Sara wills her face to remain calm. She wills her stomach to as well, but the urge to vomit steadily rises when she sees her father’s face as he shakes each hand, kisses each cheek, laughs like he is human, frowns like he is human. When he is not, he is the thing she must escape. Violet and Naomi will help her do this after Revival.
Ushers in crisply pressed burgundy-and-pink uniforms with snow-white-gloved hands and shining gold pins on lapels guide visitors and members alike to seats, quickly and efficiently. Down my three aisles on the main floor, each row can easily seat ten people, or for those who like more room, eight. Today, ushers try to seat ten to each row. Feet press into carpet and it cushions the weight on my floors. Reverend Saul wants as many bodies as can fit. “Pack them in,” he orders. “All God’s children need to be here for this occasion!” So, they place worshipers where they can as if it’s their sole duty and one in which they take tremendous pride.
Reverend Saul King sits, a ruler amid the congregants in front of him on the floor and above him in the balcony. A midnight-black robe, complete with hand-stitched bright gold crosses flank his right and left sides. Two gold rings adorn his left hand and a pinkie ring with diamonds ornaments his right.
“Passa just looks so regal up there. Makes me proud I’m here. Got the best representin’ us tonight,” someone says from behind Sara. The lazy drawl of the word Passa instead of crisp enunciation of Pastor reminds Sara most of the older members are barely a decade or two removed from the South, from Florida and Mississippi and New Orleans, from Tennessee, where she’ll find herself soon.
The Best. The church member’s words rollick across her mind as Sara claps to the music on this second night of celebration and redemption. Revival.
Under a dozen old robes, a turquoise suitcase is hidden in the back of the choir room closet. It holds a few dresses, pants, tops and shoes. Fifty dollars remains folded in Sara’s purse. She places none of the money into the fake brass collection plate as it glides past her and she finds within herself the faintest glimmer of a smile.
Naomi passes Sara a scrap of paper. Carefully, unfolding it she sees the words scribbled in Violet’s barely legible handwriting: “10:30, 42nd & State.”
Glancing at Violet, she nods. Her friends are willing to do what few others, probably no others, would do for her and for this Sara is grateful. Clutching that piece of paper is like holding a bit of sunlight, some form of hope Sara can carry in the palm of her hand, and at that moment, she’s humbled by Violet and Naomi, her best friends, her sisters. There is love. There is also jealousy and low tides of animosity, but mostly love because what is love without a little hate?
Naomi whispers in Sara’s ear, but the music and praises of the people nearby make it almost impossible to hear. Sara presses her body closer, her left ear almost touching Naomi’s lips. “Fake like you’re sick. Violet’s gonna tell her parents you’re going home, that she’ll take you. We’ll all meet and get you out.”
Sara nods her head in agreement. Naomi takes her hand and squeezes, a tentative half smile ending the conversation. After this service of celebration, Sara will leave on a bus to Tennessee, and she hopes to never see King Saul again.
Hands clap on beat. Tambourines keep tempo. Hymnals stay tucked in the backs of my pews for these songs aren’t ones written down. These are the songs passed down from the elders and from their elders before them. The organ and piano find their root in the melodies of old spirituals, words whose origin isn’t always clear, but the undertone of suffering is, and in this there is something sacred and ancient and timeless. A people, especially ones whose trajectory is set and reset by those in power, a people trying to break patterns of injustice through votes and protests, through marches and sit-ins, a people like this knows about suffering. Blacks in America are the modern-day Children of Israel. They walk through a seemingly endless desert where the sun beats down at its highest point in the sky.
Cool night air dissipates among the crowded bodies and heavy perfume. The penitent line up in front of the pulpit for a touch from the appointed one, from King Saul.
Coming down the stage, King Saul chooses a woman from the shuddering crowd of sinners, one who isn’t a member of his church, but attends a church on the West Side of the city. “Sista, sista, tell me why you’re here tonight?”
The young lady King Saul singles out is barely twenty, a round face, the color of melted chocolate. “My momma’s sick. Doctor said she ain’t got much time. She’s down in Georgia and I can’t get to her.”
Saul shakes his head, putting his arm around the girl’s shoulders. Sara shudders.
“What’s your name, child?”
“Hattie. My name’s Hattie Brown.”
“Well, Hattie, we gonna pray in Jesus’s name! Lord, we come to you bended knee and body bowed on behalf of dear Sister Hattie Brown and her mother...”
The deacons, like a flock of finely tailored birds, place their hands on King Saul’s shoulders, the church nurses dressed in white surround Hattie Brown and put their hands on her shoulders, they steady her in case she is overcome with the Holy Spirit. Each group imbues whatever goodwill or faith they can muster; they in earnest pray for Hattie, for her mother, pray their prayers aren’t superficial wishes, but instead powerful commands. Some of them imagine Hattie’s mother arising from her hospital bed at that very moment, healed from whatever ailment currently afflicts her body.
Tears soak Hattie’s face as King Saul bellows out to the Lord. Many in the congregation rise to their feet, yell out: “Help her, Lord!”
“Heal her, Jesus!”
“We bind Satan!”
In all directions, a rush of voices. Bodies sway from side to side, in communion, in plea to God, most never knowing if their prayers will be answered. There is freedom in their cries, there is desire for alignment with a force larger than them. There is oneness in these moments, however temporal they may be, and I am filled with something pure and radiant.
Could this be the presence of God?
Makeshift fans born from folded paper, attempt to circulate the heavy air in my balcony. Children snore softly in laps while their parents look up and over to the congregation below. Their bodies, hardened by manual labor and persistent indifference, are tucked up and away from others with slightly more money and more prestige. The grocery store owner, the elementary schoolteacher, those who could afford the celluloid fans with hand-painted decorations of the Bible or Christ’s crucifixion, they perch in the plush pews on the floor, closer to the preacher, closer to salvation. But words spoken can rise, can climb and find ears up here just the same as on the floor.
Reverend Saul King steps to the pulpit from the altar, especially joyous as he knows the count from the two offerings collected thus far. After that performance, where the people felt as if the Lord himself touched them, he’ll have one more offering right before the Benediction, the prayer and dismissal. A nice night indeed he reckons. He can soothe whatever ails their troubled souls. He’s good with words. He’s good with people, most of them. He’s good at everything. That’s why a few congregants are jealous of him, he tells himself. It’s why they’ll do anything, any-damn-thing, to steal away what he’s worked so hard for. Like Assistant Pastor Andrew Morrison, Violet’s father, who barely conceals his envy behind a flat voice and tepid grins and weak handshakes. Those people aren’t meant to lead, not like him, he believes. This church, the trusting faces he brought through the door, the money in the collection plate are his! His alone! God help anyone who’d try to take it away!
He’ll revel in his victory, in his belief of wholeness. He’ll speak of Jesus on the cross and get each congregant to see themselves. He’ll get them to see him as holy as God, as righteous, damn near as perfect! He’s good at that.
Looking out at the crowd, he sees Sara is smiling. He swears she is, and this makes King Saul happy. There is no one to question his power, nothing to usurp his rule, over this church and his home he shall reign forever. And ever.
Amen!