Joy Comes in the Mourning

Chapter Thirty-One

Carolyn

         I don’t know what to expect when I show up for church this morning, but I take a deep breath before walking through the sanctuary doors, prepared for whatever. The only reason I came was because my honey asked me to come. Said service ain’t the same without me.

          It’s obvious by the way folk either stare at me or ignore me that I am the subject of scandal. Most folk are trying a little too hard to act like I don’t exist. I don’t get a “Praise the Lord,” smile, or even a head nod.

          I know I probably deserve this, but it still hurts. It pains me to see folk who generally greet me with loving hugs twisting their faces as I make my way through the sanctuary. Folk who used to call on me weekly for prayer or favors act like we’ve never met. Walk right by me like my sin will rub off on them like cheap makeup. And Minister Wyman…I tried to search out at least one ally, but when I made eye contact with her, she swung her head around so fast, I wouldn’t be surprised if she had whiplash.

          I’m thinking maybe this wasn’t such a good idea—coming out this morning. But I couldn’t let the devil win. But now, I just want the service to be over. I just want to be outta here. All morning I’ve been trying to put on the mind of Christ, but really my mind is in turmoil. One little mistake seems to have outweighed all of the good that I’ve ever done. I need to hear a word that’ll pull me completely out of this depressing state.

          The audio/visual ministry has piped in the waiting music, the songs we listen to before the service gets started. Smokie Norful’s “You’ve Been Good” floods my ears. Yes, God has been good. Too good for me to dwell on my mistake like he’s not a forgiving God. My God is in the blessing business. King David was on to something when he said, “Blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered.” So why do I feel cursed?

          I slide into an empty pew, near the back of the sanctuary, and although nobody else is on the row, practically pin myself to the wall at the end. I close my eyes and silently pray the words of Psalm 32:5: Lord, I confessed all of my sin to you, and you forgave me and took away my guilt. I am speaking things that be not as though they are, because I still feel guilty.

          When I open my eyes, the queen of vintage, Sister Jackson, is hovering over me. She’s wearing a Jackie-O-style tope brocade two-piece suit with a straight skirt and jacket and a Peter Pan collar and elbow-length sleeves. I immediately begin praying that she’s just a mirage. But I don’t think they talk.

          “Well, praise him, Sister Wright. How are you?” Sister Jackson asks, leaning in to kiss my cheek.

          I feel myself getting angry, but I plaster a smile on my face and say, “I’m blessed, Sister Jackson. How are you?”

          Sister Jackson looks around ever so slowly, then leans into me again, this time as if she’s about to tell me a secret, then she whispers harshly, “You know I got called into Pastor’s office because of you.”

          I look at Sister Jackson like she’s speaking German. “What?” I whisper back harshly, praying the sisters seated rows back can’t hear us.

          “You heard me. Now they think I’m working witchcraft in the church. And they’re calling you the ringleader.”

          I’m disgusted all over again. Why is this happening to me? I made a mistake, I want to scream to the top of my lungs and get this over with. A big mistake! When is this nightmare gonna end? Even when I would do good…

          Sister Jackson stalks off when Minister Wyman graces the pulpit. Service is about to begin. Maybe I can make it through this.

          “Praise the Lord, everybody!”

          There are many weak responses. One of them comes from me.

          “Oh, you can do better than that!”

          I wonder.

          “Let’s all stand for our congregational hymn.”

          We all stand and sing “Leaning on the Everlasting Arms.” Afterwards we pray. I bow my head, and the next time I open my eyes, my honey is in the pulpit for the Scripture reading. He reads Jeremiah 29:11 and 2 Corinthians12:9. “At this time I ask that you prepare yourselves for our announcements and welcome.”

          Sister Jackson swiftly makes her way to the front of the sanctuary. She’s obviously cleared her name, I think as she stops briefly to greet Lady Lena with a kiss. Lord, let this mind be in me which is in you.

          I do my best to comprehend what Sister Jackson is saying from behind the small podium on the floor, but the spirit of slap has taken hold of me and I’m wrestling. I really want to slap the taste out of her mouth. This woman is about to make me lose my inheritance rights as a child of God.

          “We are just having a wonderful time in the Lord. Hallelujah! If you’re visiting Straighter Way this morning, could you please stand and remain standing until we give you a holy hug or handshake?” Sister Jackson asks.

          Two people stand, and I’m tempted to join them because these cold folk can’t be my church family.

          The four-piece men’s choir welcomes the visitors in song. It’s hard to believe as I sit here listening to these mighty men of valor, to include my honey, sing “Jesus Welcomes You” that I’d spent most of the morning crying, feeling out of sorts. But sin will do that to you: cause distance between you and God.

          By the time they reach my favorite verse of the song—“He loves…he is love,” I’m fighting back tears. I don’t like how I am or where I’ve allowed that ole devil to take me. But I don’t feel worthy of return. I feel as though I let God down too many times after all he’s done for me. He deserves better, and right now I feel undeserving of his love.

          I don’t walk around during offering. I still can’t bring myself to face Lady Lena, much less talk to her. She’s been nothing but good to me. If anybody would’ve told me that I’d be mixed up in some mess like this, and at my own place of worship no less, I would’ve declared it a lie straight from the pit. Lord, what am I going to do? What lesson are you trying to teach me?

          Minister Wyman calls for three readers to come up and share whatever Scripture is on their hearts. I sigh when Mother Patterson, Deacon Phillips, and Sister Brown’s son who is six-years-old and can barely talk, are chosen.

          After Mother Patterson reads Proverbs 6:16-19 so slowly that at one point I think she’s fallen asleep standing up, little Corey struggles to recite the Twenty-third Psalm even though Sister Brown is loudly whispering every other word in his ear. Then up pops Deacon Phillips, who I believe thought he’d been called to preach his trial sermon. After a few “words of wisdom,” Deacon Phillips quotes Proverbs 21:19 verbatim from the New King James Version of the Bible, and then feels it necessary to “break it down for ya.”

          Meanwhile, Sister Phillips looks as if she can do some breaking herself. Five excruciating minutes later, Minister Wyman has to tap Deacon Phillips on the back to let him know that he’s out of order.

          Even though Pastor didn’t say that I was no longer a missionary, I sat myself down from my duties as a missionary as well as all the other auxiliaries I was a part of. That’s why I took this seat near the rear of the sanctuary instead of in the missionary section up front. I don’t think I’ve ever sat this far back. I never noticed how many folk walk back and forth during the service.

          The men’s choir begins singing “Prayer Will Change Things for You.” This is my hope. Yes, this is my hope. Sister Jackson is bouncing and praising God, and it feels like she’s mocking me. By the time Pastor comes out, I’m convinced that I should’ve stayed my behind home this morning.

          After a rather speedy prayer, Pastor shakes his heard sorrowfully and starts out by saying, “Saints, it’s hard pastoring a black church.” Immediately, I’m a bit uncomfortable because Pastor has never seemed to regret shepherding his flock.

          “Church, I don’t have a topic this morning. I just have something on my heart. ’Cause gone are the days of old for some of us when we obeyed God because it was the right thing to do. When we loved our neighbors because God said so. When we kept the laws of God because he said so! See, the law is spiritual. The problem with many of y’all is that you’re religious, not spiritual. There’s a big difference. Religion is an outward change that’s visible to the natural eye. Spirituality is an inward change that’s discernable with the spiritual eye. Religious folks are emotional. Religion is why some of you are careless and callous.”

          Pastor pauses briefly to scan the congregation. Of course his gaze rests on me. But I avert my eyes. I keep telling myself that I’m not holding anything in my heart against my spiritual father, but the fact that I can barely look at him without flip-flopping between humiliation and anger tells me different.

          “When your carelessness brings the heat on you, you find yourself in a backslidden state—missing in action from church.”

          I suddenly feel my whole body growing warm.

          “God allows adversity to hit your doors, and you say, ‘Why me?’ Why not you? Life ain’t supposed to go your way. It’s supposed to go the way God sees fit.

          “Spiritual folks are prayerful. But it’s y’all religious folk.” He shakes his head sadly. “Your lives are outta line, so you mess up, then the pressure hits hard and hurts. You may feel hopeless, but don’t be careless. Pray! Don’t be callous. Pray! Don’t fall. Pray! Don’t stay at home. Pray! Don’t buckle. Pray! Because Jesus is watching when we buckle under pressure.”

          I shift uncomfortably in the pew and try to pretend I don’t know that Pastor is talking about me. The only problem is, I’m the only one pretending. Everyone else seems to be peering at me with shocked expressions. I even heard a few folk gasp. Apparently, I’m not the only one who can’t believe that Pastor has taken the low road.

          However, Minister Wyman seems pleased that Pastor is in rare form. She bellows, “Handle the Father’s business, Pastor!”

          This only adds fuel to Pastor’s fire. “With your spiritually bipolar, retarded self.”

          Shocked at Pastor’s choice of words, my eyes bug.

          “Owww, Pastor!” Mother Byrd shouts out, giggling.

          “Yes, I said it. With your retarded self! If you’ve been in church thirteen, fourteen, fifteen years, and you’re still fussin’ and fightin’, killing people with your mouths, not only are you careless and callous, you’re spiritually retarded.”

          Careless? I made a mistake! Didn’t I already apologize? Callous? I had good intentions. I really didn’t mean any harm!

          “Putting your mouths on me and my family. Turn with me to Numbers chapter twelve, and I’ll show you what can happen when you speak against the man of God.”

          I hear pages rapidly turning. I wish I could jump in between them and quickly disappear.

          “‘Then Miriam and Aaron spoke against Moses because of the Ethiopian woman whom he had married…’ His wife! ‘So they said, “Has the Lord indeed spoken only through Moses? Has he not spoken through us also?’ And the Lord heard it just like he hears all you say about me and mine. ‘Now the man Moses was very humble, more than all men who were on the face of the earth.’ Very meek. Humble!”

          Pastor looks me dead in the eye and says, “When was the last time you humbled your pious, arrogant, self-righteous, judgmental self?” Again I shift uncomfortably under the weight of his stare. This time pangs of guilt shoot through me.

          “Oh, yeah, you speak fluent Christianese. You say all the right things: ‘God is good!’ ‘Glory to God!’ ‘Hallelujah!’ ‘Praise the Lord!’ But are you really saved? Have you really been converted? There are some very vital things that need to take place. There needs to be some genuine repentance. True brokenness and desire to change. You ain’t nothing but a spiritual stillborn till that takes place.”

          Minister Wyman shouts, “You helping somebody, Pastor!”

          “Preach, Pastor!” someone shouts.

          Someone else shouts, “Help us, Jesus!”

          Shaking his head, Pastor continues, “I know most of y’all are perfect, but every time I sin…and I sin as a pastor, but every time I do, the Holy Ghost…oh, God wants to change some things, church! If you’re serving because it looks good and sounds good, but in your heart you’re disgruntled. ‘I’m tired of doing everything. When do I get a break?’ then you’re retarded.”

          To avoid Pastor’s gaze, I look into the choir stand. Twenty-three pairs of eyes are staring back at me.

          “As children of God, we’re called to be led by the Spirit, not the flesh. That flesh will get you in trouble every time. That thing is a monster. When God reveals your character flaws, you better adjust and do it quickly. The longer you hold on to your mess, the worse off you’re gonna be. It’s like dancing with the devil. And the more you waltz with the wicked, the more wicked you become. Your character flaw could be hatred, disobedience, unforgiveness, bad habits, Mr. Low-Down and Flighty. Pride, Miss High-and-Mighty.”

          I feel like Pastor is not only stepping on my toes, but crushing my heart.
“Be prayerful and not prideful! Good God Almighty! I don’t know who that’s for, but I hope you’re listening and listening good. Thank you, Holy Ghost! Jesus told his disciples in Luke 18 to pray always and never give up. But beware of praying from a posture of piety—full of yourself—like the Pharisee.”

          I lock eyes with Charles, who looks as though he’s torn between coming to my aid and supporting Pastor.

          “Thankful that you’re not ‘as other men are.’ You’re worse! You’re worse because you don’t even recognize that spiritual pride is abominable; it’s using the greatest favor of God to feed your own vanity. You’re retarded!”

          Having Pastor mad at me is one thing, but having him publicly humiliate me is something else all together. Before he can utter another word, I spring up from the pew and like an angry toddler, stomp my way toward the doors of the sanctuary. I storm out, swiping at the angry tears that are burning my eyes. Why is Pastor doing this to me? I was only trying to help. Why is that so hard for him to understand?

          After seventeen years, Pastor should know me better than that. I would never do or say anything to intentionally hurt him or Lady Lena. My conversations have always been full of grace and seasoned with salt.

          I hear my honey yelling for me, but I jump in my car and don’t look back. The tears won’t stop coming.