Authors: Michelle Stimpson
Mark
gave a short reply to the texts from Marshall and Kit requesting a meeting
Sunday evening. In all caps, he typed: BUSY WITH FAMILY. Mark refused to answer
a call from Rev. Jackson, who never texted. Jackson would probably leave a
long, drawn out message so lengthy the system would cut it off before he was
finished.
But,
really, Mark didn’t care. They all needed to feel what it was like to get cut
off—like they’d done the Holy Spirit in service.
Who’s
the pastor, anyway?
But
before getting carried away with the whole situation, he thanked God for
showing Himself strong in church that morning. There would probably be no
official count of how many people gave their lives to Christ, but he knew there
were many more converts than on an average Sunday. And wasn’t that what
mattered most?
He
propped his bare feet up on the ottoman and made another note on his iPad:
record the number of people who come to Christ, not just the number of people
who join the church.
Somewhere
in these past two weeks, God had begun girding Mark up for something. More
members? A television show? A new building? A book deal? Whatever it was, Mark
knew it was big. He wanted to be ready for it.
He
slipped into His study for another moment alone with God before Sharla and
Amani came home from church. Half an hour later, he heard the garage door
lifting. Amani bounded up the staircase, breezing past Mark’s office without a
word.
“Hey,”
Mark stopped him.
Amani
froze, then turned to face his father.
“Did
you enjoy yourself at church today?”
“It
was weird,” Amani remarked, but nodded, “in a good way. Your sermon was nice
and short. I liked that part. But then Rev. Kit talked for a long time
afterward. Where’d you go?”
“Here.”
“You
came
home
?” Amani seemed surprised.
“Yes.
Is that so hard to believe?”
Amani
bunched his lips to the side as though it took every ounce of home-training in
him to refrain from saying something smart.
Mark
rescued him. “I know it doesn’t seem like it sometimes, but I
do
live
here.”
Amani
put a hand on his father’s shoulder. “They say admitting it is the first step,
Dad.”
That
boy still managed to sneak one in. Mark could only laugh at his son’s snide
comment. “Yeah, yeah. Did you and your momma get something to eat?”
“Yeah.
Barbeque from
Pappas.
She got you a plate.”
Mark
made a bee-line to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and beheld the sack
bearing the restaurant’s emblem.
He
felt a sharp poke in his side. “You’re welcome,” Sharla purred.
Thank
You God, she’s coming back to normal
.
“Ouch,” he played along.
“You
deserve more than that,” she flirted.
“For
what?”
“Why’d
you sit up there and make Rev. Kit look like a fool in front of everybody?”
Mark
ran a finger across his sauce-soaked chicken. “Baby, that man brought it on
himself.”
“Well,
it wasn’t pretty,” she said. “He brought the whole service down.”
“Not
my fault.” Mark placed the container in the microwave and set the timer for
forty-five seconds.
She
leaned against the counter and crossed her arms. “I suppose you have a meeting
with the advisory board tonight.”
“Nope.”
“No?”
Mark
repeated, “Nope.”
“What
are
you doing tonight?”
The
timer went off. “First thing I’m gonna do is eat this here food you got me. I
sure do ‘preciate it, Mamasita.” He grabbed a spoon from the drawer and sank
himself into the couch with the food on his lap.
Sharla
followed him to the living room. “So what was today all about? Another power
struggle between you and Kit? Or Jackson?”
He
rarely talked church business with Sharla anymore because, quite frankly, she
didn’t seem to care much about New Vision. She only seemed to get angrier when
he told her about forthcoming initiatives.
Now
Mark jumped at the chance to reason with her and invite her to pray with him on
this matter. “It wasn’t a power struggle between me and them. It was between
Kit and God, I’m guessing. Of course, Kit lost.”
“Okay,
you have to admit, though—you went old school today,” Sharla pointed out.
“Honey,
Kit’s older than
me
. He knows what happens when the Holy Spirit takes
over. You go with Him.”
“But
Mark, if you plan on someday doing all the stuff you said they used to nag you
about—going on television and all—you can’t just change the order
of the program and do what you want to do.”
She
remembered.
“It’s not
what
I
want to do, it’s what
God
wants to do,” he corrected her.
“Who am I to tell God what He can and cannot do in His own house?”
“But
God is not the father of chaos,” she quoted scripture.
Mark
missed those kinds of conversations with his wife. He took a bite of meat. “I
know. I wouldn’t exactly call what happened chaos, though. Did you get a sense
that things were…chaotic?”
“No.”
“What
did
you feel?”
“I
don’t know. I just praised God.”
“Exactly,”
he agreed. “Nothing wrong with that. People always come to church to
get
.
How about
giving
sometimes?”
Sharla
slapped her hands on her thighs. “I’ll leave all this up to you and your
people.” She took off toward their bedroom.
“Wait.
Can you bring me a glass of lemonade?” he asked.
She
doubled back to the kitchen. “Now, you knew you were going to need something to
drink before you sat down, Mister.”
She
was right. But he liked it better when she got the drink for him. “Thank you,
Ma’am.”
“Mmm
hmm.”
She
set the drink on the end table closest to him, buffering with a coaster.
“Please don’t fall asleep with this television on.” Snoozing in front of live
screens was one of Sharla’s pet peeves.
“I
can’t promise you anything.”
“Mmm
hmm,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“Babe.
For real, though,” he said, seizing her arm gently. “I need you. I need your
opinion about things at New Vision.”
Her
lips puckered. “You don’t want to know what I think.”
“I
wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”
“I
think you ought to slow this whole thing down,” she reiterated for the
umpteenth time.
“We
wouldn’t be able to move into the dream house,” he stated.
“Yes
we could. I could get a job as soon as Amani graduates.”
“Four
years from now?”
“Just
keep everything at the status quo until you are able to better balance your
church life and your home life. How hard is that?” she contended, her chin
jutting forward.
Times
like these, Mark was completely baffled. Sharla claimed she wanted a husband
who gave the minimum at work but got the maximum benefit from work, so she
could move into a mini-mansion. She also wanted a husband who was a great
father, who attended to her needs all at the same time—
if
he was
interpreting her correctly.
He
snapped the top half of his carryout container on top of the bottom, sat up
straight and patted the seat next to him. Now that she seemed rational, he
could have a long-overdue conversation with her.
Sharla
followed his directive, sitting with one leg crossed over the other.
Mark
faced her head-on. “Sharla, I’ve got two questions for you. I’m not obligating
myself to do what you say, but I want to know the truth. Got me?”
She
nodded.
“Number
one, do you still support me and the ministry of New Vision?”
Her
top leg bounced nervously as she sighed heavily. “Mark, I support
you
.
But I don’t like what the church has done to our family.”
“That’s
fair,” he gave her. “Number two, how, exactly, do you feel I’m lacking as a
husband to you and a father to Amani?”
Again,
she hesitated before answering. “I’ll be the first to admit that I am a
high-maintenance person. You know my family background is crazy. And you know
when we went through that marriage class that my love language is affection and
spending time together. Those things can’t be done without physically being
with me.”
He
remembered those classes. In fact, he recalled the sense of dread that overcame
him when he realized that he and Sharla were nowhere near each other when it
came to what they desired from a mate. He wanted domestic support—cooking
and cleaning—and sex. She wanted smooching and a whole bunch of talking.
How they’d managed to get married in the first place had to be the work of the
Lord Himself.
“As
for Amani,” she answered the second part of his question, “I don’t know exactly
what a man’s supposed to do with his son, but whatever it is, I can’t do it.”
Really,
Mark didn’t know what “it” was, either. His own father had provided—albeit
intermittently and illegally—for their family, which led Carter II to
count jail as his second address. But other than a few lectures on how to avoid
the cops and cheat con artists at their own game, Mark’s father hadn’t done
much by way of training him to be a man.
Mark
knew full well that if it hadn’t been for the Lord keeping him, he would have
continued in the tradition of the two Mark Wayne Carters before him, living a
life of perpetual hustling and womanizing.
Mark
watched his wife’s backside twitch off to their bedroom, again thankful that
she was in the final phase of her mood swing. If he played his cards right,
he’d have a certain meeting of his own with her later that night.
Rev.
Marshall’s text was more of an FYI than a request to meet at six Monday
evening. Mark knew that he couldn’t put it off forever, so he agreed.
After
a full day of prayer, Bible study, reviewing the church’s numbers, responding
to email messages, and giving the main address at the Brothers-for-Books inaugural
gathering at a local bookstore, Mark barely had enough time to prepare his mind
for the meeting with his advisors.
On
his drive back to the church, he decided it was probably just as well that he
hadn’t prepared himself. He wanted to be fresh, hear them out without having
already practiced his rebuttals. After all, Mark
was
the founding pastor
of New Vision. He was, ultimately, accountable to God for what happened there.
No
one was late for that meeting. In fact, they were all in place ten minutes ahead
of time, so Mark convened with prayer accordingly. He’d barely uttered the
“Amen” when Rev. Jackson took the floor.
“I
think I speak for all of us when I say you’d be a fool to pull that crap you
pulled Sunday ever again,” he spat out the words as though he’d been chewing
the nasty bits all day. “We’re all trying to build an empire here, a legacy.
Stick with the program.”
“I
second his thoughts,” Kit added.
Mark
could almost see steam forming on Kit’s glasses. The fact that he was still
angry even after a 24-hour cooling off period was even more proof that he’d
messed up royally after Mark left the church.
“Pastor-I-I…”
Jonathan stumbled through, “I guess we’re all wondering why you left.”
“I
ain’t wonderin’,” Marshall piped up, “he left because he didn’t want us telling
him what to do.” He laid his eyes on Mark. “If that’s how you feel about the
advisors’ board, then all you gotta do is say the word. We’ll be out of your
way and you can run this church your doggone self.”
“Gentlemen.
Brothers,” Mark slipped into charismatic mode, “there’s no need for us to argue—”
“Cut
it, Carter,” Kit jumped in again. “If you want to run some kind of new age
spiritual mumbo jumbo church or even an old holiness fallin’-out-on-the-floor
church, that’s fine. Just let us know so we can make a move.”
Mark
had had enough of Kit making tacit reference to the offer he’d supposedly
received from Fresh Start. And the fact that Kit had just called him ‘Carter’
instead of Pastor didn’t escape notice. “If you need to bounce, bounce. Don’t
let me stop you from doing whatever it is you think you gotta do.”
Kit
took a deep breath, obviously holding back words that weren’t appropriate for
the house of God.
Mark
held his breath, too, hoping Kit wouldn’t walk out. He had been with Mark from
day one of New Vision. Mark couldn’t imagine continuing without Kit’s help. But
by the same token, Mark’s gut instincts wouldn’t dare let Kit have the upper
hand.
Rev.
Jackson laced his fingers together, held them behind his head, and leaned back
in his chair. He stared at Mark. “What’s really going on with you, brother-in-Christ
to brother-in-Christ?”
Mark
decided to do the best he could to explain what was happening inside his heart.
These men deserved to know. “God’s changing me. And I think he’s changing the
vision for New Vision.”
“Changing
it to what?” Marshall demanded.
“Changing
it from a focus on programs, this so-called empire and even me—back to
Jesus.”
“You
don’t think Jesus is a part of what we already do?” Rev. Jackson quizzed.
Mark
laughed slightly. “That’s the problem. He’s a
part
of what we do, but
He’s not the
center
. He’s like…a sidebar. A footnote.”
Kit
reached into his back pocket and threw a small scrap of paper to the center of
the conference table. “Read this.”
Mark
reached his hand forward. Rev. Marshall helped by passing the paper the last
few feet. He read the note aloud, “We didn’t come here to get beat down about
sin. Keep that in mind.”
Slightly
confused, Mark asked, “What’s this?”
“A
note that was paper-clipped to a hundred dollar bill in the offering plate.”
“
And?
”
Mark said.
“
And
if what you’re preaching is scattering the sheep rather than reeling them in,
you have to ask yourself if you’re being a good shepherd,” Kit filled in the
blanks.
“Kit,
I’m giving everything I have to this church. I’m ten seconds from losing my
family
behind this church. Don’t
tell
me I’m not a good shepherd,” Mark
defended himself.
“You’re
missing the point,” Rev. Marshall voiced calmly.
Taken
together with Rev. Jackson’s demeanor, Mark shelved the near-personal beef with
Kit long enough to hear the other two out.
Marshall
continued, “Maybe you need to focus on what the research tells us about church
growth, solid programs that have been proven to work in today’s busy,
ever-changing world. People need stability. Inspiration. They need to be able
to relate to what you’re preaching and apply it in a practical way. That’s how
we got to where we are now.”
Mark
listened.
“That’s
all we’re trying to say,” Rev. Jackson reasoned. “We’ve come this far by doing
what works. Plus, it’s not just about you, Mark. It’s about the souls at
stake.”
The
thought of people of New Vision dying and going to hell on his watch scared
Mark. Was he preaching over the heads of most of the people in the
congregation? Did he make them feel alienated? Was he trying to feed the
congregation meat when they were only capable of digesting milk?
Rev.
Jackson and Rev. Marshall had made their points well. “Jonathan, do you have
anything to add?”
Noticeably
caught off guard, Jonathan straightened up his glasses and coughed a few times.
“Um…yes, I’ve done a lot of reading on church growth in the new millennium. The
group of…um…twenty and thirty-year-olds today are called screenagers. They…I
guess
we
…grew up in front of screens, sir. We have low attention spans
and we need a lot of interaction in order to stay focused.”
Mark
and the older gentlemen exchanged puzzled glances.
Jonathan
pressed forward “In fact, I was thinking maybe we should put your main points
up on the screen in a PowerPoint presentation. It might help people follow
along better.”
Kit
pointed at Jonathan. “That’s the kind of stuff I’m talking about. Relate to the
people. Meet them where they are. Otherwise, all this talk about sin and death
and hell and…whatever else turns people off is going to turn them away. That’s
the
last
thing churches need to do.”
“What
about Jesus?” Mark asked.
“Nobody’s
saying leave Jesus out,” a much calmer Kit explained. “We’re saying
find a
better way
to bring Him in.”
As
eloquent as Kit’s words sounded to the ear, they repelled Mark immediately. He
shook his head. “You know, three weeks ago, I might have agreed with you, Kit.
But not today. I have to do what God is calling me to do. Maybe we need to do
something else. How about if I preach first and third Sundays, and somebody
else preaches whatever else you all feel led to preach on second and fourth?”
Jonathan
sharply turned his head. “Sir, that would be…difficult. From a financial
perspective.”
Rev.
Jackson nodded. “He’s right. The offering is sometimes down by a third when you
don’t preach.”
“Maybe
we could put a stop to letting anyone know who’s preaching,” Marshall
recommended. “At least first service wouldn’t know ahead of time.”
Mark
raised his hands in the air. “Are you listening to this? People shouldn’t be
coming to New Vision to hear
me
. They should be coming to hear from God,
no matter whose mouth He uses.”
“I
know that and you know that, but obviously they don’t. It is what it is,” Rev.
Jackson put an end to Mark’s argument. “The best thing is for you to keep doing
what you’ve been doing. Stick with the plan. Everybody at this table wants to
see New Vision rise to a higher level. Once we have our thousands and thousands
of ducks in a row, perhaps we can ease the people into appreciating different
preachers’ styles. Starting with the Wednesday night crowd.”
Mark
noted the simultaneous nods at the table signaled agreement with Jackson’s
suggestion. It did sound reasonable.
“We
have to stick together if we ever want to be recognized with the Potter’s
Houses and Lakewoods,” Marshall fired them up.
Mark
had to admit, the term “mega-church” did have a nice ring to it. Still, his
chest thumped with unease. “I have to be true to what God is calling me to do,”
he pressed.
Jackson
leaned forward now. “Do you honestly believe God would lead you to take off—”he
swished one hand across the other, “in a direction that leaves a sizeable
portion of your congregation behind to be devoured by the enemy?”
Of
all the things said in the meeting that night, these would be the words that
chased Mark and held him down until he conceded that, maybe…just maybe he had
misunderstood what God wanted him to do.