The Black Mass of Brother Springer (9 page)

       At each barbershop, drugstore, filling station, notion shop, furniture store, cafe, shoeshine stand, fortune teller, bolita stand, and other business establishment, I entered and introduced myself to the owner (if he was there) and the sales people, and invited them to attend church on the morrow. I covered the neighborhood, less private dwellings and apartment houses, and everywhere I entered I was treated with great courtesy. The promises of my parishioners to attend church was very gratifying. The afternoon sped quickly by, and at six in the evening I was tired, hot, footsore, and grateful that Jackie's Bar-B-Cue was only two blocks away from my residence, and on my way home. I entered the air-conditioned cafe, greeted Jackie cordially, and ordered two whole barbecued chickens, a side order of macaroni salad, and a pitcher of iced tea—on the house, of course. After eating the marvelous meal, I table-hopped, and invited each group of diners to church. I entered the kitchen and exacted promises from the help to attend church, shook hands with Jackie at the door, accepted a twenty-five cent cigar from him, and returned home. I stripped off my coat, sat in a rocker on the damaged front porch, and smoked the cigar. I was pleased with my afternoon's work; I had made myself known, and I had entered into the spirit of being a minister.

       What more could any good minister do?

Chapter Six

Sunday dawned thickly humid, sickenly hot, and overcast with a greenish-black haze, the aftermath of a big overtime night at three sawmills. I had awakened at five, and after trying for ten impossible minutes to go back to sleep I quit fighting and got up and dressed. My collar was tight; the shirt had shrunk a full inch under Ralphine's halfhearted laundering, and the thick covert cloth trousers covered my thin legs like sheets of lead. For the first time in my life I drank iced coffee for breakfast. I was much too edgy to sit still and wait for nine-thirty. To fill in time I took a broom out of the kitchen closet, walked across the lot to the church and swept the floor clean enough to suit me, and I returned to the house for a bucket of hot water and a mop. Mopping away down the center aisle I was surprised by a hefty, tightly corseted woman carrying an armload of lilies. The woman was the color of wet gray ashes, and she wore a broad-brimmed straw hat, embroidered with red and yellow flowers.

       "You drop that mop right now, Reverend Springer!" She ordered, and in surprise I did as I was told. "I never heard of such a thing," she continued. "Here. Take these lilies and put 'em in water. I'll take care of that floor!"

       "I beg your pardon?"

       "Go fill those buckets with water, and put these lilies on t'other side of the altar."

       Pouting with her upper lip only (this isn't easy) she grabbed the mop and began to swab the floor vigorously. In a closet by the front door I found two metal pails with green crepe paper wound tightly around the handles, and after filling them at the tap outside, I arranged the lilies on either side of the altar. They brightened the church considerably.

       "The floor's good enough, Mrs.—?"

       "Mrs. Kern. And I'll decide when it's good enough. I think it's a shame for a man of the cloth to scrub floors! Those windows needs washing too, and you better appoint a committee to clean this church every week, and if you don't, I will!"

       At the door, she gave the floor one more vicious swipe, emptied the water into a gallberry bush beside the steps, and put mop and bucket into the closet.

       "Thank you, Mrs. Kern. For both your help and the lilies. They are beautiful. I am the Right Reverend Springer."

       "I know. My husband said you stopped by his place of business yesterday. And he said you will get flowers every Sunday from him."

       "Oh, yes," I said. "Kern's Funeral Parlor and Special Ambulance Service."

       "Yes, sir. My husband has the only white Cadillac hearse in Jax, and it's in great demand. Mr. Kern is a minister, too, you know."

       "No, I didn't know."

       "Yes, he's been ordained for twelve years—the Church of Jesus's Rock. They don't have that church in Jax anymore, and we both attend the Church of God's Flock now."

       "I'm glad," I said. "But the main thing is to love God, no matter which church you attend, Mrs. Kern."

       "Amen!"

       Evidently Mrs. Kern was dissatisfied with the way I had arranged the lilies and fern, because she rearranged them herself. I returned to the house and got my coat, and then smoked a cigarette on the porch of the church, where I was soon joined by Dr. Jensen.

       "I thought I'd come down early, Reverend," Dr. Jensen said, "and sort of introduce you to the folks as they arrive."

       "Fine. I appreciate it."

       "I heard about you going around the neighborhood yesterday, Reverend, and it was a mighty fine way to do. You'll have a big crowd today, but next week it might be a different story. Folks'll be wanting to take a look at you today because you're new, but if you want 'em back next week, you will have to—pardon the expression, Reverend—give 'em hell."

       "I am aware of my ministerial functions, Dr. Jensen."

       I shook a lot of hands in the next half hour, and met many people. They approached the steps shyly, the men with their hats in hand and in light Sunday suits of orlon, dacron, seersucker, cord, and Palm Beach cloth, with white shirts and gay ties. The women were shyer yet, in silks and nylons, but all shook my hand and welcomed me to Jax. There was no Sunday school setup for the Church of God's Flock, and a great many children attended church with their parents; little girls in white, with tightly wrapped pigtails, and little boys in plaid or solid-colored shorts with white shirts, glistening black faces, wide-eyed and well-behaved. I smiled broadly at everyone until my jaws hurt. I patted the little boys upon their closely-cropped skulls. It was a relief to see Rosie Durrand climb the steps; I broke away from the crowd around me with an excuse about the music, and followed Miss Durrand to the piano. The choir girls were in place, and I told Miss Durrand to have them sing their first number, Come To The Church In The Wild-wood, when I gave her the signal. She nodded and began to play the piano softly. I entered the pulpit, bowed my head and closed my eyes. I stood in this position, arms akimbo, for three minutes, moving my lips silently and meaninglessly. I heard the shuffling and rustling and muted whispering, but I was astounded when I opened my eyes and saw the size of the congregation. Every bench was tightly packed; there was a sizeable group in the back of the church standing against the wall and blocking the open double-doors. Fans of palm straw whished back and forth in the still air, flies droned, and there was an overwhelming odor of dark perspiration, deodorant sticks, shaving lotion, and musk. I held up a hand for absolute silence, got it, and prayed:

       "Dear God, open Your gates and let us sinners in. There is room in Your Heart for us all. Please. Let us in!"

       "Amen!" The reply surged forth from the packed house, an uncontrolled spontaneous roar. Shaken, I signaled Miss Durrand, and sat down in a straight chair beside the altar. I don't know what I expected, but the sound of that multi-tongued voice scared the hell out of me.

       The voices of the all-girl choir were husky, tremulous, and sweet. Miss Durrand's left hand was firm and powerful and her rhythm was strong. The hymn was a good opener—"Come, come, come, come, come, to the Church in the Wildwood, come to the church in the dale!" I tapped my foot and hummed a bit until the song ended.

       Standing in the pulpit again, my eyes searched and found the sloping head of the barber trustee, Clyde Caldwell. "Brother Caldwell," I said, "will you lead us in prayer?"

       A pleased smile formed on Caldwell's thin lips, and he made his way from the center of the bench to the aisle where he kneeled, steepled his fingers, and rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. He prayed aloud, rapidly and confidently, in a clipped voice, repeating key phrases again and again. The meaning of his prayer was as private as an abstract by Mondrian, and just as clean. "...washed in the blood of the lamb...the forces of good...washed in the blood of the lamb...worship in the holy temple of truth...washed in the blood of the lamb...sweet Jesus...that glorious day in Bethlehem...washed in the blood of the lamb...and that little baby, and those three wise men, and all washed in the blood of the lamb." This interminable prayer went on and on, punctuated occasionally by a member of the congregation shouting fervently, "Amen!" or "Oh, yes, Jesus!" But it was a time killer, and I let Brother Caldwell ramble on; evidently the audience enjoyed the prayer.

       Finished at last, Caldwell shouted, "Amen!" and resumed his seat. His Amen was loudly echoed by the faithful. I returned to the pulpit and signaled Miss Durrand to play. The choir sang the first verse of Onward, Christian Soldiers. I figured that everyone knew this song and so I shouted for the congregation to rise and join the second chorus. The little church rocked to the combined voices and I kept the beat with a forefinger. The song ended, everyone sat down and looked at me expectantly, and I began my sermon.

"Franz Kafka was born on July the third, 1883, in Prague and he died in the Kierling Sanatorium, near Vienna, in 1924. Today, thirty-some-odd years later, his effects on religious theory are still being felt in our day-to-day living. Who can read The Trial and blithely ignore his own tribulations? Who can read The Castle, and still aspire to the heights of fame, glory, and money without trembling? Lo, he goeth by me, and I see him not: he passeth on also, but I perceive him not.

       "Kafka had a great, overwhelming, undeniable, unshakable pity for all mankind. And he expressed his pity in every line he wrote, in his every living gesture, and in the very fabric of his personal life. He loved mankind with the unselfish love that can only be given by the truly humble. If the scourge slay suddenly, he will laugh at the trial of the innocent.'

       "Here was a simple man, and yet a complex man, a profound man, who wrote like a child, from the bottom of his heart. And in his writings there is a lesson for us all. There is no secret cabbala in the writings of Franz Kafka, merely basic truths that will set us free, and allow us the humility we all seek. I will instruct thee and teach thee in the way that thou shalt go.'"

And so on for three more paragraphs. And then I stopped in the middle of a sentence. The silence chilled me to the inner marrow of my bones. My words were sailing over the heads of the congregation like a lost cloud. If I had thought that Brother Caldwell's prayer contained a private meaning, what was my sermon if it was not my own private meaning of my interpretation of what I conjectured life to be? Again I complicate matters, because I am mixed-up, confused, and leery of almost any thought that mental probing reveals.

       Who was I to release my private thoughts to this innocent audience? They had crowded into this hot, miserable little church, decked out in their Sunday finery, for only one reason: Entertainment. And I was trying to make them think! How unfair of me, how unlike a minister of the gospel! The silence lengthened, and I turned in desperation to Miss Durrand.

       "There will now be a solo by Miss Rosie Durrand." I abruptly left the pulpit, sat down and buried my face in my hands. Miss Durrand's voice rose in song, a spiritual I had never heard before, a crooning, lonesome wailing, deep-throated and devout. I closed my mind and drifted with the rise and fall of her deep voice, and when the song ended, I rushed to the edge of the raised platform and pointed my finger at a woman in the first row. "You are a sinner!" I screamed. "Yes, Lord!" she replied.

       Following this pattern I pointed first at one and then another, repeating my accusation at the top of my shrill voice. In each case I got an immediate, frightened reply. Once I pointed at a child by mistake, and the poor little boy began to cry, and so did his mother. Leaving my vantage point and retreating behind the pulpit I exclaimed, "We are all sinners before the Lord! And if we don't accept Jesus Christ as our Lord and Saviour and wash ourselves in the blood of the innocent lamb we will go to Hell!"

       "Amen!"

       "Yes, Lord!"

       "Amen!"

       "Oh, God, yes!"

       "Save me, Lord!"

       "Amen!"

       "God save me, Lord!"

       "Amen!"

       "Amen!"

       "Yes, Lord!"

       "Amen!"

       The scattered responses began to come. And I continued.

       "You love the devil! Yes, you do! I see fat men and fat women. You are gluttons, and gluttons cannot be saved! I see women with silk upon their backs and silk upon their legs. You are vain and you cannot be saved! I see men with rings on their fingers and gold in their teeth. You are acquisitive men and you cannot be saved! I see children who have sinned against themselves in their secret beds. You are masturbators and you cannot be saved! I see lust in the eyes of men and women and in the hearts of you young women and you cannot be saved! I see everywhere in this church a mistrust of neighbors, a hate for constituted authority, a greediness of mind and body and soul and heart, and a love for the devil! Moviegoers, smokers, television watchers, and impure and evil thinkers! You don't love Jesus! You love the devil!"

       I turned my back on the congregation and folded my arms.

       "No! We love Jesus!" a frightened feminine voice stated.

       I turned and faced them, lowered my voice to a whisper.

       "Are you willing to accept Jesus Christ as your Master?"

       "Yes, Lord!"

       "Oh, Yes!"

       "God, yes!"

       "Please, yes!"

       I continued to berate the congregation. I called everything I could think of a sin against the Lord, from betting on dogs to the buying of bolita tickets, from wanting more money in pay envelopes to the failure to provide for wives and children and small animals. I listed the forbidden drinks, from 3.2 beer to 100-proof moonshine, and then I started all over again on vicious personal attacks, pointing an accusing finger at different men and women and accusing them of anything that came into my head. When I finished ticking off a sinner, I asked him if he accepted the Lord as his Saviour. Not once did I get a negative reply.