The Sacrifice

by Robert Whitlow

  “Forget the book,” she said. “I’m just going to clap.”

  The first song ended, and the leader moved seamlessly to the second, an antiphonal interaction between congregation and choir. No hymnbook was necessary. It was all about Jesus. The congregation took the lead.

  “Who is he?” the congregation sang loudly.

  “He’s my Savior,” the choir responded.

  “Who is he?” the people asked again.

  “He’s my Rock,” came the reply.

  “Who is he?”

  “He’s my Healer.”

  On it went—an African-American catechism. Since the congregational part was the same, Scott and Kay joined in. Sometimes the choir sang a phrase in response. At other times, a member would break forth in a spontaneous song that gave further expression to the particular aspect of Jesus’ nature or ministry that had been identified. When the choir sang, “He’s my Shepherd,” a woman on the front row of the choir closed her eyes and delivered a solo about Jesus, the Good Shepherd who always watches over his sheep no matter where they are or the problems they face. Her voice rose and fell with a depth of emotion and passion that made the hair on the back of Scott’s neck stand up. It was as good as anything he’d heard while scanning the radio dial and listening for a few minutes to a soul music station.

  At Hall’s Chapel, the truth was known. Soul music didn’t originate in the ghetto; it was birthed in the church. Only among the people of God did it have its fullest expression.

  Scott glanced at Kay, whose eyes were closed. Her hair was blond and her skin white, but Scott sensed that Kay was able to travel with the soloist as she soared into the heavens and then came back to earth. Apparently, the poetic heart knew no boundaries of color or culture.

  “Who is he?” the congregation asked again.

  “He’s my Lord.”

  A third song followed. It was a slower melody, and the choir and congregation began swaying back and forth. The movement was contagious, and Scott joined in. After a few sways, he bumped into Kay.

  “Sorry.”

  Kay smiled at him and whispered. “Scott, you’re going left when everybody else is going right.”

  More songs followed. When the music ended, Scott looked at his watch—almost an hour had passed. The man beside Bishop Moore stepped to the pulpit. He went through a list of announcements that included the birth of a baby, three people in the hospital, a prayer meeting on Wednesday night, and the dinner that would follow the morning service. Bishop Moore joined him.

  Looking down at Scott, he said, “I invited Scott Ellis to join us this morning. Scott, come on up.”

  Scott climbed the three steps that stretched across the front of the sanctuary and stood beside the bishop, who put his hand on Scott’s shoulder.

  “Scott is an attorney who works with Leland Humphrey, an old friend of mine. I’d also invited Leland to come this morning, but Scott decided to bring someone else.”

  “Amen!” a woman sitting next to Kay said in a loud voice. Several people laughed.

  Scott looked at the sea of friendly, yet curious, black faces.

  “Thank you,” he said. “This is my friend Kay Wilson. She’s a teacher at Catawba High.”

  The bishop continued, “They are going to join us for dinner. Please make them feel welcome.”

  Scott returned to his seat. The man assisting in the pulpit stepped forward.

  “Ushers, please come forward,” he said. “We’ll receive the morning offering.”

  Four men wearing the usher badges walked to the front of the sanctuary carrying small baskets and stood across the front, facing the people.

  “Brother Samuels, please pray,” the assistant said.

  One of the ushers prayed, then the man in the pulpit called out, “Tithers, come forth!”

  As soon as he spoke, the choir began singing. It was a song of thanksgiving and the congregation immediately joined in. Instead of passing the plates down the pews, the ushers waited at the front for the people to come to them. Men and women streamed down the aisles, joyously singing as they came.

  After the last one returned to his seat, the man in the pulpit called out, “Those with offerings, come forth!”

  Scott watched as the scene was repeated. The choir struck up a different song, and the congregation joined in. Some of the same people returned. Others who did not respond to the first invitation, including a number of children, joined them. A few people waved their gifts in the air as they walked forward.

  Kay reached in her purse and took out her wallet. She took a few steps forward and deposited an offering in the basket held by the usher who had led them to their seats.

  Scott leaned over and asked, “What’s the difference between a tithe and an offering?”

  “I’m not sure, but when I saw the children, I decided it was safe for me.”

  Scott didn’t carry a lot of cash in his wallet. He received frequent flyer miles from his credit card and used it for even routine purchases. He stuck his hand in his pants pocket and felt a bill. It was five dollars left over from a forgotten purchase. Folding it over to hide the smallness of the amount, he put it in the offering plate. It was only the second time he’d given to a church since he started practicing law.

  After the offering was collected, the organist played a riff down the keyboard that served as the introduction for a solo by one of the male members of the choir. The congregation remained seated but nevertheless began to sway back and forth. Scott intentionally bumped into Kay who responded with a gentle elbow to his ribs. When the last hum died down, Bishop Moore took his place behind the pulpit. His first words sounded like the end of a sermon rather than the beginning.

  “To the glory of Jesus Christ, Amen.”

  Putting both hands on the pulpit, the minister began to pray.

  “Thank you, Lord! You are good! You are all the things we’ve sung about this morning. You are greater than we can think or imagine. You are the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end. Please, share more of yourself with us this day through the preaching of your Word. Hear the cry of your people for fresh manna. Say something to us and do something in us that will make a difference when we walk out of this sanctuary into the world you created. In Jesus’ name, Amen and amen.”

  Scott hadn’t thought much about the possible content of Bishop Moore’s sermon, but he anticipated a first-rate lesson in public speaking. The oratorical skills of black preachers were legendary for a reason.Whether by conscious knowledge or cultural influence, they utilized the tools that communicated best with an audience: parallel thought progression, repetition, and rhetorical questions.

  “Now, I’ve got someplace to go this morning,” Bishop Moore began. “It’s going to be a journey to a faraway place in an ancient time, but I promise that if you go with me you’ll be glad for every step of the way because the road back will pass through the center of your heart.”

  “Where are you going, Preacher?” asked a man seated on the front pew to the left of the platform.

  “I’m going back, way back. All the way back to Abraham, a man who walked alone with God before there was anyone else listening to what the Lord was saying.”

  Bishop Moore began by telling the story of Abram, a boy living in Ur of the Chaldees. It was a story simple enough for a child to follow, yet told with such ample description that Scott could almost taste the fruit from the street vendors in the city bazaar where Abram and his friends spent their days playing. By the time the boy became a man, Scott could appreciate the courage required to obey the command from the unknown Voice to “leave your father’s house and go to a land I will show you.”

  “Can you imagine what the world was like in Abraham’s day?” the bishop asked. “He is on the road to an unknown place, following the voice of a God he could not see. There were no friends who shared his beliefs to tell him he was on the right path, no church family to comfort him and lift him up when the problems of life knocked him down, no support f
rom brothers in the faith who would come by to encourage and pray with him. Can anyone appreciate the faith of this man?”

  “I can,” several voices responded.

  The bishop continued, “Time after time, the Bible repeats the same statement about Abraham. One of those times is in James 2:23 where it says, ‘Abraham believed God, and it was credited to him as righteousness.’ Abraham was alone. He was isolated. He was a minority of one. He was a stranger in a strange land. Was it easy for him to believe?”

  “No,” came the response from the congregation.

  “You’re right, it wasn’t easy, but he did it anyway. He believed God. In the face of a world that worshiped idols made of silver and gold, he believed in the invisible God whom the heavens and earth could not contain. He was a good man who tried to live a righteous life in the midst of a wicked people. He believed that God existed. But was that enough to credit him with righteousness in Jehovah’s sight?”

  “No,” came a louder response.

  “James agrees with you. In chapter 2, verse 19 it says that ‘even the demons believe . . . and shudder.’ So, what was the reason for Abraham’s righteousness? What did he believe that pleased God so greatly?”

  Scott didn’t have a clue.

  “Do you think it’s important to know the answer?” the preacher asked. “Is there anyone in this room who wants to know?”

  “Tell it!” a man sitting near Scott shouted.

  Speaking slowly for emphasis, Bishop Moore answered, “He believed in the promise of God, and his belief became faith.”

  Scott had never considered the relationship between belief and faith. He regarded the two terms as synonymous, but as he listened to Bishop Moore, he realized that unless belief produced day-to-day trust in God, it could not be considered faith.

  “God’s voice spoke a command and a promise to a man in Ur of the Chaldees,” the bishop said. “Abraham’s part was to hear and obey. It’s the same with each of us in this room. The voice of the Lord is going out over the whole earth looking for an ear that will hear and a heart that will obey.”

  The preacher scanned the congregation for several seconds, then pointed to a person sitting someplace behind Scott and Kay. “The voice of the Lord is calling out to Neal Gillis in Blanchard County, North Carolina. Will you hear and obey?”

  “Yes, Lord!” a man responded.

  The preacher’s finger made a leisurely journey to a spot closer to where Scott sat. “The voice of the Lord is calling out to Larinda Evanston in Blanchard County, North Carolina. Will you hear and obey?”

  “Yes, Lord! Every day!” the woman answered.

  The bishop’s finger moved again. It started at the far end of the pew where Scott sat and moved slowly toward him. Scott suddenly felt a drop of perspiration drip down inside his shirt. God was about to cross-examine his soul. He believed in God, but he wasn’t sure he had faith. The finger moved closer. Scott didn’t want to make eye contact with Bishop Moore, but almost against his will, he looked up. The bishop’s eyes met his, and in an instant, Scott realized that any masks he placed over his face could not hide the condition of his heart. The finger paused over him for a second that seemed like a year, then quickly reversed course to encompass the entire sanctuary in a sweeping motion.

  The preacher cried out, “The voice of the Lord is calling out to each and every one of you in Hall’s Chapel Church! Will you hear and obey?”

  A resounding, “Yes, Lord!” echoed from the congregation and rolled off the walls.

  Relieved, Scott remained silent.

  The preacher continued to talk for another ten minutes. At the end of the service, several people came forward and knelt in front of the carpeted steps that led to the platform. Bishop Moore and a few church leaders prayed with them. There was not a lot of emotion except for a woman who cried softly. Scott grew fidgety. Kay sat motionless beside him with her eyes closed.

  Finally, the bishop resumed his place behind the pulpit and pronounced a benediction. Conversations broke out as people stood up and moved toward the aisles. A woman came over to Kay and introduced herself. She had a niece who was in one of Kay’s classes at the high school.

  Bishop Moore walked down the steps toward Scott and shook his hand. Nothing in the preacher’s expression revealed what he’d seen in their moment of unspoken conversation.

  “I hope you enjoyed the service,” the preacher said. “I know it was different from what you’re used to.”

  “I enjoyed it,” Scott said, not sure if he’d given the correct response. “I don’t go to church very often.”

  “You’re welcome here anytime,” the bishop said. “It’s good for our people to worship together. Usually, we’re the ones who cross the color line that divides the church, so it’s nice when it works the other way.”

  Kay rejoined them.

  “Bishop Moore, why were several of the ladies in white sitting on the front pew together?” she asked.

  The bishop smiled. “Oh, that’s the Mother Board, the older women in the church who pray and intercede for the meeting. Without their prayers, we wouldn’t get very far.”

  A small, robust woman dressed in a peach-colored dress with a large hat on her head and a bright smile came up to them.

  “This is my wife, Rachel,” the preacher said.

  Scott shook her hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

  Mrs. Moore gave Kay a hug.

  “We’re glad you’re here,” she said. “You picked a good Sunday to visit because we’re going to eat. Alfred says you liked the leftovers he gave you and Leland Humphrey the other day.”

  “Yes, ma’am. They were great.”

  “This will be twice as good and three times as much.”

  23

  I wish that all the LORD’S people were prophets and that the LORD would put his Spirit on them!

  NUMBERS 11:29

  In the heat of summer, every man walking out of Hall’s Chapel would strip off his jacket and loosen his tie by the time he took two steps across the parking lot. Today, the remnants of the morning fog had burned off in the noontime heat, but the temperature was still cool enough to be comfortable. Most of the women disappeared into the section of the church where Scott and Leland Humphrey first talked with Bishop Moore. In a few minutes casserole dishes covered in aluminum foil and plastic cake carriers began pouring forth from the fellowship hall.

  “That was a different kind of church service,” Kay said. “But I liked it, especially the music.”

  “I had trouble with the choreography,” Scott said.

  Kay laughed. “It’s a rare white male who has any rhythm.”

  “Toward the end of the sermon, I thought Bishop Moore was about to single me out. It made me nervous, but the bishop had mercy on me.”

  Alisha Mason came up and greeted them.

  “Mrs. Wilson, come meet my family. I’ve told my mother a lot about you.”

  Kay left with Alisha, and the man who sang the solo before the sermon introduced himself to Scott. After some small talk, Scott decided to gather information in an informal way.

  “Were you here on the day of the shooting?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, the bishop was baptizing some folks and shots were fired. I grabbed my little boy and ran back to the church.”

  “Did you see anybody on the other side of the stream?”

  The singer shook his head. “No.”

  “Is there anyone else that knows more about what happened?”

  “I’m not sure. I think the bishop is the one who saw the most.”

  “Yeah, I’ve already talked to him, and he seemed to remember more details. Was he wearing his glasses when he was in the water baptizing the people?”

  The man paused. “I can’t remember. He always wears glasses because his eyesight is so poor, but I can’t be certain that he had them on during the baptism service.” The man pointed to the stream. “Preachers have been known
to baptize themselves over there if they step on a slick rock.”

  “Do you think he had them on?”

  “I really can’t say. Sorry.”

  The man left and another walked up. Scott went through a similar series of questions without learning anything new. It seemed that the incident happened so fast and the underbrush on the other side of the stream was so dense that it would have been hard to tell who or what was there. Neither man could remember whether Bishop Moore was wearing his glasses.

  Two long tables positioned end-to-end were heavy-laden with a cross-section of favorite recipes. Bishop Moore found Scott and Kay and brought them to the head of the serving line.

  “You’re our guests, so you have to go first.”

  “What about the children?” Kay asked.

  “They can follow you,” the bishop said. “In my day, the youngsters had to wait until the adults finished. There were times when the only parts of the chicken left for us were the necks and the backs.”

  Scott looked at the platters of golden brown chicken. “I don’t see many necks.”

  The bishop smiled. “You’d have to special-order them. The last time I saw a chicken neck was on the end of a string when I was trying to catch crabs at the coast.”

  It was self-serve, buffet style. Scott moved deliberately down one side of the table, carefully placing everything on his plate so that the right foods would be in contact with one another. The outdoor feast was organized. It began with congealed salads, pasta salads, and macaroni salads. Next came the meats: fried chicken, roast beef, ham, and some meat pies thrown in for variety. The vegetables followed with everything from homegrown asparagus to zucchini pie. Scott loved zucchini pie if it was thin and slightly crispy. He carefully wedged a large piece between a scoop of sweet potato casserole and green beans seasoned with bits of bacon. The desserts followed. Fortunately, there were extra plates at the beginning of the dessert area. Scott put his food plate on the edge of the table and loaded his dessert plate with banana pudding from a huge pottery bowl with a blue ring around the top.