Essie turned around and pointed to the area where Nadine Quarles was sitting, rolling her eyes at the back of Ernest Brown’s head. She was mad that Ernest didn’t even think enough of her to get mad back.
“Come on, choir,” Theophilus was saying, “help a preacher out.”
The choir director was happy for another chance to showcase the talents of his choir and musicians. He hopped up out of his seat and raised his palms upward to signal to the choir to stand. The choir stood slowly as the musicians moved into place. The same soloist hopped up and was on her way to the microphone to destroy another good song.
Theophilus groaned and said, “Do you have another soloist, Mr. Choir Director?”
The choir director smiled and pointed at one of the altos to go to the microphone. As the lady made her way up front, Bishop Rucker Hemphill stood and faced the choir director, as if to remind him that they were wearing fancy red robes with gold trimming and tassels because of him. But the choir didn’t give a hoot about Bishop Hemphill and those fancy robes. They were not about to torture these people with another bad song. The choir director unzipped his robe, dropped it on the floor, and kicked it out of his way. The choir followed suit and got out of those robes. The folks in the audience clapped and cheered, calling out, “Praise the Lord.”
The musicians started playing “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing,” followed by the choir singing it in the style of a classical piece. They sang one entire verse in this musical vernacular, which showcased the orchestra accompanying the choir—piano, keyboards, upright bass, cello, French horn, trumpet, flute, alto and tenor saxophones, two violins, bass guitar, electric lead guitar, drums, and a harp thanks to the music department at the university.
After singing two verses in the classical style, the choir and orchestra got quiet for five seconds before the drummer and bassist began to play a funky rhythm that reminded a whole bunch of folk, including the platform guests, of Bootsy Collins, George Clinton, and Parliament and Funkadelic. The only thing missing was Bootsy stepping up to the mike with some enormous white star-shaped glasses, saying, “Ahh… baby… bubba…” in that smooth and curiously low falsetto voice of his.
The musicians played long enough for folks to stand up and start jamming with the music. Soon the choir started back singing the same song in this new P-Funk beat. The harmony was tight, the words were clear, and they were on fire for the Lord, which made it all that more delightful to listen to.
Soon the soloist came in with that rich contralto voice, ad-libbing around that beat and her fellow choir members. When the song got good to her, she did a smooth step to the front of the podium, waved for the choir to stop singing, and turned the gymnasium out with her version of the song. Then she signaled to the musicians to stop playing and did a few riffs a cappella.
When folks were all out in the aisle, singing with her and having a good time in the Lord, she nodded at the musicians to resume playing. Then the choir director, who was enjoying this performance himself, brought the choir back in, starting with the tenors and working his way up to the first sopranos.
But that wasn’t enough. This time the choir director had the soloist stop singing, and once more silenced the musicians so the choir could showcase what it could do with the song. Then, when folks thought this song couldn’t get any hotter, he stopped the choir from singing, brought the musicians back in, and brought the choir back in with each voice part singing as if they were singing a round.
Once the round of the song was on point, he brought the soloist back in and they sang this several times before being brought to an abrupt stop, causing the people in the audience to give them a standing ovation amid a flurry of “Amen”s, “Thank You, Jesuses,” and “Praise the Lords.” Now that was a song a preacher could preach to!
TWENTY-THREE
The audience was on its feet for a good five minutes, clapping, shouting, and praising the Lord. It didn’t matter that a brief portion of the song matched the secular song “Make My Funk the P-Funk.” The orchestra, the choir, and the soloist were all on fire with the Holy Ghost and delivered what God had given them to this conference gathering. Black gospel choirs were experts at taking secular, get-down, and even rump-shaking music and putting a new spin on it—one that qualified the music for church—and then charging up the service by touching the hearts and souls of the folk in all the right ways.
Theophilus walked over to the soloist and gave her a big hug. He said, “Now, that’s what I’m talking about. Miss Lady, you keep on singing like that for the Lord.”
“Amen”s, reverberated around the entire gymnasium.
“Mr. Choir Director.”
“Yes sir, Bishop,” the choir director said.
Theophilus laughed and said, “Now son, I have to thank you for the esteemed compliment. But one of our next bishops is my ace boon coon, Rev. Eddie Tate, sitting right here next to two of the best bishops in the Gospel United Church, Murcheson James and Percy Jennings.”
A bunch of folks wearing TATE FOR BISHOP T-shirts in his rainbow colors jumped up yelling, “Tate, Tate, Tate, Tate!”
Eddie stood up and waved with that big grin of his spreading across his face. His enemies glared up at the stage and exchanged a few “over my dead body” looks, which were not missed by the folks in the Tate campaign camp.
Obadiah leaned over and whispered to Denzelle, “Looks like there gonna be a lot of dead folk at the conference come tomorrow afternoon.”
Denzelle reached out and slapped Obadiah’s palm and said, “I heard that, man.”
“Can these negroes let us get to the election before they start buying up all the purple clerical robes in sight?” Sonny whispered to Marcel with a sneer covering his face. He was so sick of them. They had been a pain in the butt for most of Sonny’s career as a preacher—always around getting on his nerves and making it hard for him to do anything in any way that he wanted to do it.
“. . . And you know something, choir,” Theophilus was saying, “y’all looking pretty good in those jeans and Carolina Blue T-shirts. I like them better than those robes you just kicked to the curb.”
“Ohhhh… no. My man didn’t go there?” Obadiah said to Denzelle.
“I know. Rev pretty much said that he didn’t like those fancy robes Bishop Hemphill spent all of that money on.”
Both Obadiah and Denzelle made a point of looking down the row of platform guests to where Rucker Hemphill was sitting. They started laughing when they saw his face all twisted up in anger, and then stopped when Bishop Percy Jennings turned back toward them and whispered, “Y’all behave,” right before a chuckle escaped his lips.
Murcheson closed his eyes to choke back his laugh. This was the wildest Triennial Conference he’d ever been to. And he hadn’t thought that anything could have topped what had happened in Richmond back in 1963. But somehow, some way, these church folk had managed to do what he’d once believed was the impossible.
In 1963 the rogues in the denomination had started, in a funeral home, a brothel they planned on taking from conference to conference—almost like a franchise, or McDonald’s. Thank the good Lord, this enterprise had fallen flat on its face. But now the very folk who had started all that mess back then were right back with some new and improved mayhem.
Drugs—and not just some high-quality weed pre-rolled to make it seem the dealers were really doing you a favor. Rather, these folks had decided that they needed to come up with something that would cause every self-appointed ladies’ man attending the conference to make a beeline to their door. Just based on what Murcheson had learned, WP21 promised some often-desired results—enhancement of things that were better left the way God had made them, and a level of longevity that was never meant to be for a normal and reasonably minded man.
Bishop James recognized that the so-called masterminds behind this insanity had never planned on taking the drug past the boundaries of this denomination. Like the Richmond brothel, this was supposed to have been an in-house deal, designed to m
ake a few corrupt preachers a whole lot of money at the expense of church folk gone astray. But drug dealing was not something that could be contained, especially when it was clear that the drug was capable of making tons of money. And it was these tons of money that had made those running this enterprise become so greedy they had placed themselves, their church, and their community in jeopardy.
The synthetic version of WP21 did everything the real drug promised to do. Only problem is that without the pure and natural ingredients, this drug promised to be more addictive and deadly than crack cocaine. And the scariest part was that it had been introduced into their community by the very men who had been called to bless and protect it. But what was absolutely terrifying was that now the new dealers didn’t care if every single black man in this gymnasium was rolled out on a stretcher, stiff and on his way out of this earthly life due to a massive stroke and heart attack. All they wanted was their money, up front and in cash—lots and lots and lots of cash.
Murcheson had been so deep in thought over this troubling matter, he hadn’t realized that they had rolled through most of the service, and Theophilus was standing at the podium ready to preach.
“Gospel United Church,” Theophilus began, “I greet you in the matchless name of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. I come before you humbly and determined to bring you God’s Word. Just like the Apostle Paul, I do not come before you with fancy words and fancy ideas. Rather, I bring the sweet simplicity of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. It is a message that doesn’t need fancy fixings. It is just fine on its own.
“And what I love about the Gospel is that it can look so foolish to those who pride themselves on being the purveyors of intellectualism that is devoid of the wisdom of the ages. Because the Lord saw fit to make this life-giving message seem absolutely foolish to those who believe that they know it all. But Church, if you set aside the world’s knowledge for just a minute, you will come to bask in this ‘foolishness’ and have the wisdom that is full of revelation knowledge from Heaven.
“This kind of knowledge will teach you what true joy is, and then show you how to get it and keep it. You’ll absorb the reality of 1 Corinthians 13 and come to understand that love is truly the greatest and most powerful force in the universe. Folk think that if you love your neighbor as yourself, if you forgive seventy times seven, and if you commit to praying for those who despitefully use you, that you are a punk—weak, a pushover, and of no use to anyone.
“Actually, Church, walking under the fruit of the spirit called love makes you stronger than anything you can imagine. Jesus was love, and He was full of power. In fact, He was so full of that power that it says in John 18:4–6, ‘Jesus therefore, knowing all things that would come upon Him, went forward and said to them, “Whom are you seeking?” They answered Him, “Jesus of Nazareth.” Jesus said to them, “I am He.” And Judas, who betrayed Him, also stood with them. Now when He said to them, “I am He,” they drew back and fell to the ground.’
“Imagine that,” Theophilus told them, a smile lighting up his face. “Jesus was so bad, all He had to say was ‘I am He,’ and folks had to draw back and fall to the ground. Good people of the Gospel United Church, the Lord is calling us to love Him so much that we just can’t help ourselves and have to do His will, we have to study His Word, we have to let go and let God have His way in our lives. That is the only way that we as a church will make it.
“And before I finish, I have one more thing to share with you. Church, be a righteous and holy people. Starting today, let go of everything that tries to be a wedge between you and the Lord. Let’s go by the scripture in 1 Corinthians 5:9–11, and stop putting up with the kind of folk the Lord told us to stay away from.”
Percy Jennings took note of who started to squirm when Theophilus said that. The list was way too long for his comfort—Rucker Hemphill, Ottah Babatunde, Marcel Brown, Sonny Washington, Nadine Quarles, Ernest Brown, and several more. He hoped that these people could find a way to take this message to heart.
“Today, decide to put an end to our tolerance of such people in the Gospel United Church. It’s time for a change, and that change begins with you and with me. I can preach this message all day long. But you must decide that you’ve had enough, and that you want this great denomination to be what our founding father, Rev. Z. T. Meeting, prayed and worked so hard for it to be. We can do it, Church.
“Decide now to stop the evil spreading through our beloved church like cancer. And take it one step further by showing up tomorrow, determined to vote for preachers who you know will be the right kind of bishops. Find out who is who. Talk to folk. Be ready to commit to electing righteous men. Help us, Church, to turn this thing around, because enough is enough. God bless you, Church, in the name of Jesus.”
Theophilus went and sat down next to Eddie Tate. He hadn’t preached a sermon that odd and different since God had worked him over the very first time he delivered the Word at Essie’s old church, Mount Nebo, in Charleston, Mississippi. He had wanted to cut up and preach the roof off of this building. But God had said no.
“Bro, that was one of your best sermons, and you never even raised your voice.”
“I hope so, Eddie. It wasn’t remotely close to what I had written down.”
“Good,” Eddie told him. “Lets me know that you listen when God calls. That is far more important than any fancy sermon you could give.”
Theophilus nodded and then looked at Essie to gauge her reaction. She smiled and gave him a thumbs-up. He released a sigh of relief, looked up, and whispered, “Thank You, Lord.”
“You’ve done your part, son,” Murcheson told him. “Now it’s up to these people to be obedient and do what the good Lord has called them to do for this church.”
Percy Jennings had gotten up to open the doors of the church for conference attendees, and the ushers were lining up for the last collection of this service. Theophilus gulped down a cold glass of water, glad that this service was over but still concerned as to what would happen next. There was still that legal matter with WP21, and the election of bishops.
By the time he and Essie got back to the hotel, they learned that Bishop Willie Williams had been rushed to the hospital because he couldn’t straighten out anything on his body. Thankfully, he hadn’t had a stroke. But he would not be able to leave Duke University Medical Center for another week. When they got back to campus for the evening service there were undercover cops everywhere.
Theophilus had to hold back the tears when he saw all of those FBI agents. Here they were, preachers, the black church, the backbone of the black community, and one of the biggest drug busts in Durham, North Carolina, was about to go down right in the midst of one of the most respected and powerful black denominations in the country. Just thinking about the legal problems brewing on the horizon was enough to give him a stroke. For a moment he wondered if Eddie needed to drop out of the bishops’ race but quickly dismissed that thought when he heard the Lord whispering “Peace, be still” to his heart.
TWENTY-FOUR
Sir,” Denzelle said, barely able to contain his joy that his superior had been able to come down and work on this case with him after all.
“Yes, Agent Flowers?” Gregory Williams said. He had had to hide his laughter when Denzelle laid eyes on him at the airport, forgot himself, and exclaimed, “Thank You, Jesus.”
“Do we have to go into the election day service with our guns out and making outright arrests? You know, most of the folks are law-abiding church people. And a good number of them are the saints.”
“Saints, Flowers?” Agent Williams asked.
They were getting ready to make a drug bust that would make it possible for them to get their hands on information about the third-largest drug cartel in the US. And this boy was worried about a cohort of religious people called saints? Those “saints” should have been virtuous enough to stop this thing from getting so out of hand that two of their religious leaders had died, and a third was on the critical list at Du
ke Hospital.
Greg knew he was wrong. But couldn’t stop laughing every time he thought about that old preacher lying up in that hospital bed with his toes and fingers curled up stiff, knees bent into hard angles, elbows locked, and that other part on display. It was the other part that put the icing on the cake. Greg, the head of this operation, had almost lost his professional demeanor and asked that old man to give him a description of the foxy thang who’d made him want to take that much WP21.
“Yeah sir, saints… holy rollers… sanctified people… you know,” Denzelle was telling him, breaking through his reverie about that old man at Duke Hospital.
“Oh,” Greg said. It had been a long time since he’d been in a black church. He wasn’t a big churchgoer. But when he did attend services, it was at the prestigious and beautifully constructed Washington Cathedral, where the services were predictable. No one would ever have to worry about some church woman falling out on them, people blocking your view of the pulpit because they had on enormous hats, folks running around the church as if they were on fire, and shouting that lasted ten minutes past the sermonic hymn. Yes, that was his kind of church when he attended a service—neat, precise, orderly, timely, and rather white with regard to the demographic composition of the congregants.
It was the church of some American presidents. Kind of made Greg wonder what would happen if the country ever got big and bad enough to get a brother elected as president of the United States. One thing for sure, even though Mr. President would go there for official types of services, there was a good chance he would want to worship somewhere on the other side of town where he could raise his hands and say a few “Yes, Lord”s when the members of the Congress and the Senate were acting as if all of their mamas had dropped them on their heads.
“Uhh… sir… uhh… I don’t mean any harm or disrespect,” Denzelle began, “but do you go to church?”
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