Book Excerpt

I don’t know why I continue to come here.  Week after week, it’s the same ole’, same ole’.  Corey looked around from the back pew of House of Zion and realized that some things just never change. He could probably guess what would happen in their church service from moment to moment, and be dead-on each time.  It would be like reciting verbatim his favorite nursery rhyme, one that he had learned word for word years and years ago.  If something is repeated enough, you eventually memorize it.  Whether you choose to remember it or not, it’s etched in your brain and it never goes away. 

Refusing to look to his right, Corey silently wished that by some miraculous chance, Sister Bailey would not be there, doing her every-Sunday-dance, shoeless, up and down the center aisle.  Perhaps, for some unknown reason, she had been unable to make it this Sunday and the congregation would not be subject to her performance when “that one good song” stirred her into action and the festivities began.  Maybe, just maybe, this Sunday would be different.  But sure enough, when he finally shifted his gaze over his right shoulder, Sister Bailey had started her shimmy toward the front of the church.  Wonder how it is that she waltzes right past the side aisles and makes her way to the center every Sunday?  The Holy Ghost must only move in one direction, Corey thought. Laughing aloud, Corey imagined himself doing her little dance at one of their parties—to him it didn’t look much different from the dances that the “sinners” on the front row did every Friday night after prayer meeting.  He had seen them…several times.

By then he had begun to play a game with himself.  Let’s see if I can guess what is happening in every area of the church.  This might make the time go by quicker.  Closing his eyes, Corey could almost see Deacon Jasper’s head bobbing up and down, his neck jerking uncontrollably all the way from the back of the church.  Every Sunday Deacon Jasper would nearly fall onto the lap of the lady wearing the big red hat sitting next to him.  Just as Corey opened his eyes to test his accuracy, Deacon Jasper serenely fell over, and not to expose his momentary slumber, quickly sat up and began clapping his hands to the music.  Base hit, Corey thought.  It never fails.

Corey closed his eyes once more and shifted his mind’s eye toward the choir loft.  He imagined Sister Ros swaying back and forth with her white, satin waist slip hanging, her arms punching into the air and her feet pounding fiercely onto the hardwood floors.  And leaving the choir undirected, she would soon start her wail—a torture of a scream audible to every last person in the church, including the babies in the nursery upstairs.  It would only be seconds now, because the song was coming to an end, and as sure as fire is hot, this charade would take place.  With his eyes closed, Corey counted down: five, four, three, two… and before he could even get past two, he heard a cry so loud and so impassioned, you would think someone had just been pronounced dead at the scene.  A visitor could easily be alarmed, if there were any here. How is it that she never cries during the song when no one can really hear her, only when the song is ending? Isn’t that interesting, he thought.

What was originally only a game, began to anger him.  “Why do we come here every week?” Corey asked his brother, who seemed to be paying attention, but Corey knew better.  Ever since they were younger, Ric was the one who pretended to be “good,” the one who looked the part.  Grandma Dynah used to call him “Slick Ric.”  She used to say that Ric would “throw the dirt and hide his hands.”  Corey knew that if they took the time to look closely enough though, they would have seen the traces of dirt under Ric’s nails.  But no one ever looked closely, not at Ricardo Tyner.  But Corey had seen the dirt.  He knew that Ric was not at all perfect.  In fact, Ric would give new meaning to a dirty rap sheet.

“Man, you know how things are here.  It’s all for show.  These folks don’t know anything about God.  All they know is church, man.  They go to the church; they don’t realize that they are ‘the church.’ It’s all about the church building to them,” Ric responded, deprecatingly, as if that was common knowledge.

“Check them out after service,” Corey said.  “The performances change.  Still a performance, but it ain’t quite the same,” he snickered.  “It’s like they think God can only see them in here, man.  Boy, they are in for a rude awakening when that ‘Judgment Day’ they always preachin’ about actually comes.”

“Yeah, well.  Who are we to judge?  It’s really not any of our business what they do; we just have to deal with it, man.  You just make sure you don’t go where they go when that day comes!” Ric laughed out loud. 

Corey didn’t think this was even remotely funny.  And as usual, Ric was being self-righteous; he was always right and walking the straight and narrow.  He knew all the answers.  He wanted to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. Ric was a lot less than perfect and Corey wondered if he needed a little reminder.  Ric could play that game with someone else, perhaps with the rest of the family or the other hypocrites in the church, but Corey knew better.  As long as he knew about the girl Ric had gotten pregnant and paid not to have the baby, Corey would always have the advantage.  And he still kept the gun that Ric had bought and used to pistol whip one of sports competitors a secret.  He knew a lot of things other people did not know about his “thinks-he’s-so-perfect” brother Ricardo.

He belongs here.  He’s no different from any one of these people.  At least I am honest.  I am real about who I am and what I do.  Corey sat back in the pew and diverted his attention back to the front of the church.  Someone from the Missionary Board was about to pray.  Depending on who it was, Corey could recite her own prayer along with her.  Sister Josie Thompson—yep, I know it by heart. As Corey recited the prayer to himself, he wondered how exactly it was that anyone would always want to say the same thing to God, every week of every year.  Even God himself would question the sincerity!

Shaking his head, Corey got up and walked out of the sanctuary toward the restrooms.  Now was a good time—before they asked for an offering.  Why would he pay his money into a church that didn’t even share with everyone where the money went? So the pastor could buy a new Cadillac? I don’t think so. I work hard for my money.

Standing in front of the restrooms, Corey checked his cell phone for missed calls.  Even though most people knew that he went to church every Sunday, they still called and left him messages because they also knew that at some point during the service, he would check them.  Sure enough, he had two missed calls: one from his friend Chuck, wanting to shoot some hoops later, and another from Deborah, wanting to take him out for dessert that evening.  Hmm…which sounds better, he thought with a smile.

After the tithe and offertory period, Corey stepped back into the church.  Just in time for Pastor Connelly to deliver the sermon.  Corey had no problem listening to the Word, but he had started to doubt the effectiveness of the sermons.  He just couldn’t figure out why week after week, Pastor Connelly would preach about everyone reaping this harvest, but in the end everyone was still broke.  He would tell the people that they were healed according to the stripes or something like that, but every week, they all came back with the same health problems.  The same people went up to the altar every week.  Corey knew better than to doubt the Word, so he chose to doubt the people instead. Perhaps, the people just didn’t believe.  Maybe that was a pre-requisite…belief.  Or maybe they believed in the Pastor when they should’ve been believing in Jesus.  Either way, Corey had determined that they all had a major problem.

“Yes, I see some of you every Sunday; you come here with your hands crossed and your lips buckled, looking around for what’s wrong instead of what’s right,” Pastor Connelly preached from the pulpit.  “You zip up your pocketbooks during the offertory period and sit down during praise and worship, but I have a Word for you today!  You see, if anybody should praise Him, you should praise Him!  You should enter His gates with thanksgiving and enter His courts with praise, because God has done great things for you!  He has brought you out of the darkness and into the light!” 

Corey rolled his eyes.  Here we go. How do you know what God has done for me? How do you know anything about me?

“You’re so busy worrying about what is happening around you that you’re not even aware of what’s happening inside of you.  God is trying to reach you, to soften that hard heart of yours, but no, you’re fighting against Him and pointing your finger at those around you.  You see everything wrong with everyone else,” Pastor Connelly shouted, “but you miss your faults.  You miss the things that you have done, the lies that you have told.  You missed your fornicating last night and the resentment and bitterness you hold for your brother.  You missed those things, but I’m here to tell you that God didn’t miss them!  He sees all of your faults and your misgivings!”

Corey slouched a little further in his seat.  Yeah, okay.  I guess you have some kind of divine connection with God and He tells you everyone else’s sins? Who are you to judge me?

“That’s the bad news, folks!  But I am here to tell you the Good News! Yes, it’s true that God sees those things, but you see, He sent His son to die on the cross so that you might be forgiven for those things!”  Members of the congregation began to shout. 

“Yes, sir!  You tell ‘em Pastor,” one of the usual banterers cheered. 

“That’s right, Pastor, hallelujah!” another woman added. 

Corey would have commented at that point about how annoying they were and how they should realize that “Pastor” was probably talking directly to them, but ironically he himself was listening closely. 

“Let me tell you, church, we spend so much time worrying about the other person’s soul going to hell, that we don’t take the time to care for our own.  We’re so busy trying to shoot down the next person, that we never take time to look at the man in the mirror!  Oh, you don’t believe me?” Pastor Connelly challenged the congregation, “Turn with me to St. John, Chapter 8.”

Corey quickly grabbed the Bible out of the holder on the back of the pew in front of him; he had not brought his own.  After all these years, he wasn’t even sure where his Bible was or even if he still owned one.

“You see, folks, the scribes and Pharisees caught this woman in an adulterous relationship.  They actually caught her in the act—a horrible sin indeed.  So they brought her to Jesus and waited for Jesus to tell them to stone her to death.  But look at what He says, church, pay close attention: He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.” 

“Not one of them dared!  Why do you think they didn’t?  Because they all had sinned and fallen short of His glory!  They all had!  And, folks, you all have, too; so why you casting stones around this church?”  Pastor Connelly began to move about energetically, simulating someone throwing a stone, his arms flying through the air.  He was obviously excited about his revelation. 

“But that’s not the part I really want you to pay attention to.  You who are casting stones and not being concerned about your own actions, read the next verse with me: And they which heard it, being convicted by their own conscience, went out one by one.”  Pastor Connelly continued, “You see, church, they were convicted by their own conscience!  Jesus didn’t have to point them out.  And I won’t either.  I don’t know who you are, but right now, you are being convicted by your own conscience!”

“But unlike this passage, I don’t want you to walk out one by one and leave me alone like they left Jesus with the woman.  I want you to walk up here with me, I want you to come to this altar and repent.  Allow the blood that Jesus shed for you to cleanse your heart and make you white as snow.  Come and lay your sins down at this altar and walk out of this service different than you came.”

As Pastor Connelly began to entice them to come, Corey found himself unable to stay seated.  He knew that he, too, had been convicted in his spirit, “convicted by his own conscience,” as had those Pharisees.  And as much as he hated when weekly the same people went up there to that altar, he found himself following them.  This time, not conscious of who was up there next to him and how many times they had gone before or who was really crying and who was again performing for the congregation, Corey focused on the overpowering presence of the Lord surrounding him.  He could feel Him all around, and no matter how hard he fought the feeling, he knew that it would be a lot easier just to yield to it.  On his knees at the altar, Corey let go.  He let go of all the anger and resentment that he had harbored.  He let go of all of the cynicism and the self-righteousness that all along he had accused Ric of having. 

On his knees at that altar, Corey gave in to God and allowed His Spirit to fill him.  It wasn’t about the Pastor.  It wasn’t even about the church.  It was just him and God at that altar, and it was all about that new relationship that was forming between them. 

Minutes later Corey even surprised himself when he walked away, different.  With a sense of peace enveloping him, Corey didn’t notice Sister Darby painting her fingernails on the fifth row.  Feeling a bit more joyous and walking a little lighter, Corey wasn’t aware of the teenagers playing cards on the last pew.  His heart was pre-occupied with Jesus, and those same eyes that he allowed to roam around the church every Sunday were now stayed—on Jesus. 

After the benediction, Corey threw his arms around Ric.  “I love you man,” he said with a heavy heart, sorry for the harsh words he had spoken to and about his brother over the years.  Ric’s smile of forgiveness released his burden. He strolled through the aisles of pews accepting the hands that were extended toward him—the same hands that he once hastily avoided after every service.

As Corey walked out of the church, he could hear the choir singing a song that said, “no condemnation.”  After having condemned nearly every person in the House of Zion, he was glad that Jesus didn’t condemn him—and He had many reasons to do so.  Pastor Connelly was right, he was certainly leaving different from the way he had come.  And this time, he kept his eyes forward and focused.  No turning back.  No, no turning back.

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