Three
Shaking the hands of several of the deacons on his way to his seat, Neil was glad to have been able to navigate through Atlanta’s uncommonly heavy Sunday morning traffic and arrive at church before the start of service. The time-consuming yard work that he’d tackled yesterday contributed to a level of fatigue that resulted in an early bedtime last night. Neil couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept so soundly. There was lingering soreness in his thighs that, no doubt, resulted from the heavy bags of fertilizer he’d carried from his garage to his yard while working to put the finishing touches on planting hedges that complemented the base of his porch. The finished product looked good, but his body had paid a high price.
Kingdom Builders Christian Center, identified by most as KBCC, had a membership of just over twelve hundred. In no way was it the largest church in metropolitan Atlanta, but it was one of the most esteemed. It was also one of the fastest growing. Its membership today was double what it had been five years ago. The growth spurt had forced KBCC to go through a construction reformation, widening its sanctuary to accommodate the demand. By the looks of today’s crowd, it wouldn’t be long before they’d be doing it all over again.
Kingdom Builders Christian Center was a part of the New Hope Fellowship of Churches where the nationally known and highly respected Reverend B. T. Tides served as overseer. For more than thirty years, KBCC was pastored by its founder, Dr. Charles Loather Sr. When the founding pastor died four years ago, attendance at the funeral service was expected to be so great that the ceremony had to be held at the Georgia World Congress Center to accommodate. When Dr. Loather died, there was never a question of who would fill the vacated pulpit chair. There was no man of God better equipped to carry on Dr. Charles Loather Sr.’s vision than his son, Charles Jr.
Charles Loather Jr. was young, but wise beyond his years. He knew that despite his education and spiritual insight, he needed to bring the growing congregation under more experienced covering. And connecting it to Reverend Tides and the New Hope Fellowship of Churches was quite possibly the smartest move the young pastor could have made. The association had been a good one, and Reverend Tides had passed along much wisdom to the son of Dr. Loather. The changing of the guard was given much of the credit for the church’s expansion.
Neil took particular pleasure in seeing the younger Charles Loather walk through the side entrance to take his seat on the elevated platform of KBCC. Neil had been acquainted with Pastor Charles Loather Jr. since the days he was simply known as CJ. The cleric’s closest friends still referred to him as such in spite of his eminent ministerial ranking at the church. Prior to his ecclesiastical ordination, CJ had served many years as a police detective in metropolitan Atlanta’s DeKalb County, which was the district in which he still resided. But four years ago, the law enforcer made a choice to lay aside his badge to take up his mantle as full-time pastor of Kingdom Builders Christian Center, where he had served as youth pastor for ten years prior.
As undergrads at the same university, Neil and CJ became fast friends and had seen each other through some of the roughest times of their lives: for CJ, the death of both his parents, and for Neil, the death of his brother.
“We have come into this house to gather in His name and worship Him. . . .”
The eight-member praise team’s perfectly blended harmony drew Neil’s attention away from his pastor and friend. Morning worship had begun, and Neil found himself standing and swaying in sync to the music of the Hammond organ and slowly forgetting about the tenderness of his joints from yesterday’s chores.
Tuning out the off-key singing of the elderly man who sat beside him wasn’t quite as simple. At ninety, Homer Burgess was the church’s oldest deacon by far. Some days he was sane, and others, he bordered senile. But even on his most feeble days, Deacon Burgess remembered all the words to any song that the praise team rendered. And on no day did he ever sing on key. Because of it, all of the other brothers who occupied the specified section tried to arrive as early as possible to avoid being the unfortunate one to have to settle for the seat directly beside the old man. Today’s traffic woes had assigned the space to Neil, and his poor ears were burning with agony.
Praise dancers swarmed the front of the church, adding beauty and strength to the already significant lyrics of each song that was rendered. It helped to take Neil’s attention off of the tone deaf deacon and meditate on the Spirit. For a while, he felt as if the entire sanctuary were being occupied by an overflow of anointing that would burst the cathedral at its seams. Every church that was a part of the New Hope Fellowship of Churches was known for radical worship, so Sunday morning services at KBCC were always uplifting. But there seemed to be something extraordinary about today. Ultimately, when the lengthy praise fest ended, the microphone was relinquished to CJ to bring forth the Word of God for the hour.
“When God is in the building, the sin sick are healed. . . .”
As soon as the pastor began belting out the song that was made popular by The Anointed Pace Sisters, it brought the praise team back to the microphones and the crowd back to its feet. He wasn’t nearly as unskilled as Deacon Burgess, but singing had never been CJ’s strong point, and it was rare that he ever even made an attempt at the talent.
“Come on up here and help me, Deacon Taylor.”
Neil’s eyes bulged at the sound of his name being broadcast through the church speakers, and he took a quick look around like there might possibly be someone else in the midst who shared his name. Surely CJ wasn’t beckoning him.
Unlike CJ, singing was a forte for Neil, but it was a gift he’d chosen to shelve a long time ago . . . and CJ knew that. Neil’s career was educating and mentoring children, nothing more and nothing less. But years ago, it was CJ’s father who had always declared that Neil’s calling was to sing.
“Sing your way into victory, boy!” he’d often yell from the pulpit when Neil took the mic.
Neil’s gift for singing was discovered when he was still a child, around five years old, growing up on a deep-country farm. He and his older brother, Dwayne, would sing together while they and the rest of their family worked in the fields. For the boys, it helped lessen the heat of the sun and made the time pass quicker. But for others who were working alongside them, it was pure, unadulterated joy.
Soon after Neil graduated from high school, his family moved to Atlanta and quickly found a spiritual home at Kingdom Builders Christian Center. When they were young adults attending church with their mother, the elder Dr. Charles Loather would call on the brothers to carry out praise and worship, and sometimes, to lead the choir in songs that neither Neil nor Dwayne had ever rehearsed. Because the boys delivered with rarely ever a blunder, Dr. Loather said it was a sign of God’s calling. Even after Dwayne’s untimely death, Dr. Loather would request Neil’s vocal assistance. But his compliance was always with much resentment.
After Dr. Loather was laid to rest, Neil asked CJ not to resume the tradition. CJ fought Neil on his decision, but ultimately, as an act of compassion, CJ gave his word. Neil’s rich, raspy voice and his energetic delivery gave him the unspoken edge of favorite between him and his brother. And when Neil discontinued his frequent appearances, the church members sulked like spoiled children. But CJ understood more than most. He knew his friend didn’t enjoy singing as much as he once had back in the days when Dwayne would stand by his side and harmonize.
Today, however, either someone had requested him, or the pastor must have felt a special leading from the Holy Spirit. If it were CJ’s doing, Neil made a mental note to reprimand him for defying his wishes. And if it were the leading of the Holy Spirit . . . well, Neil didn’t like that any better. Either way, he wasn’t pleased with the open bid, and his narrowed eyes did their best to relay that message to his pastor and friend.
“Sing, Brother Taylor, sing!”
Without looking around, Neil knew that the loud coaxing came from his very own assistant, Margaret Dasher. She was easily his biggest fan when it came to just about anything, and he wondered if she were the perpetrator behind the request for him to sing today. When CJ ignored his silent protest and summoned him for the second time, Neil clenched and unclenched his jaws, then maneuvered his way past the other deacons and toward the front of the church, where the pastor met him at the foot of the pulpit with the microphone in hand. Neil took the mic, but not before giving CJ his best I’ll-get-you-for-this-later look.
“When God Is In The Building” had at one time been one of Neil’s favorite songs, but it had been so long since he had heard it that while his mouth belted out the tune, his mind juggled to recall the proper words. If any of the original lyrics were missed or sung out of sequence, the audience never made the detection. Neil had come to the front fully determined to sing one chorus just to show obedience to leadership, and then sit down. But God wouldn’t allow it.
The tempo of the early 1990s anthem was slow, but the more Neil sang it, the more the ushers were forced to evacuate their stations and attend to congregants who had been overcome by the moving of the Holy Spirit. Neil had started out standing flat-footed on the floor at the base of the speaker’s stand, directly in the middle of the church. By the time the song was over, he was leaning against the organ situated on the right end of the pulpit. Even Neil didn’t understand how he had climbed the steps to the platform without cringing from painful soreness.
For a while, even after Neil ended the song, it was Sunday morning pandemonium.
“Sit down, sit down, sit down,” CJ instructed the crowd, motioning with his hands as Neil returned the microphone to him. “Y’all sit down before y’all take up all my preaching time.”
Although the charge was given, it was no surprise when few, if any, of the church members complied. The musicians had stopped the music, but people were still in active worship, walking the floor, leaping for joy, and raising their voices in praise and thanksgiving.
As Neil stood at his seat with his arms lifted in adulation, he felt hairs standing at attention beneath the sleeves of his shirt. It had been some time since God’s hand had moved in the manner that it did today. But then again, it had been some time since Deacon Neil Taylor had sung.
For a long while, CJ stood in silence and allowed the voices of the people to fill the edifice. There was no music or singing, only sounds of worship that came from the lips of those who were allowing God to touch them. Moments turned into minutes, and there were no signs that the praises would end any time soon.
“Look around you, people of God,” CJ finally said. “See Mother Turner over there? See Sister Marissa in the back? See this young man kneeling at the altar? See the choir members that have been slain under the anointing? That’s what happens when God is in the building!”
Voices from the audience that had already been elevated got even louder. The noise level inside of KBCC was comparable to that of a basketball game wherein the home team was down by one point and had the last possession of the ball. CJ had approached the speaker’s stand with an open Bible, ready to start the day’s message, but with one motion of his hand, he reached forward and closed it, having not even taken his text.
Holding the cordless microphone in his hand, he walked back and forth on the platform, at first saying nothing. Then, coming to a stop and facing his audience, CJ declared, “I hope y’all are getting what you need from the Lord, ’cause God said that’s the Word for today, saints. He’s in the building. He’s in the building. He’s in the building. Do y’all hear what I’m saying? Do you feel His presence? He’s in the building!”
CJ stepped down from the podium, holding the microphone in one hand and grabbing a portion of his clerical robe in the other so that he wouldn’t step on the hem. Walking the floor, he arbitrarily touched the foreheads of several worshippers, all the while speaking into the microphone. “You’re gonna leave here with a new purpose that’s waiting to be fulfilled. You know why? Because God is in the building, and He’s gonna show you what He wants you to do. You’re gonna leave here with a new mind that’s not easily confused. You know why? Because God is in the building, and He’s gonna change your way of thinking. You’re gonna leave here with a new heart that loves. You know why? Because God is in the building, and He’s gonna remake your heart from the inside out!”
With that last statement, he touched Neil’s head, suddenly rendering him weak and overcome by a phenomenon that he could not ascertain. Neil sank onto the bench that he’d been standing in front of and wept in his hands. With each passing moment, the tears gained momentum. He couldn’t recollect the last time he’d sobbed on this level. Maybe it was at the funeral of his brother, who had died more than fifteen years ago. When Neil cried at Dwayne’s burial, he recalled feeling as though he was rejoicing and grieving all at the same time. Back then, he understood why. He was sad that his brother was gone and that his mother’s heart was broken, but he was joyful to know beyond doubt that Dwayne had died happy and knowing Christ.
Today he had no idea why he was experiencing that same mixture of incalculable emotions. All he knew was that he wanted the tears to stop, but he wasn’t in control.
“You know why?” CJ’s voice echoed in a timely manner that sounded like he was challenging Neil’s thoughts from somewhere in the distance as he continued to pace the floor. “Because God is in the building, and your life is never gonna be the same again!”