Water Lessons

by Chadwick Wall

  Minutes later, Jim again sneaked a glance at the silent Walter, as the station wagon rolled into one neighborhood after the other, each borough poorer, slightly more unsettling in its gloom, than the one before. The old seafarer sported an inscrutable Mona Lisa-like smile as he gripped the steering wheel. Jim wondered where the old man was taking him.

  The row houses and buildings increasingly reminded him of his home city. Two emotions collided within him: guilt over leaving behind a city with such poverty, and determination never to be immersed in such poverty again.

  Then he inwardly chided himself. Was he being shallow, selfish? Surely he was lucky to have flourished after the storm, when so many suffered hardship, destruction. He must keep these thoughts secret.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Walter Henretty parked in the lot bordering the Mount Zion African Baptist Church. As the station wagon eased into its spot, Jim shuddered at all of the parked cars. He could only hope Walter was not putting him up to public speaking this Sunday.

  Yet, Walter was not the Dorchester type. Jim had only been in Dorchester twice, or "Dotchesta" as many locals called it. Once was with friends on the way to the Saint Patrick's Day Parade. The other time, Jim had taken the wrong turn and he and Liam lost their way for about fifteen minutes. Jim only heard Dorchester mentioned when it coincided with the butt of a joke told by some Boston professional or in some story on NECN's nightly crime report.

  "Dorchester Heights, site of one of Washington's biggest victories," Jim said as they exited the station wagon. "No public speaking involved in this surprise, Walter?"

  "Public speaking? Nah. I wouldn't do that to ya, son."

  As Walter led him up the steps to the entrance, Jim recognized the church. He had read about its storied history as the oldest surviving African-American house of worship in the Boston area. Its walls boasted a regimental flag, torn by minie balls and shrapnel, of the 54th Massachusetts Infantry regiment, a photograph of the Reverend Dr. King's days in Boston as a theology student in the early fifties, as well as letters and photographs of jazz greats Bessie Smith, Ella Fitzgerald, and Duke Ellington.

  Within, the choir sang a hymn with soaring exultation. Walter reached for the handle of the massive wooden door and pulled, ushering Jim before him.

  Hundreds of standing and singing worshippers packed the old oak pews to capacity. The choir swayed and clapped to the organist beside the podium as their old spiritual coursed through the rafters and pews and reverberated throughout every possible cavity and cranny of the edifice.

  Many of the congregants' faces were angled back toward him. They were not alarmed or irritated, but instead radiated amusement, curiosity, and warmth, as if they had expected him.

  Jim's heart galloped. The old man grasped his shoulder. He motioned for Jim to look to his side.

  A bespectacled young black man in a gray double-breasted suit smiled and motioned for them to follow. The usher led them around the right side aisle of the church to the second row, where he gestured for them to take their places. Just as they entered the pew, nearly the entire section turned and looked at them.

  So many smiles and nods caused Jim's shoulders to relax slightly, for his breath to come easier. An old couple turned and waved. Jim recognized the blond wavy hair of a young man and woman. At the end of the pew sat Jack Spaulding and Natasha Boyle. Jim assumed his standing place beside Jack, who playfully punched his arm.

  Again Jim considered what Walter had in wait for him. Jim looked sideways in his pew. The Commodore's eyes were riveted on the singer leading the choir.

  This lone figure in the black pinstripe suit appeared to be no more than thirty. His face contorted with emotion as he belted out verse after verse. The man's right hand was held aloft as if reaching to the heavens for aid. His left was clenched into a fist, which he pumped vigorously, rhythmically to the beat of the drummer, who was positioned next to a bassist and guitarist at the opposite end of the stage. The singer's face was youthful and kind yet leonine, and like those in the choir, appeared weighed down with an agonizing yearning.

  The choir swayed in unison back and forth like a sapling in the wind. All about soared the mighty notes of a church organ, an instrument which Jim could not see until he turned and spotted the army of pipes rising from the wooden loft above the front door.

  Set in the walls were vast stained-glass windows, stretching perhaps twelve feet wide by twenty feet tall, depicting Old and New Testament scenes. Most of the figures portrayed were black. One scene featured a black Jesus, one a black Moses. Jim barely stifled a smile when he noticed that the Roman guards and centurions fell mostly within the Caucasian category.

  The singer's final, ten-second note tore Jim's attention from the windows. The man held both hands aloft as if pouring all remaining strength into a final musical plea to heaven. The organ followed suit, sending a powerful blast through the rafters, while the sweaty drummer pounded out a crescendo and the lead guitarist worked his strings with building fervor. The singer brought both of his arms abruptly down to his sides.

  The church was silent as a cavern. All eyes were locked onto the young man leading the service, who motioned for all to be seated.

  The congregation sank to its seats, and Jim and Walter along with it. The singer approached and ascended the podium. His eyebrows raised, he looked out at the crowd, scanning it back and forth. After a brief pause, he spoke. From the authority of his voice to his diction to his ease before the congregation, Jim realized this young man was not merely the choir leader, but the pastor.

  "Friends of Mount Zion African Baptist Church, how are y'all today?"

  Hundreds of varied shouts and exclamations burst from all sides of the seated congregation.

  "You should be, for today the Lord is risen over the earth. He is beaming down at us with all His love… a Lord who even allowed the great storm that afflicted New Orleans months ago, who allows earthquakes and other disasters, who allows some to go hungry and some of the wicked to go unpunished on this plain, but who has a mighty plan in store for us all indeed! For our guests here, who do not know me, I am Reverend Cordell Ward. I'd like to extend a hand of friendship to you all. And now, let's read from the Gospels. Please open the Bibles in your pews to Luke, chapter sixteen, verse nineteen."

  All throughout the church sounded the fumbling and turning of pages. The Reverend began to read aloud.

  There was a certain rich man who was clothed in purple and fine linen and fared sumptuously every day. But there was a certain beggar named Lazarus, full of sores, who was laid at his gate, desiring to be fed with the crumbs which fell from the rich man's table. Moreover the dogs came and licked his sores.

  So it was that the beggar died, and was carried by the angels to Abraham's bosom. The rich man also died and was buried.

  And being in torments in Hades, he lifted up his eyes and saw Abraham afar off, and Lazarus in his bosom. Then he cried and said, 'Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and send Lazarus that he may dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue; for I am tormented in this flame.'

  But Abraham said, 'Son, remember that in your lifetime you received your good things, and likewise Lazarus evil things; but now he is comforted and you are tormented.' And besides all this, between us and you there is a great gulf fixed, so that those who want to pass from here to you cannot, nor can those from there pass to us.'

  Then he said, 'I beg you therefore, father, that you would send him to my father's house, for I have five brothers, that he may testify to them, lest they also come to this place of torment.'

  Abraham said to him, 'They have Moses and the prophets; let them hear them.'

  And he said, 'No, father Abraham; but if one goes to them from the dead, they will repent.'

  "But he said to him, 'If they do not hear Moses and the prophets, neither will they be persuaded though one rise from the dead.'

  The Reverend paused. "Beloved friends, Our Lord allowed for many interpretations here. But I will
deal with one of them. Many of you are familiar with this powerful parable, whether having read it or heard it countless times, or," he extended his index finger, "you know this tale from having actually lived it, as a person of wealth, privilege or even financial stability who had needy souls turn to you in desperation. Or perhaps you were one who had to beg and plead for your supper at one point in your life like Lazarus. Most of us have been there, in one of the roles. A few have lived both roles."

  A flurry of responses shot from the congregation, all in affirmation.

  "Some of you have had the gate slammed in your face, like Lazarus experienced many times. And sadly, some of you who enjoyed wealth or financial comfort, despite the anguished pleas of the needy at your door, have done the slamming." With that, Reverend Ward shut his podium Bible with a loud bang.

  A shiver shot up Jim's backbone and dispersed across his shoulders. Never before had Jim heard a speaker wield such dramatic effect.

  "Now, friends, if you carefully read the parable our Lord relates," the Reverend approached the center of the stage, "you will find that the rich man, called Dives according to tradition, 'fared sumptuously every day' and was dressed 'in fine linen.' So he wore some of the most expensive clothing of the day and enjoyed very fine cuisine. And he's got a dying, desperate, starving, diseased man named Lazarus just laying out there at that gate, just begging, pleading for some crumbs from the rich man's table. But eventually that beggar dies. And so does the rich man. And those tables are reversed," the Reverend whispered.

  Despite their soft tone, these words echoed throughout the church's interior.

  "Now, in this life," the Reverend said, "many who are in the position of Lazarus do not get their just reward… in this life, that is. And many like the rich man don't get their comeuppance… in this life. And sadly, many Lazaruses in this world, they know full well they're Lazarus. But many on this earth, many in our very blessed and wealthy nation, they forget they are dining sumptuously behind that gate while Lazarus is dying and calling out their name out in that street. And actually, many hear Lazarus' cries and know they're eating that feast of Lobster Newburg and filet mignon at that table, and they hear that Lazarus crying for even a piece of moldy bread, but on they go feasting! Woe to us all, is what I'm saying!"

  A roar exploded from the congregation. Once again the power of the man's oratory rippled down Jim's spine.

  "Now, some o' y'all got family down on that Gulf Coast and took that storm months ago pretty hard. But all the rest o' y'all didn't need family down there. I'm one of 'em. We watched from the safety and comfort of our living rooms as almost two thousand lives were extinguished. And some of y'all saw plain as day: there were quite a few Lazaruses dead and floating in those streets of New Orleans."

  Emotion rose like steam in Jim's throat. He suddenly felt lightheaded, heat building in his cheeks and on his forehead.

  "And some of y'all could see ol' Lazarus hunkered down scared on his roof, or on the streets of the Convention Center, or up in that Superdome. And you could see Lazarus sleeping on his front lawn in Mississippi while his little shack behind looked like a bomb had hit it."

  Another roar, this time almost deafening, arose from the congregation.

  "You could see Lazarus was often black. Imagine that? But hey, you could also see Lazarus was an old white man, a young Vietnamese woman, a Latino child. Some Lazaruses were dead and gone. Some had been flown up here to our state. Some had been evacuated to the desert towns of Utah and the logging towns of Maine and Minnesota. Many Lazaruses are still around, as they always will be. Ladies and gentlemen, Lazarus is here to stay."

  Reverend Ward started to walk back to the podium, but stopped just alongside it. Several cries of affirmation shot from the congregation.

  "Yes, brothers and sisters, indeed, Lazarus is here to stay and is right there in front of you. Y'all can hear his feeble knocks at the gate, at your door." The Reverend gave three hard taps with his fist on the side of the wooden podium.

  Jim found himself holding his breath at the three eerie beats.

  "That's Lazarus knocking at our door. He's still alive out there, maybe for a day or two longer. Are you gonna give him some morsels? Or are you gonna give him a whole dish? Or are you gonna shun him, and turn up the music? What are you gonna do? You decide!" Reverend Ward pointed toward the crowd.

  A middle-aged man of athletic build shot up in the pew just in front of Jim. He had been sitting next to the old couple just adjacent to the aisle. "Feed him! Love him!" the man shouted.

  A wave of people shot to their feet, shouting various words of confirmation. In a second everyone had risen to stand, with Jim, Walter, Jack, and Natasha along with them.

  "Yes!" Reverend Ward shouted, pumping his fists with jubilation and marching back toward the center of the stage. "You chose wisely. Our Lord didn't just tell this tale. He is the Lazarus at your gate! Conversely, when you help Lazarus, you are honoring the Creator!"

  Someone began to clap. Soon a fire of applause consumed the congregation.

  The young Reverend motioned for all to be seated. "Now, many of you know the few souls sent to our church by some of our mission workers down in New Orleans. There is little Dwayne, his sister Teesha, and Ms. Arnette, their mama. But there is a new guest here. I have told you about him, and so have our good friends Mr. Henretty and Mr. Spaulding."

  The Reverend nodded toward their aisle. Jim's head started pounding. As long as the pastor didn't ask him to speak or to come up in front of the congregation, all would be fine.

  "When the storm hit, this young man lived in the center of New Orleans in a neighborhood called Mid-City. The storm hit on his birthday, no less. And rather than evacuate and seek his own safety, this young man ran looking for someone he knew on his block—a very diverse block of people, I might add, and the waters started to pour into the street. He risked his life to save Lazarus, who happened to be an old musician friend of his. I should mention—let's just say Lazarus was one of our tribe. But that ain't the point. Our young guest pulled Lazarus to the highest ground he could—cut a hole in his own roof. They were up there a few days. Well, in the end Lazarus didn't make it, rest his soul—"

  "Bless him!" someone called out.

  "That's right, brother," the Reverend said. "And bless the young man who helped his Lazarus. Bless Jim Scoresby, the young man I'm speaking of, right in the pew there. Everyone welcome him, thank him later for standing up for his Lazarus when he heard the knocking at the gate. He's come with our buddy, Mr. Henretty, today to worship. Mr. Henretty tells us Jim is scared stiff of public speaking. So I'll just do a little of that speaking for him, if he doesn't mind. Don't want our guest to get sick!"

  The grinning Reverend snapped his fingers and pointed at Jim, who wiped the imaginary sweat off his brow. The congregation released a wave of resounding laughter.

  "No man, no woman should run from Lazarus. Our man Jim actually ran to his Lazarus. He went to find him and care for him. That's where one truly gives back to the Creator, through one of his children in need. Now, the Lord God doesn't call us all to be the sole providers and to feed every Lazarus in this world every day 'til he's fat with sloth. But our God above does call us to have that special love to aid Lazarus when you learn he's lying out there at the gate. And a select few of you will be that sort who walks out of the mansion, if only for a while, to go past the gate to find a Lazarus in the streets. If that is you, truly you are the apple of God's eye, the very paragon of His creation."

  The Reverend paused, and scanned the crowd with a searching expression. "But the ultimate tragedy is to become like the rich man in this parable. Yes, I tell you, this rich man Dives, he shut his eyes to everyone and was bent on only fulfilling his own pleasure. In the end, he destroyed himself, didn't he? In the afterlife, he paid the price for this selfishness. So I tell you all, many of the people of southern Louisiana and Mississippi are lying at the gate. Some will make it on their own. Some won't. You gonna go out that
gate and feed 'em? And the people who suffered in that catastrophe, are they the only ones at the gate? So I ask you, friends, let us not always stay in the mansion. Let us not stroll to the gate and dole out a few pieces of bread. No, I give you all the challenge. I'm asking you, and God is asking you: go out from the gate and actively seek out Lazarus and give Lazarus the love God gives to you."

  With that final plea, delivered in a rising shout, Reverend Ward was met with a volley of exclamations of joy and confirmation, from "Amen!" to "Hallelujah!" to "Praise God!"

  Jim was struck mute, moved to the very core of his being. He looked to his left at Jack, and then to his right at Walter. Both men beamed at the stage, and swept up in the subsequent wave of applause, began to clap. Jim looked in front of him, and a little to the left.

  The dapper old man and his stately wife smiled approvingly at Jim. The man nodded and laughed.

  "His parents," Jack shouted in his ear above the din.

  The fierce applause suddenly morphed into a nearly deafening hymn. Jim looked ahead. The Reverend clapped his hands and led the hymn's first line, after which the choir erupted in zealous singing, swaying and clapping.

  At that moment, Jim ceased to ponder why Walter had brought him to the church. He sensed an unforeseen change within himself, a confluence of peace, love, and hope. Though he usually preferred to worship in a less emotional way, Jim now felt borne aloft by the sudden gust of song permeating every inch of the Mount Zion African Baptist Church.

  The congregation stood and joined the choir in singing.

  Jim's eyes roamed the joyous countenances of the choir, the ecstatic mien of the singing Reverend and felt admiration, love—and perhaps a tinge of jealousy—at this mysterious spiritual giddiness. The hymn ascended to its climax. The Reverend marched briskly down the center aisle toward the front doors of the church, singing as he went.

  Jim realized he had not been in the company of more than two black people since his days in New Orleans. He felt that rush of heart, the ability to reveal intense emotion and longing so easily—that he missed, that he remembered in Freddy and in so many New Orleanians. Walter must be calling him to get involved in this church.