The Sunday Only Christian

by E. N. Joy

  Mother Doreen took one last bite of her salad, wiped her mouth, and then pushed her plate away. “Let’s not waste any of our time or God’s.” Mother Doreen dropped her fist to the table. “What in God’s creation is going on with you?”

  “Nothing,” Deborah started, but then remembered who she was talking to. “Just stuff. Everything,” Deborah had to admit what she was certain Mother Doreen already knew.

  “Oh, I know lots is going on. Even before Pastor called me, child, you were in my spirit something awful.”

  “Then why didn’t you call me?”

  “God didn’t say call you up. God said to pray for you, so that’s what I did. And after that He still didn’t have me call you. He had me get in my car and drive here to see about you.”

  Deborah was touched. Why couldn’t she be as obedient to God as Mother Doreen? In her eyes, no matter what anybody said, Mother Doreen was like this perfect Christian. She admired her strength and how she persevered in life. More than anything, she loved the way Mother Doreen loved; the woman loved like she had the heart of Christ. There weren’t too many people she got upset with or too many times Deborah had witnessed her even take a loud tone with someone. Why couldn’t she be like that, was what Deborah constantly asked herself. Why couldn’t she go through life and not let people and things get the best of her?

  “Well, thank you for coming, Mother Doreen,” Deborah said. “I could really, really use a friend right now.”

  Mother Doreen, who had initially been sitting across from Deborah, got up and sat in the chair next to Deborah. “Child, don’t you know by now that you’ve always had a friend in Jesus? At least He calls you friend.”

  “I know, Mother Doreen, but with the things that have been coming out of my mouth, I haven’t really been able to find it in my heart to use the same tongue to communicate with Jesus.”

  Mother Doreen relaxed back in her chair. “Yeah, so I’ve heard.” Mother Doreen looked to Deborah. “And, daughter, I’m so disappointed in you. Acting that way, and in God’s house no less. Just flying off the handle, fighting, cursing and things—now that’s not how Christian folks are supposed to act.”

  “And that’s just it,” Deborah said out of frustration. “Everybody has their different opinion on how a Christian is supposed to act, and then if we don’t act that certain way according to their standards, we’re supposed to be less of a Christian.”

  “People’s—man’s—opinion doesn’t matter. It’s what God says that matters. It’s not about people holding Christians to a higher standard, it’s about God holding His saints to a higher standard. Him expecting more out of His children. His wanting us not to sin.”

  “And I haven’t been sinning,” Deborah said in her own defense. “So I get upset and cuss sometimes. Let’s be real; Christians cuss all the time, Mother Doreen.”

  “So does that make it all right?” Mother Doreen asked. “Christians lie, get drunk, cheat, steal, kill, all of that; but, my dear friend, does that make it right?” Deborah just turned away with her nose in the air. “Folks, especially folks who claim to be Christians, kill me with all that talk about cussing and drinking not being a sin. So what! Ain’t no sin in the clothes I see some of these half-naked women wearing, but just because it ain’t a sin to wear a high-cut skirt that shows your butt cheeks and a little top that shows everything but the nipples, why would you want to do it? Just because you can run around with a vulgar tongue, why would you want to? I mean, since when do we need folks to be cussing, drinking, and sexing in order to believe that something is real?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying,” Deborah replied.

  “Then by all means, please tell me exactly what you are trying to say, young lady. But keep in mind, I’m old school, so keeping it real means something entirely different to me. Keeping it real means getting your message across with your heart, gut, and passion. I don’t need no explicit words or actions for me to know that something is real. Like in the Bible when Jesus turned over those tables in the church when folks were selling stuff, whether He said a few choice words, I will never know, but King James relayed to us that Jesus was mad and went off. But what King James didn’t do was use a lot of bad cuss words to convey it. Does that mean King James wasn’t keeping it real?” Mother Doreen folded her arms, knowing that there was no way Deborah was going to win this battle. Mother Doreen had had it out with plenty of saints one too many times. She held the championship belt and refused to give up the title.

  “Look, just forget it.” Deborah shooed her hand, knowing that if she danced around in that ring any longer, Mother Doreen would knock her out cold.

  “Oh, no, we ain’t gonna forget it.” Mother Doreen stood, refusing to allow Deborah to throw in the white towel. “Because this breaks my heart, it breaks my heart to know that my people think that in order to be entertained, in order for them to believe something to be true, in order for them to believe something is real, it has to involve behavior like cussing and carrying on.”

  “I’m just living in the real world, Mother Doreen,” Deborah said, deciding that since Mother Doreen refused to let her out of the ring, she might as well stand there and swing. If she landed a couple of blows, cool. “In the real world, Christians cuss, drink, smoke, have sex with people other than their spouses, et cetera . . .”

  “Then therein lies the mistake,” Mother Doreen stated. “Instead of worrying about what’s going on in the real world, a true Christian after God’s own heart should be worrying about what’s going on in the Kingdom.”

  Seven, eight, nine, ten. Deborah had been knocked out cold. Mother Doreen had slugged her with the final knockout punch. There was no getting back up off the canvas.

  “Now what was that point you were trying to make again?” Mother Doreen folded her arms, giving Deborah the floor.

  But Deborah couldn’t get up. She was done. She was done fighting. She was done trying to defend her actions when she knew in her spirit she could do better. God had made her better. She wanted to be better. Honestly, she did. She wanted to be a good person. But she just felt so bad. With all the bad, there was no way she could dig up any good out of her. She wasn’t even forty years old yet. She’d only lived half her life at best, which meant she’d have another forty years, at least, of being filled with misery. Just the thought broke her down.

  Mother Doreen put her arms around Deborah.

  “Mother Doreen, I’m just tired,” Deborah cried. “So tired—tired of losing. I fail every test, every time. The Word says Christians are supposed to win this battle, but I keep getting shot up, beat up, beat down, and defeated. And the worst thing about it is that there’s not some taunting enemy on the other side. The enemy is in me. I’m my own enemy. I’m in a battle against myself.”

  “And it’s right there”—Mother Doreen pointed to Deborah’s head—“in your mind.”

  “I know. I know.” Deborah wept. “And it makes me feel crazy. I mean, sometimes I actually feel like a lunatic—like I’m not myself.”

  Mother Doreen took Deborah’s hands into hers. “Now, look at me, child. Look and just listen to what I’m about to say.” Mother Doreen closed her eyes and mumbled in unknown tongues as if she were on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire and was calling on her lifeline. After a few seconds, she opened her eyes and said to Deborah, “You ever thought about getting help? Going to maybe talk to a counselor or something?”

  Deborah deciphered what Mother Doreen was suggesting. “You mean a shrink? Oh, heck to the naw.” Deborah let go of Mother Doreen’s hands and stood. She began pacing the kitchen floor. “Black folks don’t do psychiatrists, shrinks, counseling, and all that stuff.”

  “That ain’t so. I remember watching ESPN with my hubby and them showing a guy winning a basketball championship, he was talking about how his psychiatrist or whatever helped him work through his issues. Why he even gave his doctor a personal thanks, shout out, or whatever it’s called.”

  “Yeah, well, my doctor is Jesus.�
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  “Then if that’s the case, how is your doctor supposed to help you if you won’t even talk to Him? You said it yourself, right now you can’t even talk to Jesus. Well, go find you a Christian counselor or something and speak to one of Jesus’ representatives.”

  Deborah stopped her pacing and looked at Mother Doreen. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?” Mother Doreen didn’t reply. “Okay, look, I’ll call Pastor and ask her if she can set aside some time to start counseling me and maybe—”

  “That’s fine. I do believe you need some spiritual counseling as well,” Mother Doreen interrupted. “The two will go hand in hand. But, Deborah honey, and you know I wouldn’t be saying this if God hadn’t put it in my spirit to say, you need some professional help.”

  Deborah threw her hands up. “What . . . I mean, where is all this coming from?” Deborah tried not to sound sarcastic, but that’s exactly what she was being. “Oh, let me guess, you are getting this from your spirit. Well, no offense, but your spirit has been all the way in Kentucky. It has no idea what my spirit has been up to.”

  Mother Doreen didn’t take too lightly to folks doubting her ability to hear from God. “Well, obviously your spirit has been up to no good or Pastor wouldn’t have felt the need to call me or Children Services.”

  There wasn’t just one, but two huge elephants now sitting in the room. Mother Doreen closed her eyes and internally kicked herself for letting that cat out of the bag. While her eyes were closed—it was a long shot, but—she prayed that God would make it so that Deborah hadn’t heard that last comment she’d slipped and made.

  “What did you say? Pastor . . . Pastor’s the one who called Children Services on me?” Deborah felt like she’d been punched in the gut, so much so that her hand grasped her stomach. “My own pastor?” She looked up at Mother Doreen with hurt and pain in her eyes. “But, why? Why would she . . .” Before Deborah could even get the sentence out, a heat wave of anger flourished through her body.

  She instantly stormed out of the kitchen and went and snatched up her purse and keys. Mother Doreen came out of the kitchen, following her.

  “What are you doing?” Mother Doreen asked as Deborah opened the front door with keys and purse in hand. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to get it from the horse’s mouth, that’s what I’m about to do,” Deborah snapped.

  Mother Doreen gently grabbed her by the arm before she could make her way out of the door. “Deborah, if you plan on going to confront your pastor, I really believe you ought to think twice about that.”

  “She should have thought twice about calling Children Services on me,” replied Deborah. “And you know what? I would have appreciated her giving me the same respect of confronting me first. But even though she couldn’t give me that liberty, I’m about to give it to her. And, oh, am I going to give it to her.” Deborah snatched away from Mother Doreen and headed for her car.

  “Child, when are you ever going to learn that in the end, yes, the Bible tells us we win, we get the victory, but only if we play by God’s rules?” Mother Doreen called out to Deborah, whose head was too full of smoke for Mother Doreen’s words to get through. Realizing that it was useless, Mother Doreen closed the door, leaned up against it, then uttered the words, “And, Deborah, honey, when are you going to learn to stop battling the wrong people?”

  Even if Deborah had heard Mother Doreen’s last statement, it wouldn’t have made a bit of difference. Forget about a battle; as far as she was concerned, it was about to be an all-out war!

  Chapter Forty

  “Sister Deborah, I was expecting you.” Pastor Margie stood at her front door, holding the screen open for Deborah to enter. She’d been standing in her living room picture window for the last few minutes. She’d been looking for headlights to pull up in her driveway. Just as soon as she saw them, she turned off her alarm system and went and opened the door.

  Mother Doreen had called her a few minutes ago, giving her the heads-up on what had just gone down at Deborah’s house. After apologizing for the slip of her tongue, Pastor Margie told Mother Doreen it was okay, the two prayed; then Pastor Margie waited. It was safe to say that the wait was indeed over.

  “Let me guess; your tag-team partner called and gave you a heads-up?” Deborah snapped. “Figures.”

  “I know you are upset,” Pastor Margie said to Deborah as she brushed by her pastor, “but I’m willing to talk about the matter with you—like adults. Like Christian adults.”

  Deborah didn’t respond to Pastor Margie’s statement. She just strutted in as if she would have whether Pastor Margie had invited her in or not. She headed over to the couch and sat down.

  “If you don’t mind, can we talk in my office?”

  Deborah stood and followed her pastor to the back of her house, where the home office was. Pastor sat behind her desk and went to signal for Deborah to sit in the chair on opposite side, but Deborah had already taken the liberty of sitting down.

  “Let me just start by saying that, yes, I am the one who called Franklin County Children Services on you,” Pastor Margie admitted. “And I’m sorry. I’m not sorry that I called them, but I am sorry that I didn’t talk to you first.”

  “Pastor, I’m so disappointed in you. How could you bring that agency into my business based on something Helen told you? And for the record, that wasn’t a bruise on my son’s arm. It was some kind of rash. I have a doctor’s statement to prove it.”

  “I don’t know anything about a bruise on your son’s arm. Besides, I would never involve FCCS based on hearsay. I called them after what I witnessed, or should I say after what I heard.” She shook her head. “Deborah, listening to you on that phone had me scared to death. The way you were going off, I didn’t know what you were going to do next. I almost called the police and was going to have them come over to your house.”

  “What are you talking about, Pastor?” Deborah was clueless.

  “That day you and I were on the phone. We were talking about that single shoe dinner or whatever it is you were talking to me about having for the singles ministry.”

  Deborah recalled the conversation just fine. But what she didn’t recall was something that took place during that phone call that would prompt her pastor to report her to Children Services. “I remember,” Deborah told her pastor.

  “Well, after we got finished talking and said our goodbyes, you must have thought you’d hung up the phone, but you hadn’t. I put the phone on speaker trying to get back to the recording function on the phone. The next thing I know I hear this woman’s voice roaring through the phone. I hear cursing, yelling, screaming . . .” Pastor paused and reflected. “It was something about a messed-up manuscript. I’m not sure, but I just heard this child crying.” She closed her eyes to hide the emotion behind them. Once she’d gathered her composure, she continued. “It didn’t take me long to realize that it was you. I can’t tell you how shocked I was. But even more so, I was so scared. Sister Deborah, you sounded so angry—so full of rage. I didn’t know what you were going to do. I didn’t know what I should do.”

  Deborah couldn’t recall every single thing she’d said that day her son had messed up the manuscript she’d been editing. She did know that it wasn’t anything she would have wanted her pastor to hear. But even so, it wasn’t anything that deemed her being reported to the system. “Well, you shouldn’t have called Children Services, that’s for sure. And on top of that you exaggerated and told them I was abusing my son.”

  “But it wasn’t a lie. You were abusing him.”

  “I never laid a hand on my child,” Deborah shot.

  “Oh but how you tore him to pieces with your words. You said the word ‘stupid’ more times than I could count.”

  “Sure, I might have said the word ‘stupid,’ but I never outright called my son stupid,” Deborah reasoned.

  “Whether you were calling your child stupid or you were referring to his actions as stupid, all his little mind hea
rs is the word ‘stupid.’ Do you get what I’m saying here, Deborah?” Pastor Margie asked. “Because I’m not going to sugarcoat this thing for you. What I witnessed through my ears was verbal abuse; verbal abuse that can ultimately have a very negative effect on your son.”

  “My son!” Deborah pointed to her chest. “My son!” This time she pounded on it. She hated the fact that she was disrespecting her pastor with her loud tone, but she was pissed. This was personal. Her pastor had jeopardized the custody of her son. “I’m sorry, Pastor, but how I see it, how I raise my son has nothing to do with you.”

  Pastor, as kindhearted and as sweet spirited as she was, was not one to be bullied. With conviction she said, “And how I see it, my nieces and nephews, cousins, whatever, have to grow up with your child. So if you’ve created this angry little monster, then it does affect me. Oh it affects me tremendously.” Pastor Margie rolled her eyes as flesh tried its best to take over. “And parents wonder why there is so much bullying going on these days. The kids are being bullied at home by their own parents. So what do these kids do? Mirror that same thing and come take it out on other people’s kids.”

  “Tsk,” Deborah said, brushing off Pastor Margie’s comments. “You are being soooo dramatic right now, Pastor. I mean no disrespect, but the black and white cultures are just so totally different. You guys take things way out of proportion. Calling and tattling on somebody because they whooped their child in a Walmart parking lot. That’s nonsense. And that’s not abuse; it’s called discipline.”

  “I don’t have anything to do with that incident. I didn’t witness a woman physically abusing her child—or whooping a child at Walmart, as you refer to. And I didn’t call it in. What I did witness, and, I repeat, through my own ears, was a woman verbally abusing her child. And that I did call in. Now what?” Pastor shot. She was tired of going back and forth with Deborah. In her heart, she had no regrets. What she heard on the phone made her cringe. She’d bet if Deborah had heard it, she’d cringe too. Then that’s when something dawned on Pastor Margie. “Hold on a second,” she said to Deborah, then raced over to her cell phone.