by Vin Baker
The following Sunday I was finally introduced to the congregation at Abyssinian. It was daunting. The church was filled to capacity, as it usually is on Sundays. Abyssinian is a beautiful and historic landmark, so in addition to having thousands of members, it is also a popular tourist destination. The congregation at Sunday service is an eclectic mix of locals and visitors from all over the world. In front of this audience Dr. Butts stood up and welcomed me to the fold.
“I want to introduce our new youth minister. He’s a friend of Howard Schultz.” Dr. Butts paused and put out a welcoming hand. He smiled at the crowd and then at me. “Please say hello to former NBA superstar Vincent Baker.”
Loud applause filled the church as I made my way to the front of the room, to stand alongside Dr. Butts. I could feel the sweat forming on my collar. You think shooting free throws in the playoffs is pressure? Try walking out of Rushford and into Abyssinian with only a few months in between. Standing at the front of a monumental church, in historic Harlem, less than a block from Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Boulevard. With the eyes of a sprawling, throbbing congregation on you.
Now that’s pressure!
That I was able to do this without passing out in front of everyone was partially a credit to my experience as an Olympian and a professional athlete, and a survivor of the disease of addiction. Mainly, though, it was a credit to Christ and my faith. I didn’t make this journey alone.
I even felt a little swagger in my step, which really wasn’t a good thing. I was only a few months out of rehab, still in the early stages of recovery. Humility was paramount; I didn’t want to be treated like a celebrity, and it wasn’t healthy. At the same time, I understood that Dr. Butts was trying to make me feel good, while also making it clear to the church that I was not just someone he had pulled off the street. Most of the youth ministers at Abyssinian came to the position with a wealth of experience, having already been pastors at megachurches. It was a high-profile job that required both experience and attitude.
I had neither, so Dr. Butts did his best to infuse me with a little of both.
“Take a good look,” he said to the crowd. “I get ’em handsome!”
Laughter, more applause. It felt almost like I was back in the NBA, getting introduced with the starting lineup. Except I had done almost nothing to deserve the accolades. Ready or not, I was in the spotlight.
“Welcome to Abyssinian, Vincent,” Dr. Butts said. “Why don’t you say a few words to the people.”
I kept it short and simple.
“Thank you. I’m Vin Baker, and like Dr. Butts said, I’m the new youth minister here at Abyssinian. I’m very grateful for the opportunity.”
That was about it. I was on and off in less than a minute. This was neither the time nor the place for a sermon, or to tell my long and complicated story. There would be plenty of opportunity for that.
I spent nearly three years at Abyssinian, attending seminary and working as a youth minister. I did not earn a penny, but neither did I incur any debt, as the Starbucks Corporation picked up the tab for my education and living expenses. This was Howard Schultz’s version of tough love:
If God is the most important thing in your life, then let’s maximize that relationship. Let’s see how hard you are willing to work.
It was a test of faith and friendship. I didn’t know Dr. Butts on a personal level, but I did know Howard, and I trusted him; I knew that whatever he put his hands on seemed to blossom. His success and compassion were obvious. Whatever he wanted me to do, I was going to do it, no questions asked.
Howard’s relationship with Dr. Butts, I learned, had been formed several years earlier when the Abyssinian Development Corporation became involved in the relocation of a Harlem Starbucks. Anything related to business or real estate in New York can be contentious and complicated, but this particular project wound up facilitating a friendship between Dr. Butts and Mr. Schultz. On the surface, I suppose, they may have appeared to have little in common: the Jewish businessman and the black pastor of one of the most historic churches in the country. But as I got to know them both, I began to see how much they had in common, not just in terms of their devotion to the concept of community but in terms of the way they saw things. Both Howard and Dr. Butts are capable of thinking way outside the box. It can be disconcerting and confusing at first, but once you spend some time with them, it can be downright inspiring.
Howard made it clear that he had gone to great lengths to arrange for my time at Abyssinian, and that he expected a full commitment in return.
“I’m taking this very seriously, Vinnie,” he said. “I expect you to do the same.”
The implication was that Dr. Butts was taking a chance on me based on the personal recommendation of a friend and business associate. Reputations were at stake. I had let Howard down in the past; I couldn’t do it again.
By the time I settled in at Abyssinian, my mind-set had changed from one in which I was focused on trying to figure out how I would earn a living to simply furthering the strength of my spirituality. I was essentially a student, working at Abyssinian and taking classes at Union Theological Seminary (which was affiliated with Abyssinian). It provided me a place to live and food to eat. I threw myself into classwork and into working with youth groups at the church. It was an amazing and invaluable experience, one in which I learned as much about myself as I did the people with whom I worked.
Addiction was the eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the room. For a while at Abyssinian, I was Vin Baker, the former NBA all-star who had apparently decided to choose a dramatically different career path. I wasn’t sure how much people knew about my downfall, or when and how it would be appropriate to share the details.
The first time I mentioned alcohol in front of a congregation, I did so in a lighthearted manner, casually referencing “that strange-tasting eggnog we all have at Christmastime,” as part of a larger sermon addressing questionable behavior and habits. It was meant to be a joke, a way to introduce a delicate subject with which I had enormous personal experience. I wasn’t the kind of minister who worked off a manuscript back then (I’m still not, although I have learned to take a bit more time in preparation), and my words were not chosen carefully. The joke fell flat, both with the audience and with my boss. When the service ended, Dr. Butts called me into his office. This was something he rarely did, so I had an inkling that he wasn’t happy.
“Vincent, I want you to stay away from the drinking references,” he began. “I know what you were trying to do, but that isn’t the way to go about it.”
I explained that, given my history, it might be time to start weaving into my work a few examples of my own life.
Dr. Butts nodded. “Everybody knows,” he said. “And you are not the only person in this church who struggles with that issue—”
“Right, that’s my point,” I interrupted. “Maybe this can help.”
Dr. Butts rubbed his forehead in frustration. “I agree. But not like that. If you want to deal with it on a very personal level, which can be difficult, then go right ahead. You have to be willing to do it in a helpful, honest way. Otherwise, don’t go there. It’s not funny.”
Dr. Butts was absolutely right. I had been tone deaf. I wanted to connect with the audience in a way that I felt would be meaningful. I wanted them to understand that I wasn’t an NBA superstar. Not anymore. I’d been through something terrible and, through the grace of God, I had come out on the other side. I understood that most people, including the members of Abyssinian Baptist Church, could not identify with the notion of losing $100 million. But surely they could identify with the concept of loss, and of the powerlessness that comes with addiction. I tried to broach this subject because I knew it was on their minds. I could see it on their faces every time I walked into church.
What happened to him?
Is he okay?
No, I wasn’t “okay.” Like everyone else, I was struggling. I was broke and trying to find my way. But I was alive. I was sobe
r.
That’s what I wanted to share. I just didn’t do it very well that day.
The more time I spent with Dr. Butts, the more I came to admire and respect him. Our relationship was not only that of mentor and student, but also somewhat that of parent and child. It was a lot like my relationship with Howard. Dr. Butts believed in me and supported me, but he also challenged me.
One day during the first couple of months, I made the drive from Connecticut to Abyssinian for a midweek meeting with some church representatives about the possibility of running a series of basketball clinics and camps. The meeting was in a different section of Harlem that I did not know well. As is often the case in New York, parking was a nightmare. I was trying to save money, so I drove around for quite some time looking for an on-street parking space, rather than paying for a garage. Eventually I found a spot several blocks away, and rushed over to the meeting, barely arriving in time. In my haste, I forgot to make a note of where I had parked—a big problem, considering I didn’t know the neighborhood well.
Afterward, I wandered around for nearly an hour, growing ever more flustered as the vehicle avoided my eyes. You would think a burgundy Navigator would stand out like a . . . well, like a burgundy Navigator. But it didn’t. I started to wonder whether it had been stolen, and even considered phoning the police for help. Finally, after about an hour, I found it. Then I moved the car closer to Abyssinian so that I could attend an evening funeral service.
After the service Dr. Butts called me into his office.
“What were you doing down on 127th Street this afternoon?”
I stiffened at not only the question, but the way it had been delivered—in a somewhat accusatory tone.
“I had a meeting about some camps,” I said. “And then I lost my car.”
Dr. Butts leaned back in his chair. There was a long pause. “What do you mean you lost your car?”
“Just that. I couldn’t remember where I parked.”
Another long moment of silence.
“Vincent, how are you doing with that other stuff?” he asked.
That’s when it hit me: Someone had seen me many blocks from church, wandering around like I didn’t know what I was doing, and had reported the observation back to Dr. Butts. And he had become concerned that I’d relapsed.
“I’m fine, Dr. Butts. Really. Totally sober. You don’t have to worry about that.”
“Well, that’s good to hear.”
I had to swallow a bit of righteous indignation. It was understandable that Dr. Butts would be worried; my track record, after all, was not great.
“Someone told you they saw me, huh?”
He shook his head. “No, I drove by and saw you myself. Wondered what you were doing.”
There was an awkward moment in which neither of us knew what to say. Then, almost simultaneously, we both burst into laughter.
“You know, Dr. Butts,” I said. “You could have offered to help. Might have saved me forty-five minutes.”
The best part about my time at Abyssinian was working with children; it was a much less complicated matter. The children in the youth program were generally preadolescent, from roughly ages seven through twelve. These kids didn’t go home and Google the life story of Vin Baker. I didn’t avoid the subject with them, but neither did I make it the center of conversation or focus on the lurid details. In general, their response to me was purely visceral and unfiltered.
“Oh, my God, Mr. Baker. You are so tall!”
I enjoyed being around the kids, and I loved preaching to them, partly because it was an opportunity to revisit some of my favorite stories from the Bible. It wasn’t enough merely to reference, for example, David and Goliath. I had to digest the story myself, be clear in its meaning and interpretation, and then find a way to present it in a simplified manner to a very young and impressionable audience with an extremely short attention span. It was fun and challenging, and I loved every minute of it.
Abyssinian was simultaneously the most rewarding and challenging period of my professional life (and my spiritual life). However, it was not a sustainable lifestyle given my personal situation. I still had five kids and bills piling up back home. There were moments of crisis, when I’d be lying on the bed in my sparsely appointed Harlem apartment, feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders. But even in those hard times I did not feel alone. I knew I had two of the biggest bodyguards standing behind me: a billionaire coffee mogul and one of the most powerful figures in the African American community. They believed in me. I had to believe in myself. I had to have faith that the hardship was merely part of God’s plan. Sometimes, when wracked by doubt, I’d play in my head a song by the Reverend James Cleveland, “I Don’t Feel No Ways Tired.”
I don’t feel no ways tired,
I’ve come too far from where I started from.
Nobody told me that the road would be easy,
I don’t believe He brought me this far to leave me.
On a couple of occasions, just as I was ready to bail, money seemed to fall from the sky. First, my parents sold the home in which I had grown up. My mother took the $90,000 gained from that sale and put it into her bank account and parsed it out to me in dribs and drabs over the course of a year. She did not have to do that; the house was in my parents’ names and it was theirs to do with as they saw fit. I hadn’t yet earned the degree of trust that would allow her to give me the full amount all at once, but they wanted to support me and my new life.
A second windfall came in the form of a settlement between the NBA Players Association and the NBA involving shared proceeds from licensing revenue. Turns out there were a handful of players who were owed money—and I was one of them.
“How much?” I asked when the call came in.
“Sixty-nine thousand dollars,” was the answer.
I almost dropped the phone. There was a time, at the height of my playing career, when I made more than that in a week. Now, though, it was a princely sum, more money than I had seen in years. The timing was fortuitous, not just because I desperately needed the cash, but also because now I was smart enough to spend it properly. The settlement could have occurred two or three years earlier, when I was in the depths of alcoholism. I would have immediately squandered it on booze and gambling. Now I had the strength and sense that came with sobriety.
When I asked how soon I would receive the check, I was told I could pick it up right away, at the union office, which was located on 125th Street in Harlem, just a dozen blocks from Abyssinian. As I walked down the street, practically floating on air, I couldn’t help but feel as though God had somehow put this right in front of me when I needed it most. I was in a space so spiritual and trusting that there was no way you could have convinced me it was merely a coincidence.
I nearly broke down in tears at the sight of the check. The uncomfortable juxtaposition of financial need and spiritual growth was corrected. The desperation had been at least temporarily lifted. I could support my kids, pay my bills, and focus on my ministry.
I left Abyssinian and Union Seminary in the spring of 2014, roughly twelve credits shy of a master’s degree. The circumstances surrounding my departure were somewhat controversial, and not entirely in keeping with the teachings of the church.
In the course of rebuilding my life and reconnecting with my children, I naturally began spending some time with their mother. I never stopped loving Shawnee. Our relationship had been fractured by my selfish and impulsive tendency toward self-destruction. There had been periods of extreme anger and frustration on her part, but only at the very end of my alcoholic spiral did she completely shut me out of her life and the lives of our children. I don’t blame her for that; it was an act of self-preservation. But as I slowly cleaned up and began spending some time with the kids, and demonstrating a commitment to be the best father I could be, things changed. Given the financial constraints of my current condition, my means were limited, but whatever I had, it went to my family. This was important, for
it proved to Shawnee that I wasn’t just doing the Christian talk. Actions speak louder than words, and I was doing everything I could to make things right.
Shawnee began to soften. The truth is, I admired her enormously for taking care of our kids in my absence. I am ashamed that I didn’t do more to make their lives easier, but there is no undoing the damage; all I can do now is demonstrate clarity and purpose. I am no longer a wealthy man, but I am a sober man who wants to be a good father.
And a good husband.
Neither of us expected this to happen. It was as natural and organic as anything could be. We were spending lots of time together—I would visit whenever I got some time off from my work in Harlem—almost always in the company of our children, and as sometimes happens between two people who have so much shared history, a romantic relationship blossomed.
Again.
One day Shawnee called me.
“Vin,” she said. “I’m pregnant.”
I was speechless. I was also filled with a sense of happiness and possibility. I felt blessed.
But this was complicated.
I had committed my life to Christ, and to spreading his message. I was a high-profile youth minister at a high-profile church, and I had gotten my girlfriend pregnant out of wedlock. This was what is sometimes referred to as an untenable situation. I could not continue to teach and work at Abyssinian. I knew what the rules were, and how we were supposed to live, and I knew that I had violated the rules. I had failed to live in a manner consistent with the teachings of the church, and I was a prominent face of the church.
I left Abyssinian and came home to Old Saybrook. Shawnee and I had a very calm and grown-up conversation. I immediately suggested marriage as the only sensible course of action. Shawnee and I had become friends, and were on the way to falling in love all over again. We would have four children now, and I wanted to be there for them every minute of the day. It all seemed so logical. Shawnee, however, was somewhat hesitant.