I’m trying not to think of Dorcas, because I’m absolutely not in competition with her. No matter what she has going on with Darrin, until he discourages me from flirting, I’m not going to stop. I mean, if they’re getting serious, he wouldn’t be flirting with me.
He sits next to me in church, and I don’t know how I’m going to pay attention to the sermon. He smells so good that I just want to hug him and never let him go. But that would be more than desperate, so I’ll keep my hugs to myself.
Determined to concentrate, I turn my attention to Daddy, as he’s entered the pulpit area. He’s wearing a simple black suit and his minister’s collar. He never wears the robes when we go on the road; those are for Sunday mornings at home.
He stands at the podium, ready to deliver the Word of God. The congregation here at New Bethany Baptist is the opposite of our congregation in sheer numbers and worship style. At Freedom of Life, it is customary to see people standing with uplifted arms, waving flags or even kneeling at the altar at any given time during the service. But New Bethany Baptist has a program, and they are sticking to it. The deacons have done devotion, the choir has sung two hymns, and now the congregation is sitting with folded hands, waiting for the message.
Daddy starts, “I want to bless God for bringing me here this afternoon. I truly believe that there is a revival going on in the body of Christ, and I’m just ecstatic beyond words to be a part of that. Some of you know me, and you know of my Pentecostal background.”
Heads solemnly nod in the audience. Darrin scribbles furiously on his notepad. I try to peek over to see what he’s writing, but he catches me in the act and hides his paper.
“So, y’all probably think that I’m going to preach a holiness-or-hell message, right? A get-right-church-and-let’s-go-home message, right?” The deacons and church mothers all clap and nod in agreement.
Daddy continues, “Well, I’m sorry. I’m not going to preach that message today. I’m not saying that it’s a wrong message, because the Lord says, ‘Be ye holy’; for I am holy.’”
One of the mothers shouts, “That’s right, Bishop! That’s what He say!”
“But I feel the Lord leading me down another road today. He’s been leading me to preach a message of love and restoration. Because only through the love of Christ and the restoration into covenant with Him can holiness be accomplished in a sinner.”
Darrin sits on the edge of his seat with a look of anticipation. He seems so eager to hear what Daddy is going to say next.
“Open up your Bibles to the gospel of John, the eighth chapter, and read with me starting in Verse Three and ending in Verse Eleven.”
Everyone stands and reads along with Daddy. When he’s finished, Daddy shakes his head as if the mere reading of the verses has been enough. “Verse Three says that the Scribes and Pharisees brought to Jesus a woman who was caught in the act of adultery.
“Imagine the shame of this unnamed woman to be exposed by the very shepherds of her faith. There was no hiding her sin and no explaining her way out of it. She was caught red-handed, so to speak. But come on, somebody—each and every one of us is that woman! The church is that woman!”
Several people are standing, including Darrin. Daddy’s tone is dripping with passion for the Scriptures.
“We’ve all got a laundry list of dastardly deeds and dirty little secrets. Though the person sharing the pew with you may look and dress fine, they’ve got a secret box, locked away so deeply that no earthly man can see it … but it’s there.
“Oh, but I serve an awesome God! The devil, like the Scribes and Pharisees, wants to lay our secret boxes bare. He wants to tell the world that this brother has a lust issue and looks at pornography in secret or that this woman had six abortions while singing in the choir every Sunday … Oh, but I serve an awesome God!
“He quietly waited while the devil accuses the ones He loves. He was silent when the Pharisees brought Him the woman. Was it because He had no defense of her? No! He knew that in a short time, His blood would be shed to cover the woman’s sins. He knew that she would be able to walk in the newness of life and be washed as white as snow, even though her sins were crimson red.”
A young woman breaks down in tears at her seat, sobbing, “Jesus, Jesus …” For some reason, I feel led to go to her. I take her hand and whisper a prayer in her ear, and the young woman sobs on my shoulder. I can feel the weight of her pain, and I pray for her strength.
Daddy continues his sermon. “What did Jesus ask the woman? He asked, ‘Where are those thine accusers?’ The Pharisees, convicted by Jesus’ words, had scattered. Their evil intentions could not flourish while the grace of God abounded. The devil may accuse you and betray you after leading you into sin, but he must flee—I said he must
flee
—when the glory of God is present.
“Then finally, Jesus told the woman, ‘Neither do I condemn thee … go and sin no more.’ Did he give her an impossible task? How could this woman go the rest of her life and sin no more? The fact of the matter is that we, like the woman, need Christ daily—we need His blood daily. When we live a life surrendered to Him, He gives us power to resist sin, and yet when we do fall, His innocent, uncontaminated blood erases our debt.
“Emoni, come up here and sing this song for me.”
I stand and walk down the center aisle with tears in my eyes. I always cry when the spirit of God is present. It’s involuntary. When I get to the front of the church, I take a microphone from the organ player and start singing Daddy’s favorite worship song, Donnie McClurkin’s “Great Is Your Mercy.”
Daddy starts the altar call. “Come on down and surrender yourself to Jesus. Let His blood cover you all the days of your life.”
The prayer line extends to the rear of the church, with nearly a hundred people wanting or needing something from God. Even Darrin comes up for prayer.
Last in the prayer line is a woman who looks a hot and utter mess. Her clothes are dirty and crusty, and her hair weave looks like it could get up and walk off of her head. She staggers slowly down the aisle, holding on to a young man with her. I can smell her from the pulpit, but Daddy doesn’t seem to mind; he’s holding out both arms.
“Come on down to the altar, daughter. The Lord wants to bring a healing in your life.”
The woman looks up from the floor, and her eyes lock with Daddy’s. A strange expression of fear and guilt comes over Daddy’s face. Now the woman is smiling. So many of her teeth are missing that her smile looks like a sneer.
When the woman gets to the front of the aisle, she thrusts the young man in front of Daddy. He jumps back as if the boy has the plague.
In a low, scratchy growl, the woman asks, “Why don’t you lay hands on your son, Kumal?”
Daddy places one hand on the young man’s head and says a brief prayer. Only me and Oscar are close enough to see that Daddy’s hand is trembling. A queasy feeling grips my midsection.
When Daddy finishes the prayer, Oscar rushes forward and whisks Daddy out of the sanctuary. The congregation doesn’t see that anything is wrong. They all think that Daddy is spent in the spirit.
I have just one question. How does that disgusting woman know my father’s first name?
Darrin and I follow closely behind Oscar and Daddy. As we approach the car, I notice the young man standing next to the vehicle. Even though he seems harmless and is holding a Bible in his hand, I feel a horrible sense of apprehension.
“Is everything cool?” Darrin whispers to me.
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
Oscar goes completely into security mode and strides ahead of us, making sure he’ll reach the man first. He says in an ignorantly loud voice, “Can I help you with something?”
The young man replies, “N-no. I just n-need to speak with the bishop, if that’s all right.”
Oscar looks skeptical, but Daddy intervenes. “What is it that you need?”
The young man says, “I thought our reunion would be a lot more joyful than this. I’ve been waiting for this moment my entire life.”
A dark frown has come across Daddy’s face, like a shadow. “Young man, I don’t know you. I think you’ve got me mistaken for someone else.”
“Is it okay if we speak in private, sir?”
Why does he need to talk to my father in private? Looks like Darrin and Oscar have the same question, because the two of them circle in like vultures.
Daddy replies, “There’s no need for that, son. Go ahead and tell me what’s on your mind.”
“Well … there’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to spit it out. Bishop … you … you’re my father.”
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” repeats Daddy confidently. “I don’t know you or the woman who was with you.”
“Sir, I’m not mistaken. You remember my mother, although she was a lot prettier when you knew her. Her name is Genevieve.”
Daddy’s gaze jerks from the car door back to the young man. “Did you say Genevieve?”
“Yes, sir. Genevieve Walters. You and her used to get high together. She says you’re my father.”
Daddy wipes his face with his handkerchief, but he can’t wipe away the guilty expression. “She looks like death warmed over.”
“So you do remember her! You got clean, but she never did. She drinks, too, got a bad case of cirrhosis, but she can’t get on the transplant list because she’s got that crack cocaine in her system.”
“That’s a shame. What’s your name?”
“Kumal. She named me after you. Said you was the only one who ever cared about her.”
I get over my loss of words when he says this. “Are you trying to say that you are my father’s son?”
Kumal Jr. lights up and reaches out to hug me. “You’re my sister?”
Darrin stands between us. “Hold up, brotha. This ain’t a family reunion yet.”
Kumal says to Daddy, “Look, I don’t want anything from you. I was just hoping you’d talk to my mother and try to convince her to get off drugs.”
“I will pray for your mother, but you are not my son. That’s impossible. Let her know that I’m praying for her.”
Tears are in young Kumal’s eyes. “Sir, I promise, I don’t want nothin’. Can I just get to know you? It’s been hard growing up not knowing you.”
Daddy takes one last look at the young man and then gets in the car. I want to say something to Kumal, anything that will make that look on his face disappear. I want to tell him that he looks exactly like my daddy and that I believe him, but the thoughts never become words.
I feel Darrin’s strong grip pulling me over to the car, but I can’t move. The tears running down Kumal’s face are the saddest thing I’ve ever seen. I break away from Darrin and hug Kumal. I whisper a prayer in his ear, like I did for the young lady in the church.
He seems better when I’m done. His tears are still flowing, but he looks hopeful. Now I allow Darrin to lead me to the car, where Oscar and Daddy are waiting for us.
The car ride home is silent. Darrin and I don’t share any jokes or games of tic-tac-toe. No one even makes eye contact. Every breath Daddy exhales sounds like a forlorn sigh.
All of this is entirely too much to comprehend. I think of the strangest things under pressure. Like I probably should be asking Daddy all about Kumal’s mother, but I’m a little bit thrilled that I have a sibling who looks like me.
I’ve got a big brother. And he’s named after my daddy.
DIARY OF A MAD BLACK BLOGGER
What’s up, cyber homies and homettes? I know, I know. It’s been a minute since I last wrote. That’s because I’ve been busy. I’ve been doing what my mama calls “running for Jesus.”
Seriously.
I’ve been working hard—real hard—trying to live right and helping out in the ministry. I’ve been touched by the Bible in so many areas of my life, and I’ve been able to successfully fight some powerful man urges.
But.
And this is a big ole but.
Let me just give y’all a hypothetical situation. What if a pastor—a bishop—is a great preacher and teacher? What if he leads people to deliverance every week? What if he lives modestly, gives to the poor, and does great things in the community?
What if he has a secret illegitimate son?
I may have the scoop of a lifetime, but I’m gonna get back with y’all when I get facts and details.
I really, really need y’all to pray for me … Y’all can hit me up in the comments section, but put me on the prayer list, too.
COMMENTS
Sister Mary 10:13 p.m.
The blood of Jesus is against you, MBB. Touch not my profet. That’s what the Word say.
Angie 11:00 p.m.
Wow … MBB, I’m praying for you. That’s a tough situation. Did you get the girl though?
Single black churchgoer 12:19 a.m.
Yeah, MBB, which of those hot girls did you choose? The bishop’s daughter or his wife’s armor bearer? Don’t nobody wanna hear about the pastor’s illegitimate child! They all doing some kind of dirt anyway. Follow Christ, and you ain’t got to worry about all that.
Darrin
I
’m sitting cross-legged on my couch, deep in thought, the evening’s weirdness still feeling fresh. Got a notebook full of good notes from Bishop’s message. It was a good message, but I can’t even think about that right now. I’m thinking about a story.
More specifically, I’m thinking about
the
story. The one that I came all the way to Atlanta to uncover. The exposé that’s going to put me on the map and get my father off my back.
That
story. In my gut, I know I’ve found it, but now that I’ve found it, I have no idea what to do with it.
My choices are clear. Write the story or don’t. Writing the story involves my finding that woman in Savannah and compelling her to spill the beans. Not writing the story means that I turn a blind eye to the scandal staring me in the face. The journalist in me can’t allow that to happen.
And since the scenario in Savannah, I’m starting to feel like it’s useless trying to do the Christian thing. Bishop stared his possible son in the face and basically said, “See ya!” And right after he preached a good message and prayed for people.