Stepping Down (6 page)

She might have escaped the other women’s trouble-radar, but
the look on Candace’s face told Sharla she hadn’t fooled the hostess.

“You know, we’re all here for each other,” Lady Gipson
scratched the surface of Sharla’s heart.

Instantly, tears threatened to ruin Sharla’s façade. Those
women cared about her and her husband’s ministry. She had no reason to be
ashamed—by that point, they’d all seen each other with mascara running
down their faces.

Yet, something in her didn’t
want
the women to help
her. She wanted to savor her bad attitude, savor every drop like a blue coconut
sno cone. Besides, they’d just pray and ask God to change things. From where
Sharla stood, God was part of the problem. He probably wanted her to be humble,
submissive, stop being selfish, put all her feelings aside and suck it up for
the sake of the church.

“Yes, I’m okay. Thanks for asking.”

Candace carried on with the prayer requests, though Sharla
felt as though the older woman was keeping an eye on her.

She can keep one eye on me all she wants
. Maybe Candace was part of the problem,
too. People like her were the reason so many pastors’ wives were held to such a
ridiculous standard.
Always gotta look nice, come alongside your husband, be
his helpmate.
All this straight 1960s mumbo jumbo and it was all because
men were too sorry to figure out how to multi-task like women do every minute
of the day.

Besides, who was going to help Sharla while she helped Mark?
Did God think women didn’t need help? Pulleaze!
No wonder we have so much
heart disease.

Sharla barely caught the “amen” at the end of the prayer.
She grabbed her purse and headed for the door, offering yet another lie about
needing to get to an appointment.

She even pretended not to see Candace through the rearview
mirror trying to flag Sharla down as
she peeled
out of the parking lot.

Right or wrong, Sharla was no longer content to play the
“good wife” role
when Mark obviously didn’t care about
his
role
at home.

For
the next few weeks, Mark focused on one thing at church—Jesus—and
one thing at home: making Sharla happy by making more time for Amani.

The
church had seen an increase in the number of people giving their lives to
Christ at the end of each service, which gave Mark a renewed sense of
commitment to New Vision.

On
the home front, he and Amani texted each other more often than usual. They also
spent a couple of hours playing video games together one of those Saturdays.
Mark tried to get Amani to open up and talk a bit, but Amani seemed reticent,
responding to every question with one-word answers. Mark decided to lay off.
His son would open up if and when he felt like it. “I just want you to know
that I’m here for you if you need me,” Mark had assured Amani.

“Cool.”

Mark
had gone out of his way to make sure Sharla knew of his efforts with their son.
He’d made a few comments about the video games, mentioned the few minor details
Amani leaked through texts, and even printed the latest progress report from
the school’s parent online portal.

“Looks
like he’s doing better, Baby,” Mark remarked casually on their way to visit
Sharla’s grandmother in the nursing home. Even their trip to visit Grandma
Smiley, which he was only able to make because of a rained-out picnic, should have
earned him brownie points.

“Mmmm,”
she barely acknowledged.

Mark
exhaled loudly.

She
looked up from her tablet and asked, “What are you breathing all hard for?”

“You
wanted me to connect with him, right?”

“Yeah.”

He
spelled it out for her, “So the least you could do is say something good about
it.”

Her
face soured. “What? You want a
cookie
for doing what you’re
supposed
to do?”

Okay,
that’s it.
He’d had
enough of Sharla’s
fonk
attitude to last him a lifetime. Every ounce of
“Pastor” Carter slid out of Mark as he aired the thoughts he’d been holding
back in hopes of avoiding a massive blow-up with his wife. But it was clear
there was no way around it. No way to make her happy, no way to please her,
period.

Mark
made a quick swerve to the right and abruptly parked the car in the back corner
of a grocery store. It was as good a place as any to have a come-to-Jesus
meeting.

“Why
are you stopping here?” Sharla demanded an answer as she slapped her tablet
closed.

“What’s
wrong with you?” he asked. The words came out with less force than he’d
imagined they would, definitely due to the fact that God had given him insight
into his wife’s pain.

“Nothing,”
she replied softly.

“Stop
lying to me. You’ve been treating me like a dog for the past few months, trying
to act like I’m not doing my job in our marriage, making me feel bad about my
role as a father. You come to church with a bad attitude; you put on a fake
smile while I’m preaching. I know something’s wrong, but I can’t help you fix
it unless you tell me what it is.”

He
waited. The swish of the windshield wipers punched through the silence
intermittently.

“You
can’t fix me, Mark,” she finally snapped, pounding her thighs with her fists.
“I’m a human being. I have emotions and feelings and needs. I’m not some kind
of corporate branding experiment.”

Bewildered,
Mark sat with his mouth open. “What are you talking about?”

“This!”
she threw her hands in the air. “We’re so far apart, you have no earthly idea
what I’m going through.”

“No.
I don’t,” he admitted. “You
said
you wanted me to spend more time with
‘Mani, so I did.”

“It’s
not just Amani,” she revealed.

“What
do you expect me to do? Read your mind?” Mark gasped in exasperation.

“Read
my
heart
,” she demanded.

“That’s
impossible,” he stated.

“It
didn’t used to be. When we were dating, and before the church, you used to know
when something was bothering me. You’d stop to see what it was. We’d take a
weekend off, go somewhere and reconnect, make a plan to overcome. And I felt
safe. But now…” her voice cracked with emotion.

A
flood of anxiety rushed through Mark’s veins as he realized his wife was about
to start crying. Her lips quivered, her eyes watered, and her button nose
flushed red. He’d been expecting a barrage of smart comments from his wife, but
not
that
. Not
crying
.

“Baby,”
he tried to sooth her with words as well as a hug across the console.

“No.”
She gave him the hand.

“Sharla,
honey, I’m only trying to help.”

“Don’t
touch me right now,” she wiped her nose, her dainty fingers shaking.

Mark
sat in amazement, watching his wife try to compose herself while her body
betrayed her attempts. The tears kept flowing, her hands kept trembling.

Suddenly,
his mind flashed back to his Aunt Jackie, his mother’s youngest sister. Aunt
Jackie had been perfectly fine until Mark’s cousin, Kendrick, drowned in the
lake. Mark was too young to know what a “nervous breakdown” was, but he
remembered the day before the mysterious occasion. Aunt Jackie had been sitting
in their living room crying uncontrollably. Rocking herself back and forth. And
he distinctly remembered her fingers shaking the way Sharla’s shook now.

This
is not the time for Sharla to be having a nervous breakdown,
Mark thought,
not with the church on
the verge of a huge paradigm shift, not when I’ve finally gotten back into the
groove of hearing from God and walking in His direct guidance.

Sharla’s
condition had to be the work of the enemy, Mark surmised. “Baby, let’s pray.”

“No!
I don’t want to pray!” she practically screamed. “I’m tired of you and all this
pastor stuff. I want my husband—Mark Wayne Carter, III—back!”

Now
he
knew
she had flown the coop. But Sharla’s tears kept Mark from flying
off with her. “Okay. We can go to counseling like you wanted.”

She
sniffed. Gave her eyes a sloppy wipe. “Thank you. I already have an appointment
set for Amani Tuesday evening.”

No!
Not Tuesday night!
Mark
was scheduled for a live guest appearance with Joey Z, the metroplex’s gospel
radio station’s praise-and-pray DJ. Rev. Marshall had schmoozed for months to
get Mark on that show. The hope was that Mark would become a regular
commentator and bring in new members.

“What
time did you set the appointment for?”

His
voice must have hinted at his conflict.

“Why?”
Sharla baited him.

“What
time?” Mark repeated.

“Six-thirty.”

The
interview was from 5:30 – 6:30. “I’ll do my best to make it.”

“So…you
might be there, you might not.”

“Isn’t
it Amani’s counseling session?”

“Yes,
but it would be nice if we could both go to show support,” she explained.

Mark
didn’t quite understand how sitting on a couch while someone was in another
room being questioned was actually a show of support. “I’ll be late,” he said,
“but I’ll be there by the time he comes out of the room.”

Sharla
rolled her eyes. “Let’s just get to the nursing home, please.”

            A
quick glance across the sanctuary gave Mark cause for question. There were
definitely fewer people in attendance that week. Mentally, he ran through a
list of possibilities, including the previous night’s musical, where he had
taken the liberty of sharing the good news about Christ and extending the
invitation to meet Him, although he wasn’t on program to do so. Mark was well
aware that some people “counted” any event where a preacher spoke as their
weekly visit with God. Once they met the quota, that was it—especially
with this second service.

After
the announcements scrolled across giant screens, the praise dancers rendered a
routine that totally rubbed Mark the wrong way. The chorus of the music, “God,
please don’t turn away from me,” was impossible. God had already promised in
His word that He would never leave or forsake His people.

Several
people in the audience stood, raising their hands toward heaven as they
mimicked the dancers’ begging gestures.
Have these people not been listening
to a word I’ve preached for the past two Sundays?

Maybe
Sharla was right. Perhaps he should cut back on his efforts at the church. If
they weren’t going to listen to him, what was the point?

Or
maybe he was expecting too much too soon. The fact was, he could only point the
finger at himself for their misunderstanding. What was two weeks’ worth of truth
supposed to accomplish after years of politically correct social teaching on
his watch, not to mention the preachers they might have had before him? No
matter, he tapped a memo to himself to develop a sermon on entering God’s rest
through Christ, Hebrews chapter 4.

The
choir’s last song didn’t help. Though it was a classic, Mark cringed at the
first line.

“The
race is not given to the swift nor to the strong,” Valeria Newsome sang her
heart out, “but to the one that endureth until the end.”

Mark
could remember when he used to quote those words, but last year he’d stopped
when he found out the saying wasn’t actually a scripture in the Bible. And he’d
told the church about it, too, but obviously they’d decided it didn’t matter.
It sounded good, so they sang it anyway.

There
again, Mark made a note, this one to be discussed with the elders: No more
unbiblical songs.

But
was he being too harsh? Legalistic? Was it the end of the world if the choir’s
songs and praise dancers’ music was a little…off? Even more, how was he going
to micro-manage every single move the worship ministry made?

Not
possible.

Finally,
the song ended with yet another partial-verse-scramble and Mark took the
pulpit. His message that day was almost the same as last Sunday’s: Free from
sin.

“If
you have your Bibles with you, go ahead and turn to first John, chapter three.”

While
he knew that some congregants were busy swiping virtual pages, the familiar
melody of thin pages flipping, flipping, flipping sent a pleasant ripple
through Mark’s soul. Breaking the bread of God’s word with people filled him
more than a six-course meal.

“I
have to forewarn you,” he started, “some of you may not like this sermon. It’s
what I like to call a mirror sermon.”

“Ah
hah,” from Mother Herndon, sitting on the second pew. “Preach it anyway.”

Her
words made Mark laugh inside. He had been encouraged when Mother Herndon joined
New Vision. She’d been a long-time Mother at Dr. McMurray’s church but,
according to her, the Lord wanted her to follow him and Sharla as they started
their own ministry.

“You
need the old and the young alike at every church,” Mother Herndon had wisely
stated.

He
had no doubt that she prayed for him and his family on a regular basis. He
hoped the Spirit would lead her to add a little extra for Amani and Sharla.

Mark
spotted Amani in the crowd. Arms folded, eyes looking as though he might fall
asleep at any moment. But at least he wasn’t texting anymore during service.

Sharla
sat on the front row to his right, where she always sat. Same fake grin.
Different hairstyle.

After
focusing himself with the thought that at least his family was physically
present in the house of God, Mark trained his eyes on the Word again, reading
verses one through nine. “May the Lord add a blessing to the hearers and doers
of His word.”

“Amen,”
the congregation agreed.

“My
brothers and sisters, I want to talk to you today about the fact that you don’t
have to live in sin. You don’t have to live in obedience to your flesh. Because
Christ died and rose again, those of us who believe on Him have died with Him,
according to Colossians three and three. And we find here in First John the
product of a life lived in Christ—freedom from the rule and reign of sin,
even as we go about our lives in this mortal body.”

The
audience resembled deer in the headlights.

“You
see, before Christ, you and I didn’t have a choice. We had to obey our flesh
because it was our master. But once we believe and receive Christ, we exchange
our lives for His.”

A
few amens.

“Now,
Paul did say in Romans that there is a war going on inside of us—the
flesh still wants what it wants.”

“You
right about that!” from someone.

“You
still have cravings and desires and suggestions that rise out of your body,”
Mark continued.

He
got a whole chorus of amens on that one. But his heart sank as he realized his
congregation could relate more to their human shortcomings than to the victory
already secured in Christ.

He
had failed the people miserably, and he’d have to answer to God for it.
What
do you want me to do?

Mark
yanked the microphone from its holder and stepped down from the pulpit.
Jonathan quickly followed behind him, wearing a confused look on his face. Mark
pointed for Jonathan to sit down next to Sharla.

“Saints
of God, members of New Vision, I have a confession to make.”

An
audible rattling swept through the building. People straightened up in their
seats. The balcony seemed to lean in closer. He could see Jonathan shaking his
head and mouthing the words ‘I don’t know’ to the fellow ministers.

Mark
knew that he was making everyone uncomfortable, perhaps most of all his wife.
To calm Sharla, he flashed a quick smile in her direction.

“The
Lord has been dealing with me about something,” Mark continued. “For the past
six years, I’ve been preaching to you about many, many things.”

“Mmmm
hmmm,” they prodded.

“Many
things that are beneficial.”

“Mmmm
hmmm.”

“I’ve
taught you how to pray more effectively, how to get out of debt, how to get
healed, how to get whatever you want from God.”

“That’s
right,” they played along.

“I’ve
given you plenty of how-to’s, but not the
who
.”

“That’s
right,” Mother Herndon bellowed. “Help him, Jesus!”

“I
stand up here week after week telling you all stuff that I thought you all
needed to hear when, really, all you need is in Jesus—the very last part
of what gets mentioned every week. But you can’t know peace, you can’t know
love or joy or prosperity without Jesus Christ.

“When
you think about the one person you love more than anything, even when they do
wrong, you don’t want them punished to the fullest extent possible. We got
people in this church who have given all kinds of collateral—houses,
cars, savings accounts, taken second and third jobs—to get a good
attorney to argue the case for a child they
know
did wrong. But even
though they know that boy did wrong, they still want mercy.

“That’s
exactly what Christ did for us. He sacrificed Himself so you and I could have
mercy. Hebrews seven and twenty-five says He ever lives to intercede for us.
And then he turned around and gave His life for us and
to
us so we
wouldn’t ever have to submit to sin again. Even when we get off track, the
sacrifice He made for us is still in effect. It is finished.

“The
only requirement is to believe. If you’ve been listening to sin, if you’ve been
trying to argue your own case before God, trying to do everything right so God
will forgive you—you can stop. He already has. Fall in love with Him the
way He’s already in love with you.

Mark
felt the leading to give the invitation a different way. “Every head bowed,
every eye closed. Right where you are. You don’t have to stand or walk down the
aisle. You don’t have to give us your name or your number or your address. You
don’t even have to raise your hand. Right where you are, if you feel Christ
knocking at the door of your heart, just open it. If you’ve already accepted
Christ but you’ve been wrestling with sin, just surrender to Christ. Believe on
what He has done and give it all to Him. Sin is broken. The same rest you will
have in heaven can start
now
because He’s the same God there as He is
here. Right there, where you’re sitting, open your mouth and let Him know that
you receive Him.”

The
revelation flowing from Mark’s mouth stunned him. He hadn’t planned it, had
never even considered the idea that believers didn’t have to wait until
eternity to experience an inexplicable rest in Christ today.

The
words were not his own, and he could not have been more humbled by the fact
that God had used his lips to speak them.

Soft
music began playing as Mark held the microphone to his chest, rocking from side
to side in the manifest presence of God. He could hear people whispering soft
prayers. Someone in the balcony began sobbing from the pit of her soul.

Mother
Herndon started singing, “Oh, it is Jesus.” Robert picked her up on the organ
as her sweet voice caroled, “For I have touched the hem of his garment...”

A
wave of worship flowed through the congregation as they all joined in the
simple, powerful tune. Valeria took the microphone again in the choir stand and
sang the verse. “I tried all that I could…”

Without
prompting, people began to come forward and gather at the altar. Shoulders heaving
as they cried, hands lifted in total surrender.

“Prayer
team, we need you,” Mark beckoned the warriors to pray with those who were
following an unction to meet Christ at the foot of the pulpit. Within minutes,
the altar area was filled with people praying for one another.

“Right
where you are,” Mark moved with the Spirit, “if you need to pray with somebody,
just ask your neighbor. Ask them to pray with you, ask them if you can pray for
them. Saints of God, let’s edify one another in Him right now.”

He
lost track of time in the Spirit and thoroughly enjoyed every second—or
minute?—of it. However long it was, it hadn’t been long enough before
Rev. Kit took the podium and brought the impromptu worship service to a close.
“Amen, amen. You all can go back to your seats now in Jesus’ name. Amen, amen.
Let’s continue on with the message. Amen, and amen.”

Jonathan
appeared at Mark’s side, holding out his arm, directing Mark back to the
pulpit. The sudden, unwelcomed jolt back to the program left Mark feeling
confused. Actually, drunk was probably a better word. He wondered why on earth
Rev. Kit had quenched the move of God in the building.

Lord,
show me what to say next
.

And,
almost audibly, he heard the reply in his Spirit: Nothing.

Mark
whispered to Jonathan, “I’m finished preaching.” He turned toward the side exit
doors.

Jonathan
rushed to his side so that their conversation couldn’t be heard by the
congregation, which was settling back into their seats. “But, sir, there’s
twenty minutes left in the service.”

A
righteous anger rose up in Mark. “Tell Kit he can take it from here.”