Second Sunday (14 page)

“Jesus keep me near the cross,” Mr. Louis Loomis thought, but told the man, “Son, she’ll wake up and be just fine when the
Holy Ghost gets finished running His course.”

Thoroughly perplexed, the usher eased away, fearful of setting off another dangerous fit.

Bertha had returned to her seat, where she sat staring straight ahead with her lips pressed together, trying to act like what
was happening not only
wasn’t
happening but had absolutely nothing to do with her. It worried Phoebe to see the stubborn set of Bertha’s jaw and the look
of resolve on her face. To provoke a reaction from her cousin, she raised her arms up and said, “Jesus, let me get in that
aisle! I need some of that Holy Ghost to rub off on me.”

Climbing over Bertha, she reached down and touched Sheba’s hand to “get herself some.” Then she jerked her whole body back,
waving her “touched” hand in the air, as if a jolt of electricity had hit her. “Awww, glory,” Phoebe called out. “God is up
in here this morning!”

Eyes still closed, Sheba flashed Phoebe a faint smile as she offered a silent prayer: “Father, be patient and have mercy on
us. We mean no disrespect to Your house. But we had to create a flame where there was no flame, to set fire to this dry grassland
and smoke the snakes clear out.”

At that point, Sheba felt a current running through her that was so powerful she had to pray to hold down a real shout.

After what felt like an eternity to Bertha, the song mercifully came to an end. Through it all, she had kept her eyes trained
on the altar, unwilling to give her people the satisfaction of a single glance. To steady herself, she’d kept whispering,
“Our church is one of acceptance and love” in a voice that was so weak and full of doubt, even she couldn’t make herself buy
into that nonsense.

As the last chords of the song faded away, the orchestra pit sank back into the floor and the stage shifted, taking the choir
with it. When it revolved back around, Pastor Ray Lyles was standing center stage with his arms stretched out toward the audience.
The TV crew, who had turned off the cameras during Sheba’s “show,” now uncapped them and trained them on their pastor. Throughout
the church, there were ripples of disappointment that Sheba’s dancing and dramatic collapse hadn’t been caught on tape for
all their friends to see.

Ray Lyles wanted no such record of the disruption. As it was, those four blacks out in the aisle were such a sore sight that
they made his head hurt. From the moment they’d arrived at his church, the deacons had been running in and out of his office
with complaints, very upset that Bertha Green knew these people. One deacon had even whispered that he seriously hoped “Miss
Green will not exercise her right to join this church at this time.” His wife Priscilla (aka Big Missy) was still seething
after her run-in with that hot-pink-wearing, overly plumed creature lying on the floor in some kind of black-church-related
trance.

If Bertha Green had been anyone else, Ray Lyles would have publicly rebuked her and then told the ushers to show her and her
crazy people to the back door. But he couldn’t do that just yet. He needed a black like Bertha Green—badly—as a link between
the American Worship Center and the fertile black church community in North St. Louis. Even the poorest blacks supported their
churches, and Ray Lyles planned on getting himself a heaping helping of that sweet potato pie—building the American Worship
Center into a national religious conglomerate with himself, a “po’ white boy” from an impoverished white neighborhood in South
St. Louis, as the CEO.

Ray Lyles had barely thought about black folk and North St. Louis until he’d made a surprising discovery. He had stumbled
on a document in his wife Betsy’s papers, making her heir to a plot of land in North St. Louis that would be eligible for
repossession later this year. The land, which was located smack dab in the middle of black St. Louis, had an old church on
it and was worth much more than he would have thought possible for that area. And then, amazingly, Bertha Green turned up.
She not only came from the church resting on his wife’s land, but her father was its head deacon, with considerable influence
over what happened in and to that church.

The more Ray thought about it, the more it intrigued him to try to expand his empire into the least likely place, North St.
Louis. And when Bertha Green showed up, he recognized that she could be his front door key into a black North St. Louis church.
But like any good thief in the night, he had the back door covered too—with the document restoring Betsy’s right to the land
when the grant of use expired—just in case the locks on the front door were changed.

And now, on the very morning Bertha Green had finally agreed to join the church, her people were here raising Cain, stroking
his members’ fears about blacks joining their congregation. He knew about people being slain in the Spirit, but this display
seemed a bit extreme and ostentatious to him, even for blacks. He stared straight into the TV cameras, summoning an act of
God to force a tight smile on his face, as he opened with his customary greeting: “Good morning, God’s rightful children.”

“Good morning, Pastor Lyles,” his congregation answered politely.

“Saints, guests of the saints, and of course, prodigal children,” he began, looking at his wife sitting in the choir section
and drawing strength from her encouraging smile. Betsy Ashton Lyles was his right hand, and had helped him build this church
from the ground up. Without her love and constant support, he knew he would still be clerking at a supermarket in Cahokia,
Illinois.

Pastor Lyles smiled back at his wife and said, “I welcome you all to this Sunday morning service. I know that you are eager
to hear what message God has laid on my heart. But before the Word of God comes to you from me, we have some important housekeeping
business to attend to.

“In keeping with the tradition established when our church was founded seven years ago, today is a special Sunday. It is Second
Sunday, when anyone possessing a certificate from our esteemed Board of Deacons, confirming successful completion of the new
member’s training program, can be granted full membership, with all the rights thereof, in the American Worship Center.

“Now, I know that there are several of you sitting out there in the congregation with these certificates. And if the Lord
has laid it upon your heart to join church today, I implore you to come forward and take your rightful place as a Child of
the King in our beloved church.

“One young lady in particular,” Lyles continued, smiling at Bertha, “has worked so diligently to earn what we at the center
call our ‘members’ stripes’ that I would like to call her forth to become one of our saints this morning.”

All of a sudden, Pastor Lyles started coughing uncontrollably, and an usher hurried to get him a glass of water. Watching
her soon-to-be pastor, Bertha was possessed by the uncanny feeling that the man was literally choking on his own words. She
drew in a deep breath and gritted her teeth. Her folks, coming up in here and showing out, had to be the reason. Miss Sheba
had been out, slain in the Spirit, so long that she could have had an in-depth conversation with each of the four-and-twenty
elders in heaven.

“Bertha Kaye Green,” Lyles said, gaining control of his cough, “represents an important step in the American Worship Center’s
mission. As you know, I have been working hard to bridge the gap between our church and the blacks’ churches in St. Louis.
This has been a difficult task, due to a poor response on their part. Our Father in heaven knows that it is long past the
time when white Christians and blacks should attend separate churches. The fact that eleven
A.M.
on Sunday is the most segregated hour in America is a travesty. I don’t know why the blacks are so resistant to worshiping
with us.”

At that point, a gurgle came from Sheba on the floor, which sounded almost like a muffled laugh. Then she suddenly came back
from “being with the Lord,” muttering, “Yes, Jesus. I hear you. I’ll do just that. Thank You, Jesus. It was nice talking to
You, too.”

“But with prayer and faith,” Pastor Lyles was saying, “and the help of good blacks like Bertha Green, we can all come together,
unmindful of our differences, blind to color, and march forward with the banner of the American Worship Center raised high
for the Lord.”

“That boy is blind to any and everything that he has not set his sights on, like your pocketbook,” Mr. Louis Loomis grumbled.
“And about the only thing he marches forward to do is beg, beg, and beg some more on that TV show of his.”

He gave Bertha a long, hard stare. “Babygirl, are you sure you want to be a part of this church?”

Phoebe placed a hand on her arm and said, “You are too hardheaded for your own good, Bertha Kaye. Mr. Louis Loomis is right—you
don’t need to be in this place.”

Bertha was sick and tired of her folks trying to pressure her, but she was also nursing a deeper, secret anger. Because not
a one of them, as much as they all claimed to love her—her daddy included—had an inkling of how heavy and burdened her heart
was when she first left their church. It was a shame that Pastor Ray Lyles had picked up on her heartache before her own folks
had a clue that something was wrong. Bertha started to rise from her seat to make the American Worship Center her new church
home.

“Stand up, Bertha Kaye Green,” Ray Lyles was saying. “Stand up and come to become right at the altar of the Lord.”

As Bertha moved to step into the aisle, her folks got up to gather around her. But they were stopped short by a burly usher,
who said loudly, “You people have been a problem since you walked into the Lord’s house. That”—he gestured toward the stage—“is
sacred ground. Don’t incur the Lord’s wrath or offend our members more than you already have. Now,
sit down.
”

A smattering of applause greeted his speech, which he acknowledged with a slight courtly bow. Then he extended his arm to
a shamefaced Bertha to escort her onto the stage.

“Bertha Kaye,” Mr. Louis Loomis declared loudly. “Don’t you walk up on that stage with this devil. He’s like that fool who
threw Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego into the fiery furnace.”

Bertha hesitated, resisting the usher’s hand on her elbow for a second. But when he tried again to propel her forward, she
yielded with a very heavy heart. Joining church was supposed to be a joyous occasion. But Bertha felt worse now than when
she’d first decided to run off from Gethsemane.

Tears came to her eyes as she prepared to walk up to the stage. And when Sheba saw them, she tugged at Mr. Louis Loomis’s
sleeve, insisting, “We can’t let her go up there alone.” Mr. Louis Loomis stood, and locking arms with Sheba, he moved in
close behind Bertha, with Melvin Jr. and Phoebe right on his heels.

As soon as Bertha was within arm’s length, Pastor Lyles grabbed her hands to pull her forward, away from her people. But when
he drew her to the right, they followed. When he yanked her to the left, they shifted too, mirroring his movements, close
at her back. Finally, he gave it up, let go of Bertha’s hands, and held out his own. An usher presented his Bible, which he
accepted as, while opening it, he motioned for the congregation to stand.

“Saints, friends of saints, and”—looking directly at Bertha’s entourage—“prodigal children. Our sister in the Lord stands
here before us with a desire to be admitted into this great church.”

Pastor Lyles turned toward Bertha. “Do you, Bertha Kaye Green, wish to become a full-fledged member of the American Worship
Center?”

Bertha smiled feebly and mumbled yes in such a pitiful-sounding voice that Phoebe whispered, “Thank you, Lord.” She knew that
voice, which said, “I don’t know how to get out of the corner I just backed my self into” loud and clear.

“Now, Bertha, you have worked harder than most to earn the right to become a member of this church—”

“I am sure she has,” Sheba said out loud.

Pastor Lyles tried to ignore Sheba, but found it hard to stop staring at the plume on her hot pink hat. Then it struck him
that her performance had been a blessing in disguise, a chance to offer the congregation a lesson. He continued, “Bertha,
you came to us in need of salvation. And everyone in this sanctuary”—his eyes strayed to Bertha’s people—“
almost
everyone here knows that you could not find God at your former church.”

“What—,” Mr Louis Loomis began.

“As children of God, we come to know Him through our minds, by studying His teachings, not through inflammatory sermons and
sensual music that whips up the lowest passions. We have seen the effects of that kind of worship right here this morning
in our church. A woman”—a touch of scorn crept into his voice—“with a crazy notion she was touched by God passed out here,
just like a drunk. That is why Bertha Kaye Green has chosen to renounce her former church and join us in the light of truth.”

Sheba was forming her mouth to get Ray Lyles straight when Bertha’s voice rang out. “I ain’t renouncin’ nothin’. And you best
quit shooting off at the mouth about Miss Sheba and my church.” She put her hands on her hips and got up in his face.

Ray Lyles studied Bertha for a moment. He had never seen her sound or act so
black
.

“Thank you, Lord!” Phoebe called out, and slapped palms with Sheba.

Suddenly Bertha looked queasy. Tears streamed from her eyes and her shoulders began to heave. But then she managed to regain
control.

“Bertha, are you feeling okay?” Lyles asked, concerned about her wave of nausea and momentarily forgetting her reversion to
ghetto talk.

“Except for this morning sickness, I feel pretty good right now, thanks to you, Pastor Lyles.”

“Morning sickness?” Ray Lyles repeated in dismay. The last thing he wanted among his flock was an unmarried pregnant black
woman. If word got out that women like that were welcome here, he might as well go outside and staple a great big welfare
check right on the front door of the church.