C H A P T E R • 40
I had to stand at the back of the church up the hill and wait for the processional to enter. I watched the good sisters turn to follow the right reverend as though he was the light.
The man who will always be the church’s second in command led the service, while Reverend Garrison sat to the side of the pulpit, which had been his father’s before it was his. But when it came time to preach, he’s the one who got up. I took out my notebook, making one part of the rustling sounds of the church settling in to hear him.
Gary was acknowledging the elected officials, sports figures and entertainers who had shown up. He also asked visitors to stand and asked those who were visiting from foreign countries to stand again. There was a horde of them; most came in the long buses parked on the wide street or the narrow avenue outside.
“The offspring of slave-holders are expecting us to hold a funeral today for our bank. They know how we love to sing songs about home-going. I preached such a sermon yesterday for our good sister Cecelia Miller, and I’ll preach such a one Wednesday for our good brother, Clarence Jackson. Clarence was one of the talented young people who we have been trying to rescue from the war that’s going on out there. We can’t afford to lose any more of our future.”
“This community is too familiar with the abomination of parents burying their children. Marjorie and Ephraim Jackson are here and Elizabeth Miller is here. Be sure to show them your love. But today, I’ve got something for the progeny of slavers. I’ve got a sermon about self-sufficiency and a message about fight-back.”
“We call on everyone of goodwill to provide financial and heart support in this effort to save our bank, our Independence National Bank. At this time, in this moment, we have come together and will resurrect the dream of First’s founders who solicited early deposits door to door. Our bank has risen from the ashes more than once.”
He looked strong, in charge, a knight well-suited to fighting for our good cause. The chinks in his armor didn’t matter in the fortress of his church.
“We must now also admit we have taken our bank for granted. But at this time, I remind you, urge you, no entreat and provoke you, to support her, to call and write and fax Washington DC. Let the people in government know this community is behind its bank and we demand they give us time to bring her back. The fax numbers and phone numbers are on the lists we will pass out as you leave the church.”
He waved at the ushers at the top of the aisles.
“We only have one more day. Make sure to sign the petitions and take some with you and get them signed and bring them back by early tomorrow afternoon. We will get them to our Congressman’s office to make our demands in the name of our congregation and our community.”
On this Sunday, Gary’s church was the place to be, and the press was broadening his audience in the packed church beyond the congregation and the tourists.
Then he yanked me back.
“Before we close, I want to say the name of one of our long-time heroes, Charles Washington. Charlie told the truth and made things happen. His daughter Pearl is here. She is doing the work of her father. Give her some love.”
At the end of the service, I walked through people I knew and people I didn’t, making connections, hugging and hand-holding.
At the back of the church, I could see the reverend through the wooden doors just outside his inner sanctum. I joined a hodge-podge of people, the men and women of the church—deacons and deaconesses, secretaries and Christian congregants.
I told the secretary I’d like to see the reverend for a moment and I showed her my expired Harlem Journal press pass. She didn’t look at it.
“He’ll be right with you, Pearl Washington. Come with me.”