Authors: Michelle Stimpson
Rev.
Jackson prompted, “Let the church say…”
“Aaaaaamen,”
the congregation answered, acknowledging the official benediction.
Mark
wasn’t too happy about the number of people who’d adjourned themselves early,
walking out of the sanctuary during the final moments of service as the new
members’ names were announced. More and more, people seemed to be leaving when
Mark walked away from the podium—especially the people in the balcony.
They had their nerve, since they’d come late in the first place.
But
he couldn’t get too upset about their disrespectful behavior when his own son
sat on the second row texting throughout most of the service. Amani knew
better, and he should have been acting better after their talk the other night.
Mark might need to add a little extra muscle to his next lecture. Though Amani
was almost eye-to-eye, physically, Mark might have to resort to “laying hands”
on Amani if he didn’t respond to words.
“Pastor,
you ready?” Jonathan asked, scooping up Mark’s Bible and tablet from the stand
next to the tallest chair in the pulpit.
“Yes.
Let’s go.”
Swiftly,
Jonathan led Mark around the east pathway and back into a smaller meeting room
across from the church’s small bookstore. This was where he met personally with
the first-time visitors nearly every Sunday.
This
“receiving room” as they called it, had been inexpensively yet classically
decorated by Sharla, with a sparkling chandelier and beveled mirrors on one
side that made the room appear twice its size. Silk flowers adorned each corner
and the tables bearing fruit, and cookie trays sported festive tablecloths.
Members of the hospitality committee served up the snacks with a double-dose of
smiles, hoping to make a positive impression on the visitors.
Mark
nodded at a few of the prospects from afar while Jonathan performed his weekly
duty. “May I have your attention please?”
The
room of roughly thirty adults and children quieted as the strangers found
seats, holding food in one hand, plastic cups filled with punch in the other.
“The
shepherd of this house, Pastor Mark Wayne Carter, III, would like to address
you personally at this time.”
Applause—first
from the hospitality committee, then the visitors—followed suit. Mark
raised his hand to stop them. Somehow he felt like he was supposed to stop
them. “Thank you. Really, I should be applauding
you
for coming here
today. It’s always a blessing to see new faces at New Vision church.”
Mark
paused briefly as one face in particular caught his attention. It was
her
,
wearing another tight shirt with her legs crossed and that same strip of skin
on display. Truth be told, Mark really couldn’t remember what she looked like
from the neck up, but her body, the way she sat was unforgettable.
He
forced his eyes to travel in another direction. “Here at New Vision, we have
something for everyone. If you’re into traditional ministries, we’ve got a
choir, a lovely hospitality team.” Mark extended an arm toward Miss April, the
head of that ministry.
She
gave a toothy smile and a humble bow, appearing almost giddy with the
recognition.
Mark
continued. “If you’re the more contemporary type, we have ministries for
artists, dancers, rappers; you name it we’ve got it. And if we
don’t
have it, maybe you can start it. We believe God is calling everyone to service
in these last days.”
A
soft “amen” trickled from the small crowd.
“So
on behalf of my pastoral staff, my wife in her absence—she’s serious
about getting home and making sure that meat turns out just right, you know?”
The
visitors laughed at his half-truth. Sharla was probably on her way home, but
since she was in one of her moods, she certainly wasn’t at home slaving over a
stove in their kitchen. Mark hoped the Lord would charge that lie to his wife’s
account. If she’d been there, like a First Lady was supposed to be, he wouldn’t
have felt the need to make up stories about what might otherwise appear as his
wife’s lack of concern.
“And
on behalf of the entire New Vision body, we welcome you with open arms and hope
that you will be back again. I leave you in the hands of the membership team.”
With
that, Mark waved and left the room. Jonathan trailed slightly behind, but
slipped ahead of Mark when he entered the pastor’s suite so that he could
unlock the door for them both.
“Pastor,
the pastoral advisory meeting will convene in thirty minutes.
Rev. Marshall
has already printed the spreadsheets
and placed them at your seat in the conference room.”
“Great,”
Mark said.
“Can
I get you anything? A bite to eat before we start?” Jonathan offered, following
Mark into the inner office and laying the Pastor’s belongings on his desk.
“Yeah.
A two-piece from Popeye’s. With fries and a Sprite, if you think you can make
it back in time.”
“I’m
on it.” Jonathan scurried out of the office.
That
boy certainly was an eager beaver. For what, Mark wasn’t quite sure. Maybe a
shot at the podium? A chance to lead something? No matter, Jonathan would get
nothing but high praise from Mark if he kept up this pace.
He
was a good assistant. Not as good as Sharla had been, though. She used to ask
him on Saturday nights what he wanted to eat Sunday, if he had a meeting
planned. Then she’d pack the meal in his lunch bag. She used neat plastic
containers and wrapped all necessary plastic ware in a napkin. She might throw
in a piece of candy for dessert. Often, she would stick a little note inside:
I
love you!
or
Got a surprise for you when you get home
. He’d almost
gotten to the point where he looked forward to the notes more than the food.
Those
were the good old days.
“Excuse
me,” a woman’s voice called from the reception area.
“Yes?”
And
there she was again, standing at his private doorway. Mark pieced it all
together and realized that in his rush, Jonathan must have left the suite door
unlocked.
Mark
stood and walked toward her. He opened the door wider and ushered her right
back toward the hallway where he knew a fair amount of after-church traffic
would keep them both in plain sight.
Problem
was, in his effort to keep this woman in front of him, he got a good look at
her behind. Mark was just about ready to question the Lord as to why on earth
He would give one woman
all that
to work with.
Granted,
she wasn’t the first beautiful woman to come on to him. But something about
this
woman,
this
time…Mark empathized with David, Solomon, Sampson and every
other man of God in the Bible who had a weakness for women. He knew he didn’t
need to be within ten feet of her without a flock of witnesses.
He
played with the change in his pockets. “How can I help you?”
She
lowered her chin. “I was hoping we could meet alone.”
“I
thought you said you were already a member. Why were you in the visitors’
receiving room?”
A
grin slithered across her face. “I’m glad you noticed.”
Mark
wondered when the game had changed. When did women get so transparent about
their intentions? Shouldn’t she at least ask for him to touch and agree?
Prayer for her chest area? Even if he were going to consider cheating on
Sharla—which he was not—but if he
did
, he would cheat with
somebody who had the decency to at least
act
decent.
“Sister,
I don’t know why you joined New Vision,
if
you joined New Vision, but
this is a family church. I’m a family man, happily married to my wife of fifteen
years, and—”
“Sixteen,
Pastor,” she cut him off. She waved the visitors’ information brochure before
his eyes. “You’ve been married
sixteen
years.”
Mark
coughed.
How could I have forgotten?
“Right. Anyway—”
“And
your wife should have been here,” she interrupted again.
“Don’t
tell me where my wife needs to be.” Mark felt the heat rising in his face. “
You
need to be on the altar.”
The
woman dropped her face, laughing softly. She batted her eyelashes twice. “The
truth hurts, but it
will
set you free, Pastor.”
Mark
fixed his lips for a rebuttal, but the woman turned and walked away, her hind
quarters switching from side to side in perfect harmony with the stride of her
long legs.
Mark
tore his eyes away from the picture of temptation set before him and locked
himself in his private sanctuary. He stepped to the side of his desk, swiveled
the chair toward him and dropped to his knees in prayer.
“Lord,
I need You. Your word says You always make a way out of temptation,” he
started. But he really wasn’t tempted. Not
totally
. The problem was the
situation more than anything. This woman’s advances weighed heavily on top of
Sharla’s…fussing, resisting him in bed, nagging him about Amani, being off in
her own world now that the church was up and running.
“God,
I don’t know what’s going on, but You do. Show me. And help me. Amen.”
Rev.
Jackson, who might have been a perfect mentor to Mark if he hadn’t been so busy
sneaking off to the boat to gamble on the first of every month, opened the
meeting in prayer. Mark had done his best to surround himself with upstanding,
older men of good character when he founded New Vision. Some of them had even
come from Greater Fountain of Hope, where Mark had been spiritually fathered by
that church’s pastor, Dr. Kevin McMurray.
And
yet, Mark had come to the realization that his pastoral staff, consisting of
two older brethren and one younger, were still people. Each man had his
struggles and problems. If not gambling, cursing. If not cursing, pride. Maybe
a combination of all three, if the state lottery jackpot got to be over 50
million.
One
good thing about his crew, though, was that they ran a tight ship with regard
to church funds. Thanks to a sound system of checks and balances Mark set in
place, New Vision had been nearly impeccable in handling its members’ tithes
and offerings. Though they weren’t quite a megachurch, the membership was able
to generously support four full-time (including Mark) and three part-time
employees. These bi-monthly meetings were an integral part of sound fiscal
management.
“Gentlemen,
Jonathan has prepared the reports for our review,” Mark said as he slid a
packet to each man seated at the cherry wood table.
Despite
the ornate appearance of the room, Sharla had once again, worked her decorating
skills to create a professional, welcoming atmosphere without breaking the
church budget.
Mark
took his place at the head of the table. He gave his leaders a moment to digest
the information contained on the spreadsheets, which included the departmental
budget requests for the upcoming quarter, the average contribution of each
adult member, and the demographic trends in new membership, as Mark had
requested.
“Why
does it cost three hundred dollars to host a free writing conference for
approximately thirty-five people?” Rev. Kit, the youth minister, voiced an
objection.
“Honorarium
of fifty dollars to the speakers. Boxed lunch for each person,” Jonathan read
from the proposal as everyone flipped to the detailed proposal.
Mark
opened his calculator app. “That’s almost six dollars a box. What time is the
workshop?”
“Ten
‘til two-thirty.”
“That’s
four and half hours of instruction, less thirty minutes for lunch. Ask them to
schedule the workshop for 9 a.m. to 1 p.m. Serve continental breakfast, axe the
lunch. That’ll cut the cost to almost half. People eat lunch every day. They’re
coming to a writing workshop to get information, not food.”
“Yes,
sir.” Jonathan made a note, as did everyone else.
They
found a few more places to trim costs—printing in black ink instead of color
for the men’s breakfast programs, seeking a counter-offer from a contractor for
striping the parking lot. Individually, these cuts wouldn’t make much
difference. But taken altogether, these were kinds of small adjustments that
added up to tens of thousands of dollars annually.
“Mark,
have you given any more thought to what we discussed about the television
broadcast?” Rev. Jackson, the only one who addressed the pastor by his first
name, asked.
Mark
tried his best to mask his annoyance at this topic. Going on television would
be a dream come true. Ministering to thousands or even millions of souls weekly
had a nice ring to it. But he wasn’t sure the church’s budget could support a
broadcast for as long as it might take to build up a substantial and steady
flow from the TV offerings. “No, Rev. Jackson, I haven’t. I don’t think we’re
ready for it yet.”
Not
to mention the amount of time it would take to get into a studio and record the
before-and-after sermon commentary. Mondays were booked with volunteer meetings,
Tuesday mornings he met with the interfaith ministers’ alliance to discuss
issues they all wanted to address in the community. Tuesday evenings he tried
to get his sermon together for Wednesday night service.
Thursdays
and Fridays were busy on campus with paperwork, putting out administrative
fires—not to mention funerals and wedding rehearsals. Nuptials on
Saturdays, something with the youth every other weekend to keep those busy
minds off the street.
His
assistants, of course, helped—but everybody wanted
Pastor
there.
And, quite frankly, Mark prided himself on being an in-touch shepherd.
Even if Mark had
wanted
to do the broadcast now, God wasn’t going to
grant him more than twenty-four hours in a day.
“We
could try a streaming broadcast. This younger generation is more likely to
watch you on a tablet or a smartphone than a television station,” Marshall
suggested.
“This
younger generation ain’t come into no money yet,” Rev. Kit shot down the
compromise. “New Vision—and I mean
you
, Mark—needs to be on
TV, that’s all there is to it. Look at our numbers. Look at the demographics.”
He demonstrated an inch with his thumb and forefinger. “We’re this close to
becoming a megachurch. A broadcast could take us over the top.”
“Or
it could drag us under,” Mark said.
“Since
when have you ever backed down from a challenge? It’s all on you,” Rev. Kit
instigated, bearing a smile that whispered:
I dare you
.
The
competitive geyser began bubbling in Mark’s stomach. By God’s grace, he knew
better than to let it control his mind.
Marshall
jumped on board. “We could start small. Local. And as viewership increases, go
national. Global. Members would come pouring in from everywhere. Not to mention
the online offerings from people we’ll never meet.” His eyes nearly glassed
over. “I say we go for it.”
Mark
surveyed the expressions staring back at him. He hoped that his leaders had New
Vision’s ministry at heart, but it was hard to know. Every man at the table
knew that the higher the bottom line, the more left over for salaries. Plus
ministry. But mostly salaries were at the forefront of their thoughts, Mark
figured.
And
they had a right to be concerned. Rev. Kit mentioned his finicky pension
recently. Though Rev. Jackson was only part-time and wasn’t supposed to earn more
than $1200 a month because of his social security income, he wasn’t at his max
yet. Marshall and Jonathan, both having no seniority, were low on the pay
scale, too, but could look forward to frequent raises as the church grew and
their ranks rose with it. Eventually, each of them would be a chief with
devoted followers under them.
“Let’s
take another look at the projections,” Mark avoided a direct answer. “How long
until we have two thousand regular members?”
Jonathan
grabbed a pencil and sketched a line extending the graph he’d already
formulated. “Nine months. Maybe a year.”
“Okay,”
Mark shrugged. “Our growth has been slow and steady all this time. Why fix what
ain’t broken?”
“We
could cut this lag time down to three months with a broadcast, I bet,” Rev.
Maxwell said, slapping one hand on the table.
“Slow
your roll,” Mark put an end to the momentum. “We don’t make rash decisions. We
never have.”
“It’s
not rash, Pastor. We’ve had this talk. Everybody’s in except you,” Marshall let
the cat out of the bag.
Mark
leaned back in his chair and perched a finger over his lip. “Is that so?” One
by one, their eyes averted Mark’s, silently telling off on each another. “So
you
all
have decided what direction New Vision needs to take.”
Marshall
backpedaled, “No, Pastor. We—”
“Look,”
Rev. Kit intervened, “I can only speak for myself. A few months ago, I got an
offer from Fresh Start Community Church. I turned it down because I believe in
New Vision. I believe this church is going somewhere. The people love you,
Pastor.”
“Aw,
Kit, take your nose out the man’s behind,” Rev. Jackson groused. Then he
pointed a finger and declared, “Mark, you’d be a fool not to take advantage of
what God is doing here. Maybe it’s so hard for you to see, considerin’ as you
don’t
need
a pay raise like the rest of us.”
And
there it was for the third time in only a few months. Though Mark was the
highest paid person on staff, he actually needed the church’s money least. The
residuals from his successful 15-year run in insurance sales before becoming a
full-time pastor still had his family sitting quite nicely.
“Gentlemen,
it’s one thing to base a decision on dollars and cents when we’re talking about
printer ink. But this is different. We need to pray and seek God’s counsel
about exactly how He wants to grow this church,” Mark preached.
Jonathan
pushed his glasses up on his nose. He’d stopped taking notes and seemed more
enthralled with Mark’s message now than when he’d been standing at the podium
only an hour before.
“God’s
been faithful to us for the past six years. I know He will continue leading us
down the right road,” Mark concluded.
Rev.
Maxwell mumbled, “You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink
it.”
Against
his better judgment, Mark asked the reverend to explain himself.
“Don’
you want it, Pastor?”
“Want
what?”
“Think
about it. T.D. Jakes, Creflo Dollar, Joel Osteen—those men are no better
than you. They probably didn’t even get as far as you have in six years. Why
are you slowing down the progress of God’s work in this church?”
Finally,
Rev. Maxwell had asked a question that needed to be answered.
Problem
was, Mark didn’t have a good one that wouldn’t come across as selfish or lazy.
If he said, “I don’t want to,” the men would think he didn’t care about their
well-being. If he said, “I don’t have time to,” they’d help him open up a
spreadsheet and analyze his time management.
He
settled on a reply that they couldn’t argue with—at least not for a
while. “I hear your concerns. But I don’t feel led to go down that road at this
time.”
Rev.
Kit bristled. “Then what road
are
you taking to ensure the prosperity of
this church
and
the people who’ve helped you build it?”
Mark
was tempted to tell Kit to hit the road if he felt like he could do better at
another church. Nobody was holding a gun to Kit’s head, making him stay at New
Vision.
And
yet, the man had asked another fair question.
Suddenly,
Mark realized the reason he didn’t know the answer to where this church was
going was because, in truth, he’d been so busy with ministry that he hadn’t
talked to the Head much lately.
Mark’s
only answer came as a request. “I need your prayers so I can hear from Him.”