Gift of Truth

by Robert Fleming

Genres: African American; African American Christian; Christian Fiction

Synopsis

New York Pastor Clint Winwood is still trying to recover from tragedy after losing his wife and young children in a murder/suicide when Reverend Hickory Peck invites him to rural Alabama. Reverend Peck is having troubles of his own. His associate pastor, Reverend Lamar Wilks, is outshining Peck by holding theatrical healing meetings and revivals. Peck feels his leadership and standing in the community are threatened. When a battle erupts between a group of poor black farmers and rich white planters, the stakes are raised even higher. Pastor Winwood witnesses nasty church intrigue and shocking racist incidents. The love he finds with a modest schoolteacher might be his only relief from all the turmoil. Only a holy quest for the truth can prevent bloodshed in the crisis that is brewing in this conservative, Deep South town.

Release date: February 1, 2014

Publisher: Urban Christian

Print pages: 288

Sample

For dust thou art, and unto dust shall thou return.

That was what the Bible said. But I wondered that maybe there was no beginning or end. Maybe it was this thing where a person started breathing in the middle of his days, in the middle of his life journey to the grave. Hopefully, all these hours, days, weeks, months, and years were helping me know myself better. All I realized about my life thus far was that it was about compromise, loss, and persistence.

What life meant, what time meant, what destiny meant, I didn’t know anything about any of it. But then, nobody knew.

A few months before my wife killed herself and the kids, she pressed a gun to my head and smiled like she knew a secret. I didn’t know there were two bullets in the chamber when she laughed and pulled the trigger twice. I peed on myself from the fear.

“Just fooling, baby. Just fooling.” She giggled.

Any person who comes close to mortality, close to dying, changes drastically. That day I made a deal with the Creator that if I survived this crazy woman, I would do something to make my life worthy of Him saving it. I meant that. I meant to keep my end of the bargain. I would cut all the fat and the waste out of my life, and trim my existence to the bare essentials.

“Why are you such a Goody Two-shoes?” my wife once asked. “Did you ever consider that you might be doing all this good stuff and die and find out it was all a waste? How would you deal with that?”

I had no answer for her. I had no answer for her until after she had committed her crime. I kept my dead wife and children in my heart, in a stainless-steel lockbox of memories in my soul, so they were alive still. There was no human death, much like Christ and his crucifixion.

After this last epiphany, I wanted to go into hiding, but something wouldn’t let me. I knew I had done the right thing. Nobody had to tell me that. It was important for me to cut myself off from all the church folks, remove myself from the rituals and practices that would trap me in the comfort of the holy community. The ruckus with the Dr. Smart scandal sparked up for a moment, blazed in the local media, and then it died when some loony tune tried to drive a car loaded with explosives into a college cafeteria.

Nobody could forgive Dr. Smart for stealing church funds to aid his family. Nobody, myself included, could excuse him for betraying the members of his congregation. He was a liar and a thief. However, I couldn’t bear a grudge against him for what he tried to make me do, to use my charms to get the rich widow to pour cash into his pockets.

Far from New York City, I rented a cottage that fall and attempted to wrap myself in a warm jacket of a sunnier outlook. Gratitude was not lost on me. I felt grateful for so many things. I counted my blessings as if I were a man on my last days. Terminally ill. I kept a diary during this time, a lesson that I learned from the Christian sage Thomas Merton, and reviewed its entries periodically. Rather than thinking about what was going wrong with my life, I realized there was more going right than I ever knew.

I learned not to rush about so much, to relax. One of the things I did was to walk into town, taking my time, going at a leisurely pace, with no deadline. On afternoons, I would fish or read or just sit in the high grass and nibble sandwiches and wash them down with ginger ale. It was a good life. There was something to be said about making time for yourself.

One of my cousins called me up there and asked me what I was doing. Was I getting bored with myself?

“No, I just cut everything off and vegetate,” I replied.

He told me Reverend Peck was trying to find me. “He sounded very hectic, real nervous,” my cousin said. “I didn’t tell him where you were. I haven’t told anybody. They were trying to pry it out of me, but I refused to tell them.”

“Good for you,” I said. “Wonder what he wanted.”

“Didn’t say.”

I stared at the flame, blue and mysterious, in the fireplace, in the dark, and said he could give him my number. “But nobody else. Understand me?”

“I got it. Nobody else.” His voice was firm. I knew he wouldn’t tell. My secret was safe with him.

“Did anybody else ask about me?” I asked him.

My cousin sighed. “If you mean that woman you were running around with, I think she’s forgotten you and gone on to somebody else. Women sometimes have very short attention spans.”

I was a little miffed. “I don’t believe you.”

“I saw her at church with some other fella, well dressed, hair all done up, really spiffy professional guy,” he said. “I don’t think she’s worried about you anymore. I imagine this guy has moved you right out of the picture.”

A painful moment of silence. I cleared my throat before talking again about the importance of Reverend Peck’s call to me at my hideaway.

After hanging up the phone, I wondered whether I had any more dreams or desires. When I was a young boy, I remembered, an old woman, a Creole seer, snatched my little hand and told me I possessed an old soul. Furthermore, I was probably a pagan, a heathen in another life. I had sinned against the elders, disobeyed the ancestors, and that taint, that curse, was still with me.

That didn’t make sense to me then. And it didn’t make sense now.

“Did God tell you how to see the future?” I asked her loudly as a crowd surrounded us. “Did you go to school for your magic?”

She waved her hand like she was shooing a fly. “Go on now.”

“Where did you get your training, ma’am?” I asked her at the top of my voice. Some of the people laughed at my question.

“I’m finished with you,” the old woman replied harshly. “You got all the answers I can give you. Go on now and let somebody else come forward.”

I was eight and very stubborn. “I just want to know how you know all these things. Did God teach you?”

Now the crowd was roaring with laughter and pointing at her like she was the faker they knew she was. The old woman offered me a handful of coins, and when I didn’t take them, she shoved me to the floor. A couple of spectators picked me up, brushed me off, and led me from the tent.

A woman put her hand on my shoulder and smiled. “Boy, you had her pegged. She couldn’t fool you. You’re a smart little guy.”

I grinned. I didn’t know if I was all that smart.

“Little fella, you saw right through her,” the man with her said, walking with me across the carnival grounds. “Are you here with your parents? They must be worried about you.”

I thanked them. “I live near here. I know my way home.”

Home. One thing Dr. Smart told me that was true. And he’d added that everyone wanted to find their home in this life. His version of home was a place of comfort, belonging, and purpose. Everybody arrived in this life with a purpose. That purpose gave meaning to our life.

“That’s a crock.” That was what my cousin said when I told him Dr. Smart’s beliefs about preordained purpose. My cousin didn’t believe any of this stuff. He didn’t believe in the afterlife. He didn’t believe in Christ. He didn’t believe in God or heaven. He didn’t believe in a meaning to this life.

“I think that’s why you drink,” I’d told him. “You must believe in something. Everything is here to serve a purpose. Everything.”

As I was thinking of my cousin’s worthless nature, the meaning and purpose of life, and Dr. Smart’s comment long ago on the significance of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, the phone rang in the hallway.

I stood there, looking out the window, while it continued to ring. The answering machine picked up the message. It was the urgent voice of Reverend Peck. Something was really getting under his skin.

As I watched the afternoon news on the ancient black-and-white Admiral television, the image on the screen was of two Filipino fishermen holding a long net between them, wading into foamy water with hundreds and hundreds of dead fish surrounding them.

I thought of a conversation I had with the postman, a gaunt white man who delivered mail. He had talked about our choice to deplete the earth and how we were reaping the consequences of our decisions. Greed and profits.

“You never saw the rich farmland in the country bake like it is now,” he’d said, handing me a bunch of letters. “We’re screwing things up. We got everything out of balance.”

I had taken the mail from him and smiled. “I guess so.”

“Look at how the oil companies messed up the water in the Gulf, down there off Louisiana and Florida,” he’d hollered over his shoulder. “That place’ll never be the same again.”

My steps took me right onto the porch and then back into the house just as the phone rang. I knew who it was right away. If Reverend Hickory Peck possessed any of the exceptional qualities of a man of God, he was quite punctual and prompt. My cousin’s call had triggered a quick response from him, and no doubt, he’d lay out the nature of the emergency. What was going on? Why did he need my help so urgently?

It was his voice, worn-out and quite stressed, that worried me. “Thank God I found you. I thought you had vanished from civilization. Nobody knew where you were. Literally nobody.”

My laugh carried less drama than his words. “Reverend Peck, I’m in the witness protection program. I’m hiding out.”

“Are you really?” He pretended to believe me.

“No, not really. What’s happening with you?”

I could hear his sharp intake of air into his tired lungs. He was thinking about how he would put the problem to me in such a way that I would not bolt or panic. I had no tendency to do either. The reverend had been a true, loyal friend throughout the Dr. Smart crisis, and I owed him big-time.

“I’m in trouble with the church and the congregation,” the reverend began. “While I was going around, trying to make spiritual connections to benefit the church, a snake slithered into our midst and is poisoning the members against me and the spiritual community that I’ve built.”

“Those are some serious charges, Reverend,” I said.

“Well, it’s true. Something is wrong with our tabernacle,” he replied. “We worked so hard to get this church strong and powerful in our tradition of faith. Now, with this new assistant, everything is going bad. The church is turning its back on God, turning its back on the holy scripture.”

“Are you sure?” I asked. He seemed very worked up about all of this.

His words came in a long string of emotion, desperate and needy. “My son, God was always in this place, a very holy place, a very blessed place, and that has all changed. The congregation has hardened their hearts. He has taken over their minds with this crazy talk.”

“Like what?” I was curious about what could scare him like this.

“God and a strong sense of faith were all our elders had when they built our church,” he said proudly. “They were God-sent people who worked hard, who worshipped hard, who praised the Lord hard. That community there in Alabama was one big family. Going to church and praising the Lord was in their blood. In fact, going to worship was sometimes the only time we all got together. Everything was tied up with the church.”

“A lot of places used to be like that in our communities,” I suggested. “Now some of that is going away, fading.”

I heard the memories wash over him as he recalled the golden ole-timey moments when the neighbors were neighborly and didn’t act like the way they did now. Now the folks acted real cold and apart from everything, remote from the warm feeling of community. The community of yesterday could be counted on to do the right thing. He gave a chuckle like he was reliving it right that instant.

“I used to give supplies to poor families there in the area, cheese, cornmeal, rice, flour, and sugar,” he said, remembering. “Big bags, huge bags of it. Yes sir, we’d ride through the fields, through the neighboring towns and villages in flatbed trucks and give the stuff out. The folks were grateful to get it. I’d be right out there, with my overalls and big-brim hat and work gloves. Hot as heck out in the sun. Sweating like a field hand, tossing bags off the truck.”

There was a fly in the ointment. Who was he? I asked him about the snake who slithered into the church, among the pews.

“This is what is troublesome,” he said, deepening his voice to add emphasis. “We hired this Negro from up North, around Boston way. Somebody said he went to school at Union Theological Seminary in New York City, worked as a counselor for the city’s corrections department, taking on some of the hardest cases on Rikers Island, and was a spokesman for the state representative. Good credentials.”

“What is the problem, Reverend?”

“The guy, this Lamar Wilks, has got an agenda that is counter to the traditional ways of our church,” he said with a snarl. “The deacon board hired him as an interim pastor because I was going off in all directions, trying to get funding and contacts to make our church stronger. He’s got them all hoodwinked.”

“Do you still have the support of most of the members?” I asked.

He swallowed again. “Some are for me. Some are not. But most people are supporting me, but that’s dwindling. The young man’s power is growing. He talks about everything but the Bible itself. He talks a lot about certain political and social issues to uneducated members, who really don’t understand him. This junk has nothing to do with the saving of souls.”

“And you say his influence is growing?”

The reverend snorted harshly. “He uses big, ten-dollar words. That sways the young folks every time. But you can see most of them are puzzled by him.”

“Oh, really?” I was stunned he was so threatened by this Wilks.

“We wrote a blueprint for the church, where it was going, where it was leading the community,” he said. “He’s got white folks involved with the church for the first time. One of his teams got some crackers with money from Atlanta, Charlotte, Winston-Salem, and Raleigh. White money is just pouring into the place.”

I wanted a cigarette so bad. “It sounds like the boy has juice.”

The reverend wasn’t buying it. “A lot of the old-timers are nervous about getting all these white folks mixed into our business. They think these crackers gon’ to turn on this Wilks fella. They think some of his trickeration gon’ to put poor white folks and poor black folks at each other’s throats.”

“What do you think he’s up to?” I quizzed him.

“Heck if I know,” he said, adamant. “But I know he’s up to no good. There’s something evil about him. The devil is in him, sho’ ’nuff.”

The American South. Dixie. I’d always got scared when I thought too much about it. We, as a family, had taken two trips down there, one to Memphis and another to Biloxi, Mississippi. The Biloxi trip was the one that had frightened me. Any colored boy knew what Mississippi represented: race hate, lynching, the Klan, the eyes lowered when a white person passed, and stupid Jim Crow laws. It was a little better now.

He laughed slightly. “One of the Northern newspapers interviewed him when he first came down here, and the members thought he was a big shot. I always thought he paid for the publicity. There was something about him belonging to some committee that spearheaded the rebuilding campaign of fifty black churches that had been burned during the mid-1990s. You’d have thought he was a Rockefeller or a Roosevelt or somebody with the way he carried on. He was an instant celebrity.”

“So he has a big head, Reverend?”

He laughed again, a mocking laugh. “The biggest.”

I scratched my head. “I don’t know what he’s up to.”

“Something no-good.”

I made my voice pleasant. “How are you holding up?”

“Clint, I feel all right. But I’m on my knees every night concerning him, carrying his name to the Lord. If Mr. Wilks is up to devilment, I want to be ready for it. Prayer can prepare you for anything.”

Yes, prayer could make a big difference. There was no situation that existed in life that wasn’t covered in the Good Book.

The reverend was turning the pages in his Bible, preparing to read me some of the verses with which he was arming himself. Something in the Holy Word about wickedness, something in there about evil.

“When I get a chill running along my spine, I read a part of Psalm thirty-seven, and it subdues the dark forces,” he revealed. “Do you know the passage that I’m talking about?”

I told him yes. It was written by David, the same David who hurled a rock at the temple of the mighty Goliath. The Psalms were some of the finest poetry in the Bible, capable of soothing a troubled spirit.

He started reading the first verse. “Fret not thyself because of evildoers, neither be thou envious against the workers of iniquity.”

His voice was perfect for reading scripture, mellow and easy on the ears. He sounded like one of those silky-voiced announcers on an R & B radio station.

“For they shall soon be cut down like the grass, and wither as the green herb,” the reverend continued. “The wicked plotteth against the just, and gnasheth upon him with his teeth.” The reverend was starting to get revved up.

“Amen, brother.”

Reverend Peck went on. “The Lord laughs at him, for He sees his day is coming.”

“Teach, brother. Teach!” I was egging him on. He needed to get it out of his system. The nasty taste of insult and humiliation.

He was reaching his crescendo, his apex of emotion. “Fret not thyself because of him who prospereth in his way, because of the man who bringeth wicked devices to pass.”

“I love the Psalms,” I commented to him.

“But this is the kicker in the scripture,” Reverend Peck said in an exulted voice. “This is where God gives a remedy. This is where He teaches wisdom to the faithful.”

“What is that?” I knew that part of the Psalms well. I just wanted him to read it. I wanted him to get emotional relief from the passage.

The reverend made his speech quiet and important. “Cease from anger, and forsake wrath: fret not thyself in any wise to do evil.”

We both laughed on that solemn note.

He waited for me to finish sniggering, and then he asked the question I knew was in his heart. It was a question, a request that I knew I must obey.

“So, my son, when are you coming here?” he asked very seriously. “I need your help. I cannot do this by myself.”

Solitude. A flock of starlings and crows circled above the grove of elm, oak, and sycamore trees surrounding the small house. Needing a break from the all-consuming silence, I walked into the woods, feeling the brisk breeze, my steps crushing the dried leaves of red, copper, and gold. That crunching sound temporarily drowned out my romance with silence and solitude, a welcome moment away from reading from my Bible, dipping into my favorite articles from a stacks of books and magazines.

As I strolled through the beauty of nature, I whispered my prayers to let the Lord guide me through my return to the city. When I came here, I was suffering from nervous exhaustion, worn out from the betrayal of the Smart scandal and the smashing of everything I knew.

Once I had my fill of the wilderness, I returned home and thought about how cold and snowy this place would be with the onset of winter, the roads frozen and icy. I had to make up my mind about whether I would stay here when the frost arrived or risk the madness of city life and get back in the rut of the religious routine.

The phone rang as I saw a deer run across the field near my window. Do I really need to answer the reverend’s call? Do I want anything to jar me out of my serenity?

“Hello, hello,” I said before the person spoke up.

It was Orville, my cousin, the only link to civilization. “Hey, Clint. Did he call? I told him what you said. Did he call you?”

“Yes, he did, but what he was asking me . . . well . . .” I was thinking about Reverend Peck’s request and the urgency of his plea to come down there and sort things out.

“What did the reverend ask you?” my cousin asked.

I sighed. “He wants me to come to Alabama. He’s got some trouble with his church, and he wants to get to the bottom of it. It sounded like he was desperate, as if something was gnawing away at him.”

“Are you going to go down there?” He was prying.

“I don’t know.” That was the truth. I still hadn’t decided yet.

“Well, this isn’t the reason for my call,” my cousin said with that curious tone he sometimes reserved for serious business. “I didn’t want to call you with this bad news. You’ve got enough going on without worrying about something else.”

“What is it?” I could take anything.

“Clint, I know how much you love Aunt Spivey,” he began with. . .