The Black Mass of Brother Springer (7 page)

       "Yes," I said to Dr. Jensen, wiping my greasy mouth with a paper napkin, "The Church of God's Flock offers the true Christian an opportunity to return to the basic truths of the Gospel. My early theological training in California at the California Bible Institute convinced me of the necessity of true meditation. That was my primary reason for entering the monastery at Orangeville. Have you been there, Dr. Jensen?"

       "No, sir, I haven't, although I have always intended to visit it some day."

       "Have you been there, brother Linsey?"

       "I can't say that I have, Reverend. The Palace keeps me pretty busy, and although some may consider it a sin, I have been forced to stay open on Sunday. Oh, I go to church regular," he added hastily, "but many people have told me how nice it is to be able to get ribs on Sunday. I figured that by staying open on Sunday, many churchgoers are able to get out of their kitchens and go to church. By buying ribs here, you see, Reverend, they are free to worship in God's house without worrying about something at home on the stove."

       "I see what you mean," I nodded, "but you must never lose sight of the fact that Sunday belongs to the Lord. Do you allow your help time off to attend church?"

       "Yes, sir. Some I let off in the morning, and the rest for the evening service, but they all get a chance to go."

       "Then I suppose it is all right. Who has been conducting the services while you have been without a regular pastor?"

       "I have conducted some of the services," Dr. Jensen admitted modestly, "and Jackie has conducted a few, but most of them have been ably handled by Brother Caldwell, our other trustee, who should be along any minute. We have also had guest ministers from the Abyssinian Church of Lambs, the Truth Baptists of the Infant, Jesus, and the Afro-Cuban Missionary Society. Reverend Ruiz, from the Afro-Cuban Mission, didn't speak English, and we trustees voted not to have him back after his sermon in Spanish. Although we feel he is a very fine minister, of course."

       "It is all very well to listen skeptically to the faith and beliefs of others," I said solemnly, "as long as you are not influenced away from the basic truths in the Holy Bible."

       "Amen!" Dr. Jensen and Brother Linsey said together.

       At this moment we were joined at the table by Clyde Caldwell, a thin, narrow-faced Negro with a high sloping forehead and a closely cropped head. His lips were thin and the corners of his mouth curved sharply downward. His dark eyes were alert and never still as he looked about the cafe. This was a man to watch, I thought. If Caldwell had conducted the majority of the services he had a working knowledge of religion, and he was not a man to get into a theological argument with until I had my feet on the ground. Introductions were made, and Caldwell sat down in the booth next to Jensen, facing me.

       "I say it is about time, Reverend Springer," Caldwell said sharply. "I've written no less than seven letters to Abbott Dover requesting a new pastor, and I believe Dr. Jensen has written several letters himself."

       "Three." Jensen nodded.

       "Have you ever visited the monastery of the Church of God?" I countered.

       "No. I work hard six days a week, and on Sunday I worship the Lord."

       "Worship is not enough," I said sternly, "you must work for the Lord. Our monastery, gentlemen, is without funds, and without monks. At the present time there are no laymen in training for the Church of God's Flock, and the monastery may close, leaving us to our own resources in Florida. To depend on Birmingham, except for the wisdom of their experience, is not feasible. They have their own churches to consider, and there are three in Birmingham, as you know. Where are our new ministers to come from unless we work and work hard? Why isn't there at least one Church of God's Flock in every city and village and hamlet in Florida? Why, indeed? It is because we are not working for God, gentlemen. Abbott Dover, a saintly man, prays daily for the strength to carry on his work and he is at the end of his tether. Let us pray for the rejuvenation of our church and the increased entry of holy devoted men to our monastery at Orangeville."

       I bowed my head and the others followed suit. I steepled my fingers, moved my lips silently for the time it took me to count to one hundred, and then I said, "Amen!"

       "Amen!" repeated the three trustees in unison.

       "And now, gentlemen," I said. "Let's get down to business. Where is my church? Where is my residence, and how much do I get paid?"

       We haggled, and we dickered.

       Down to practicalities and away from nebulous discussion of religious topics, these were fine, realistic men I was dealing with, and I admired their business sense. There is more to administering a church than meets the eye, and these trustees had been through the mill. The church was a labor of love to these businessmen, but it was also a way to prestige in the Negro community. As the money talk began, with the inevitable haggling, they began to talk to me as a person as well as a minister. Some of the oily veneer of politeness dropped away, and I realized that much of the respect I had enjoyed earlier in our conversation was due to my being a white man in addition to being their new pastor.

       After a pleasant hour with figures and the discussion of practicalities, e.g., rent, taxes, upkeep, amortization, etc., I was well pleased with the final settlement we had all agreed upon.

       My residence, next to the church, was rent free. A combination cook-maid named Ralphine, who was very old, they said, but capable, would clean the house, cook my meals and do my laundry. The trustees would pay her twenty dollars a month, and I was to give her free meals on the days she worked.

       My salary, based on church attendance records of the past three years, was to be eighty dollars a month, payable in cash at twenty dollars a week on Sunday night, after the evening sermon. Brother Caldwell asked me if I would rather have the money all at once at the end of each month and I refused, pointing out to him that in a period of three months there are thirteen weeks, not twelve.

       In services I was to receive a free haircut from Brother Caldwell once a week if I would agree to have it cut on Thursday. Saturday was his busiest day, and I agreed to Thursday providing I could get a free shave as well. After a brief argument I won my point.

       Dr. Jensen generously offered to clean my teeth and give me a free examination of my mouth twice a year. I was grateful for his offer and I promptly accepted. I never would have thought of that concession.

       Jackie, no doubt to salve his conscience about staying open on Sunday, stated that I was welcome to have a free rib or chicken dinner at any time I so desired, and he hoped that I would visit him often. My agreeing with his policy to serve Sunday dinners earlier in our conversation had been a wise move on my part.

       In return for my house, my salary and the free services from the board of trustees, I was to preach a two-hour sermon from 9 a.m. to 11 a.m. and an evening service from 7 p.m. to 9 p.m. every Sunday. Also, in the event enough interested students could be found, I was to teach a two-hour Bible class on Friday evenings. Funerals and weddings were left to my own discretion, but the previous fees charged for these important services, Dr. Jensen reminded me, had been ten dollars for weddings and five dollars for funerals. I could plan the elaboration of my services accordingly.

       To relieve me from money worries, Brother Caldwell explained, the board of trustees always took charge of the morning and evening offerings and administered all funds collected. They also paid the bills of the church and the utilities on my house. Any expenditures I desired to make had to be cleared first by the trustees, and I was assured that no restrictions were meant or implied by this ruling, but that the rule had proved to be sound in the past, and at the present time there was no reason to change it that any of them could see.

       I agreed wholeheartedly, thanked the board for the consideration of my time, and told them that I appreciated their kindness in refusing to load me with time-consuming administrative details. Such time was much better spent in visiting the sick and in the preparation of sermons, I informed them.

       We parted amicably, and Dr. Jensen drove me to the Church of God's Flock. The building was a square clapboard box on a small lot next to a Do-It-Yourself laundry. A false-front steeple had been added to the church in front, but there was no bell because there was no belfry. Inside, the church contained benches enough to seat two hundred people, and there was an ancient upright piano next to a choir-box large enough for a choir of ten. A rough cross fashioned from undressed pine logs was nailed to the wall behind the altar, and on the altar itself there was a pewter loving cup, and two pewter candelabra holding six candles apiece. The pulpit was a crude affair put together with unpainted knotty pine boards, and there was a large Bible chained to the slanting lectern inside the pulpit. There were six windows on each side of the church, badly in need of cleaning, and overhead light was furnished by a dozen exposed 100-watt bulbs dangling at the ends of cords from the low (for a church) fourteen-foot ceiling.

       "At one time, our church was a garage," Dr. Jensen offered, lighting a cigarette.

       "No smoking!" I said sternly. "Not in God's house!"

       Dr. Jensen left the church immediately and I followed him out, switching off the lights before I closed the double doors behind us. I accepted a cigarette from him and we took the short well trodden path across the unkempt lot to the residence provided for the minister. It was quite dark by this time, and Dr. Jensen cautioned me before I climbed the steps to the porch.

       "There's a hole in the gallery, Reverend, so watch your step till I get the lights turned on."

       After Dr. Jensen opened the door with his key and switched on the lights I followed him into the house. The light streaming through the front window revealed where several boards had been stripped off the porch leaving a space large enough for a rocking chair to fall through. But I was pleasantly surprised by the size and the appearance of the inside of the little house. There were four rooms, all of equal size; a bathroom-dressing room, a kitchen, a bedroom, and a study, all of them furnished with well-worn bargain furniture. The kitchen contained a small refrigerator as well as an electric stove. I examined the bedroom, tested the single Hollywood bed and found it comfortable, and then returned to the study where Dr. Jensen waited for me.

       "Well, sir?" he asked apprehensively.

       "I am amazed at such opulence," I reassured the president of the board of trustees, "after the severity of my simple monastery cell."

       "Good!" Dr. Jensen expelled his breath. "I would like to say something to you, Reverend." The dentist pursed his lips in an enormous pout, and frowned. "For myself, I want to say that I am glad you are here. For the others—" he shrugged, "I cannot speak. You will have to prove yourself to them. I am in the throes of a deep personal problem."

       He hesitated and I opened my mouth to say something, but he held up his hand. "No, Reverend, I won't burden you at this time, but after you are settled, and when I get to know you better, I will seek your counsel. Although you are undoubtedly a bonafide minister of our church, and I am speaking frankly, you are a white man, and there is an element of distrust deep within me of all white men. Our church has as one of its basic premises to love one another, white or black, but I will have difficulty in overcoming—" Dr. Jensen's face was twisted and distorted and he could not look me in the eyes. "I hope I have not offended you, Reverend. I try to be a good man and a true Christian, and I feel that I can speak frankly to you."

       "You can, Dr. Jensen," I said. "I am willing to serve the members of my parish twenty-four hours a day. I will be here tonight and every night. When you feel ready to unburden yourself, I will help you with the strength that has been given me by the Lord. And I will pray for you."

       "Thank you, Reverend Springer. Again, I am glad that you are here to help lead us out of the wilderness."

       We shook hands. I followed the dentist to the door, and as he cautiously dismounted from the porch, I called after him, "Go with God."

       Alone in the house I opened all of the windows to let the humid air infiltrate the house. There was a gentle breeze, and the draft between the open window in the bedroom and the open window in the study was cool on my face. I undressed hurriedly, anxious to be rid of the stifling covert suit, and in my underwear, I explored my new quarters thoroughly. There was a slight slope to the floor; the frame building was set on brick columns three feet above the ground, but it was a gentle slant and I felt that I could learn to live with it. A huge roll-top desk in the study with a swivel chair would be excellent for my work as a writer, and there was a leatherette couch along the wall for horizontal contemplation.

       A small bookcase contained two yards of back number National Geographic magazines, several bibles, a Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, and seven songbooks containing hymns. There was no thesaurus, and I would have to buy one when I received my first twenty dollars Sunday night. Every professional writer needs a thesaurus.

       The barbecue sauce that had been so thickly soaked through the ribs I had eaten for dinner had been very hot, and I kept tasting the sauce in my throat and nose. I fixed a pitcher of ice water, turned out all of the lights, and returned to the desk to study.

       As I slowly drank the ice water, a swallow at a time out of the pitcher's spout, I thought vaguely about my wife, and wondered how she was making out. Perhaps I could send her ten dollars Sunday? No, she could hardly be helped by such a small amount. Maybe, after a few days, or weeks, she would telephone her mother for bus fare back to Columbus. I hoped so; I felt sorry for her all alone in Miami. But I could hardly bring Virginia to Jax, not after the nice home I had provided for her at Ocean Pine Terraces...