompanied me to my residence and I reheated the coffee, and accepted twenty dollars from him in one-dollar bills. I shoved the money into my pocket, removed my coat, and poured two cups of coffee.
/> "There's some cold chicken left, if you want some, Dr. Jensen," I said.
"No, thanks, Reverend. Actually," he hesitated, "I have a weighty problem on my mind, but it's very difficult to put into words."
"I am at your service." I didn't intend to make it easy for him. I wanted him to leave. I was emotionally and physically exhausted. This Sunday, with the two long services, had been more work than I had done in a year. I wasn't used to such work, and to tell lies, like I had done, one on top of the other, with a straight face, and a sincere manner, was not the easiest thing in the world to do. Maybe, with patience, I would be able to skim right on along, but this was only my first day, and it had been a terrible day.
"You may have noticed, Reverend," Dr. Jensen said modestly, "that I am not an uneducated man. I have been to college, and I have also been to dental school in Macon. I couldn't bring myself to marry beneath me, and I didn't. I married the daughter of another dentist in Macon. A respectable man, and by our standards, a man who was fairly well-to-do. Although I am twenty-two years older than my wife, Merita, Dr. Wells was happy to have me as his son-in-law. You haven't met my wife; she will not attend church, and there are times when I believe that she does not accept the Lord. These are strong words, but after more than three years of marriage, we still do not have any children. I believe that God is punishing us, Reverend, and that He is denying us children because of Merita's refusal to accept God as her Lord and Saviour."
"That may well be so," I said, sipping my coffee. "God's ways are often mysterious."
"Exactly. Another thing. Merita was trained as a dental assistant by her father and she helped him in his office on a full time basis. Naturally I thought that she would help me too, in my office, after our marriage. Such has not been the case. She says now she is married, and her place is in the home. Not since we left Macon has she entered my new office here. If she had children to look after, I wouldn't want her in the office as my assistant. But she doesn't have any children, and she sits around all day reading confession magazines, and doesn't do much of anything."
"I see. What do you want me to do about it?"
"I want you to talk to her, Reverend. Pray for her, and get her to accept the Lord. I am not getting any younger, and I want to have children before I die. If you can talk her into attending church, and if she were to hear one of your inspiring sermons, I believe we would be happy together in a religious household."
"All right. I'll talk to her."
"God bless you, sir. I hesitated to ask you about this at first. I was waiting for you to get settled and so on, but I am a very unhappy man, and I couldn't wait much longer."
"That's quite all right."
Dr. Jensen reached into his inside coat pocket and removed a folded sheaf of foolscap papers. He handed the papers to me, and I looked at a listing of handwritten names and addresses.
"These are the names and addresses of our church members," he said, "in case you want to visit them. I have made a red mark by the names of those who haven't been to church in some time, and I believe you will find it to our advantage to visit these people."
"Thank you, Doctor," I said wearily. "And now if you don't mind, I'd better get to bed."
"Good night, Reverend. Again let me congratulate you on both of your sermons. I feel so much better since I have talked to you."
I opened the front door. "Go with God." I let the dentist out into the night.
Dr. Jensen was turning out to be a weird cat. What did he expect me to do about his wife? If he wasn't having any children, it wasn't God's fault. The old man was probably impotent, but like most men in that situation he hadn't checked with a doctor. It was easier to pass the blame onto his wife. I would talk to her, anyway. He was a trustee, and talk was cheap. I tossed the roster of the church members on my desk and sat down in the swivel chair. I wasn't sleepy, but I was bone tired. Feeling the way I did, I knew it would take me a day or two to recover from my all day ordeal. How much writing could I do if I felt this tired? To top it off, I would have to visit Mrs. Jensen, and a couple of dozen other delinquent churchgoers on the list I would have to get out in the neighborhood again and talk the good churchgoers into continued attendance. I would have to prepare two more sermons for next Sunday, and I also had to prepare a couple of hours of instruction for a Friday night Bible class. What time would I have left to do my own writing in the event I could think of something to write about? I was feeling discouraged when I heard the sound of fingernails scratching on the front door.
The scratching sound came again and I opened the door and switched on the porch light at the same time. There was a young Negro standing there, and a young girl was standing directly behind him, peering fearfully over his shoulder. He wore a bright sport shirt, a pair of faded blue denim jeans, and white tennis shoes. The girl was wearing a white ballerina length dress, and carried a pair of open toed slippers in her left hand.
"What do you want, boy?" I asked wearily.
"Could we talk to you a minute, Reverend?" the boy asked huskily.
"I suppose so. Come in."
"I'll wait out here," the girl whispered.
"No you won't," I ordered. "Come in. Both of you. Now what do you want this time of night?"
"We want to get married," he said, a hint of defiance in his voice.
"Married? How old are you?"
"Sixteen."
"I see. How old are you?" I asked the girl.
She put her shoes on the floor, and steadying herself by holding on to the boy's shoulder, she slipped her bare feet into them. I waited, and finally she managed to whisper, "I'm sixteen too."
"Don't you two think you're a little young to be getting married?"
The boy shook his head, stared at the floor. "Not after what you said about us this morning. We figure that's about the only way we can get right with God."
I remembered what he was talking about. Evidently my imaginary story in the morning sermon had found a mark.
"Did you have carnal relations with this girl last night?"
"Yes, sir."
I took a firm grip on the girl's arm. "Did you know, little sister," I said softly, "that you could go to Hell for such carrying on?"
She began to cry, great big blubbery tears. The boy shook her shoulder and said: "Hush! We's going to make it all right with the Lord."
"No," I said. "What's done is done. But you're both too young to be getting married. The only thing for you to do, Sonny, is to join my Bible class next Friday night and make atonement for your sins. And you, young lady, you had better get down on your knees every night and pray for your wanton soul!"
She really began to cry then, and I was surprised that such a big sound could shake loose from such a frail figure.
"The best thing for you two to do, I suppose, is to keep away from each other from now on. That way you won't be tempted to stray from God's path. However, in case she gets pregnant—"
"She won't do that, Reverend," the boy broke in hastily, "I used me a safety."
"In that case, you just keep it in your pockets from now on. And if I ever hear about this kind of goings on between you two again, I'm going to give your names out in church. Right out loud for everybody, do you hear?"
"Yes, sir. But we're trying to do right. I'm ready to marry her."
"You don't have to get married. Just promise you'll be good from now on."
"I promise," he said.
The girl dropped to her knees and grabbed my hand. "Please don't tell my daddy on me, Reverend!" she said through her tears. "I won't do it again!"
"In that case," I opened the door. "Go with God." I ushered them out, and put a fresh pot of coffee on the electric burner.
Jesus, dear sweet Jesus!
Chapter Seven
The next morning, Monday and a new week, I sat around in my shorts drinking iced coffee after breakfast, and pondering my new profession. I was not nearly as tired as I had thought I would be, and after thinking over the events of the preced
ing day, I realized that—on the whole—I had been quite successful. My spirits were high, and I had a warm feeling inside my chest.
Naturally, I didn't feel as elated as when I had first received the bound copy of my novel, but that had been my first taste of success. My new success as a minister, however, was something else again. An alien field, and a difficult assignment, and I had conquered it. As any book on management states,"...the happiest employee is the man who has a feeling of personal worth." This is the feeling I had. Whether I had intended to make people happy or not, I had made a lot of people happy by my rabid morning sermon, and I had made more people happy in the evening by giving them something to think about, something to dream about when their trials and tribulations were piled unbearably high. What difference did it make that I personally believed in nothing I had said? Abbott Dover had been right when he had told me that the most successful ministers believed the least. A great man, Abbott Dover.
Of course, I had many things to do in the next few weeks, and I wouldn't get much writing done, but on the other hand, wasn't I meeting people and having experiences I could write about later? Of course. Sitting for a full year in the ivory tower at Ocean Pine Terraces had put me out of contact with people. Readers want to read about people, not things. I would get back to writing, all in good time. And I would be a better writer for my experience. Indubitably.
Taking up the membership roster on my desk, I filled a notebook with the names and addresses of delinquent members, and set out on my rounds. The morning sun was blistering, and my black suit was smothering me. I was bringing lost lambs back to the fold.
The Black Mass of Brother Springer Page 8
