Church Folk Read online

  Church Folk

  Church Folk

  Michele Andrea Bowen

  West Bloomfield, Michigan

  WARNER BOOKS

  A Time Warner Company

  Copyright © 2001 by Michele Andrea Bowen

  All rights reserved.

  Warner Books, Inc., Hachette Book Group, 237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017

  For information on Time Warner Trade Publishing's online program, visit

  www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  First eBook Edition: June 2001

  The “Warner Books” name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  ISBN: 978-0-7595-2464-4

  This book is dedicated to my mother, Minnie Bowen and in memory of my father, Wadell Bowen. My parents didn't have a lot of money but they were rich in spirit, love, and wisdom, just like the folks in Church Folk.

  Contents

  Part 1

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Part 2

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Part 3

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Acknowledgments

  WHEW! THIS HAS BEEN A LONG JOURNEY—A blessed one but a long journey nonetheless. This novel started out as a dream six years ago, with me sharing my hopes and scribbles with my friends and family, heart wide open, faith activated, and prayers going up to have the courage to write it, to be blessed with the story, to find an agent and get Church Folk to this point.

  So many people have contributed to my being able to write this book through their prayers, words and notes of encouragement, and patience when I started talking about Essie and Theophilus 'nem like they were real folks sitting right in the kitchen with us. I know I will not be able to include everybody who blessed me with their love and support for this book but I will try to name a few. So here is my thank you note.

  I want to start out by thanking a man named Mr. G. C.

  "Pete" Hendricks, who wrote a book called The Second War and taught a writing workshop in 1995 for the North Carolina Writers' Network for beginning novelists. Church Folk was in its very early stages and Mr. Hendricks pulled me aside and told me that this project was a real novel and that I should pursue it to the end. And then there is Marita Golden, who took me on as a student and told me that I was definitely writing a novel, nurturing me at a time when I really benefitted from encouragement from a seasoned and well-respected author. Thank you, Marita.

  Professor Daryl Dance for including a very early excerpt of Church Folk in your highly respected anthology, Honey Hush! You have been such a wonderful supporter. David Bradley, author of The Chaneysville Incident—my workshop teacher for the Hurston/Wright Foundation's Summer Writers' Workshop in July 1996. Ron James and his wife, Claudette. Ron, you were so kind and read every last page of Church Folk, discussing the characters with me, cheering me on when I felt discouraged, reading excerpts to Claudette, who laughed at us and said, "You all talk about them like they real people." My loving friends in Richmond, Virginia, and Durham, North Carolina. My girls, who call themselves club members on my behalf—yawl know who yawl are.

  To the First Ladies and Ministers who have graced my path and taught me what it was like to be the First Lady, the Pastor, a Minister, and the Minister's wife. A special thank-you to my aunt, First Lady Bessie Nelson, and my uncle, Bishop James D. Nelson, Sr., at Greater Bethlehem Temple Apostolic Church in Baltimore, Maryland.

  To my family and St. Louis folks. Thank you for believing in me. And thanks to my family and friends who laughed when they heard I was writing a book and said, "Well, she always made us read her stories when we were little." To my home church, Washington Metropolitan African Methodist Episcopal Zion Church in St. Louis, Missouri—so much learned and blessed in so many ways when I was growing up there.

  To my two beautiful daughters, Laura and Janina. My sweet babies have lived this novel for a big portion of their lives. Laura, you have cheered Mommy on and have been proud of me since you knew about the book and you helped me so much. And Janina, you sat in Mommy's lap, drinking from your bottle, playing writing and editing, while I worked. Thank you Pookiey and Nee Nee.

  To my mother, Minnie Bowen, who told me to write my stories on paper when I was little and was prone to telling these long and detailed dreams and stories. My grandmother Anniebelle Bowen, who didn't live to see this book. But I know you would have liked it. My grandmother Jeffie Hicks, who always listened to my dreams, no matter how outrageous and funny. To my father, Wadell Bowen. Daddy, I sure do wish you were still here. It would be wonderful to hear your "hey now" when you read Church Folk and then took it around to show to your friends.

  Thank you Elisa Petrini, my editor for Walk Worthy Press. I learned a lot from you and really appreciate your kindness, humor, and sensitivity.

  And last, but not least, thank you Denise Stinson. Thank you for taking Church Folk on when it was still in its 'infancy.' Thank you for being patient with me through my life's challenges, like having a baby in the midst of rewriting an earlier draft, and for making me a member of the Walk Worthy Press family. Like I once told you, if you were a singer and Aretha Franklin were a publisher and literary agent, chile, yawl would be the same person!

  Michele Andrea Bowen, January 3, 2001

  P.S. Thank You, Lord!! Thank You. Thank You.

  Church Folk

  Prologue 1960

  AT THE AGE OF TWENTY-NINE, THE REVEREND Theophilus Henry Simmons had developed one unshakable conviction about God—that He loved women. If He didn't love women, how could He have created such a magnificent creature as a fine, deep, dark chocolate woman who looked real good in pinks and oranges, had big, sexy legs, and a stardust twinkle in her smile—the kind of exquisite Negro woman who compelled the Universe to praise every swing of her large, shapely hips?

  But there was a time during his senior year at Blackwell College, before he entered The Interdenominational Theological Seminary in Atlanta to study for the ministry, when he had mistaken God's love of women as an excuse to become entangled with one Glodean Benson. Being a young, single, good-looking Negro man, the kind many a Negro woman wanted to make her own, he had constant opportunities to get in trouble but managed to fight off that particular temptation—until Glodean. Her brand of loving was intoxicating but deadly, like cheap corn liquor that numbs your brain before you have the sense to figure out it's no good for you. Then when you finally let it go, its bitter aftertaste lingers, along with the burning in your stomach and the aching in your head.

  When Theophilus finally told her, plain and simple, "I'm leaving you, Glodean," she blinked back her tears, looked at him like he was crazy, and smiled as she said: "You poor man—walking around thinking I wanted you just for you. Just what is it you thought you could offer me—unless and if you ever do become a reverend—besides the seat in the front pew of your church reserved for the First Lady?"

  Those words sliced through him right down t
o the bone, but she wasn't through: "And now that you're off to the seminary, Mr. Hope-to-Be-Reverend, believin' you're too high and mighty for Miss Glodean, don't think I can be dismissed like some silly little shouting churchwoman, shakin' all up in your face. I'm going to stick to you, 'Re-ve-rend'—and some day, some way, I'm going to get you . . ."

  Theophilus couldn't imagine what she could do to him. But he was already so ashamed of what he had done, it didn't matter. What did matter were her words, which crushed him so until he thought he heard his heart shatter from the impact of them on his spirit.

  He knew he was wrong to go with Glodean—"a gal with somethin' in her drawers that snapped," as he once heard an old man say about women like her. It was his curiosity about that "snappin' " that caused him to put Glodean's feelings, his reputation, and his relationship with God in jeopardy. He repented to God, and he knew God had forgiven him—but it was the kind of mistake that he never dreamed would dog him long after the affair ended. Glodean's words and his sense of remorse haunted him, even in his sleep, making him toss and turn, only to wake up tired and hurting in body and soul.

  It was only the rigorous demands of his seminary training, along with a lot of prayer and meditation on God's word, that eased the disappointment he felt with himself. Then, to his dismay, just before his final ordination, he heard that Glodean was working in Atlanta, where she had family. She began turning up at seminary social functions, and with no more than a look she tormented him, filling him with fear and—he had to admit it—a still-glowing spark of his old desire. He managed to fend her off, but the war between his resentment at Glodean's obsession over him and those sparks she could still ignite, was an agony that made him feel like he was losing his mind.

  And now, as graduation day approached, he had been assigned to take over the pastorship of Greater Hope Gospel United Church in Memphis, where Glodean and all of her family had gone for years.

  Reverend Murcheson James, the pastor of Mount Nebo Gospel United Church in Charleston, Mississippi, raced over to Atlanta when Theophilus found out about his assignment and then got up enough courage to place a desperate call to his friend and mentor, asking for help with his dilemma. Rev. James knew Glodean's family—her aunt, Willie Mae Clayton, owned a big-time funeral home chain based in Memphis, with branches throughout the South—and he couldn't even fathom how this boy had gotten caught up with the likes of her. Where was the boy's good sense? But the more Rev. James listened, the less sympathy he felt, and the stronger his urge grew to whip Theophilus's tail until he couldn't see straight.

  But maybe Theophilus would learn a powerful lesson from all of this. For some time, Rev. James had been feeling that Theophilus was a little too comfortable with his flirtations with women—conduct unacceptable for a godly man and especially one who was becoming a minister. This time, Theophilus had gone farther than he was sure the young preacher had ever gone before. Not that he didn't understand the boy's needs, because he did. Happily married himself to a wonderful woman, he couldn't imagine pastoring without the love, support, and comfort of a good woman like his wife, Susie. But to seek that kind of comfort outside of your marriage was unacceptable. And as for marriage and Glodean Benson? That went beyond unacceptable. It was a mess, plain and simple. To make matters worse, it sounded like the fool still had the scent of that heifer stuck in his nose. A man didn't need to have a woman's scent branded in him like that, unless it was the right woman, a woman who would stroke your heart, soothe your soul, comfort you, and make you laugh. A woman who is your wife.

  Rev. James figured it was time Theophilus learned that pastoring was serious business. A lot of young seminarians never did learn that and they got blindsided by the temptations that came with the job—liquor, money, politicking, women. Though he loved Theophilus like a son, Rev. James decided not to spare the rod. "Look here, Theophilus," he said. "You smart on most counts, but you lost your doggone mind on this one. You are just a few months shy of getting your final ordination papers, and look at you—miserable, all tore up over what? It ain't God that has you all upset. You know He done forgot about what you did as soon as you told Him you were sorry. No, you tore up about a piece of tail so lethal it ought to be a military weapon. Boy, if I was your daddy, I'd knock you clean out your pastor's chair. 'Cause you know better. I know you know better."

  Theophilus stared at the floor, having trouble looking Rev. James in the eye. He certainly didn't have anything worth hearing to say in his defense. He was searching his mind for words but Rev. James wasn't looking for answers. "Now, before you start up, just listen. Sometimes you need to be strong enough to stare evil down in the face. You know why you are getting sent to Greater Hope? You are going because Bishop Percy Jennings wants you there. Bishop Jennings is being reassigned to the Tennessee/Mississippi District. The Board of Bishops is doing some reshuffling after suspending Bishop Otis Caruthers for approaching that little seventeen-year-old girl."

  Just thinking about it, Rev. James shook his head in disgust. "You remember that mess, don't you? Little girl so young, she still had milk and cookies on her breath."

  Theophilus nodded, wondering himself what would possess a grown man to even think of looking at a little teenager. But men who believed women were beneath them often didn't feel bound by the rules of decency. Putting Bishop Otis Caruthers "on location"—taking away his district—would keep him out of commission for a while. But there was always a chance that a corrupt bishop would bounce back. A few wads of bills placed in the right palms, at the right time, and a bishop was back in power. It wasn't so easy to get rid of a bishop in the Gospel United Church.

  "You don't know this, son," Rev. James was saying, "but Percy Jennings asked the Board of Bishops for special permission to take you with him to his new district. Greater Hope is the only open ministry there, and he personally assigned you the pastorship. He has been watching you. He believes that young pastors like you, who are godly men, who can preach the rafters out of the roof, and who can understand what this new civil rights movement is bringing, are the future of the Gospel United Church."

  Theophilus could not believe what he was hearing. Why would Bishop Jennings take a personal interest in him? He started to ask, but Rev. James held up his hand. "I'm not finished, Theophilus," he said. "You are being tested. You are being tested because it needs to be known if you can handle yourself right when in the fiery furnace. Can you be like those three Hebrew boys, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, and trust that the Lord will stand with you and guide you? Then will you be obedient to do what He tells you to do? 'Cause that the kind of faith and commitment you gone need, not only for pastoring Greater Hope but when you go even farther than that. If you can't pass this test, you can't handle this call God has on your life. Don't let your flesh lead you in another direction. You hear me, Theophilus? Can you accept this call?"

  "Yes," said Theophilus. "I accepted God's call on my life a long time ago—and yes, Rev. James. Yes, I will go to Greater Hope."

  Now, for the first time during the visit, Rev. James smiled. "Glad you still got some gumption in you, boy," he said. "Scared me for a minute there. Thought that gal took all your strength away, just like Delilah did that fool Sampson. Now, let's pray."

  To ease Theophilus's passage at Greater Hope, Rev. James appealed to Mrs. Coral Thomas, his wife, Susie's, best friend and a longtime deaconess of the church, to keep an eye on the young pastor. Many a morning Theophilus would come to work and find Coral Thomas bustling around his office, setting out a pot of delicious-smelling coffee and a plate of fat ham biscuits, saying, "Sit down, Pastor, and get yourself some breakfast. Made up these biscuits 'specially for you."

  During his first year, Coral became his right hand. It was she who encouraged him to make some much needed reassignments in the church, giving jobs to the most qualified members instead of those who gave the most money. There had been hurt feelings at first, but now folks acknowledged that the choir had improved a hundredfold and that the Usher Bo
ard, which visitors barely recognized before, conducted their duty with a new pride. Now, instead of regular church clothes, the men wore dark suits, white shirts, and blue ties, while the women wore white shoes and white dresses with blue lace handkerchiefs fixed to their shoulders with gold usher pins.

  The church was growing, with new members joining every week, attracted by the new pastor's fiery preaching and his message of social justice. But every Sunday, Theophilus scanned the faces of his congregation with his heart pounding and sickness in his stomach, ready to break out in a cold sweat, should he glimpse the pale pink suit, pink lace gloves, and matching rose church hat that was the signature ensemble of Glodean Benson.

  To honor his first anniversary as pastor, Bishop Jennings and Rev. James arranged for Theophilus to serve as the guest preacher for a week-long revival that was being held at St. Paul's Gospel United Church in Jackson, Mississippi. Usually more seasoned and well-known pastors worked revivals, for it was a way to gain visibility in the denomination. Theophilus recognized that choosing him was an expression of confidence and faith, and he fervently thanked God for granting him the strength to face the challenges of that first year. Every morning before he started working, he got down on his knees and prayed, saying, "Thank you, Lord. Thank you for forgiving me, Lord, and keeping me strong and steadfast. My trust is in you, Lord. Thank you for walking with me each day, lighting my path into the future you have set before me."

  And the Lord, ever mindful of the most pure, sincere, and heartfelt desires of his children, now granted Theophilus a two-for-one prayer miracle. The first miracle was blessing him so that he preached with such power that it was as if he was trying to raise the dead. And the second miracle dealt strictly with matters of the heart.

  His first revival sermon sent folks home feeling good about what God had said to their hearts, thinking about what Theophilus had prayed about, and looking over the scripture readings that accompanied his text. But with each passing day, his sermons became hotter and hotter, until on that last night, he walked up in the church so full of spiritual fire he felt like he had what his mother said was "fire all shut up in his bones." He had "gotten the spirit" before, but he had never felt anything so consuming as the power of God in that little church on that last night. All while he was preaching, he couldn't keep still, couldn't stay put in the pulpit, and before he knew it, he was taking one long-legged stride out from behind the podium, shouting, "Thank you, Jesus," and running right into the center aisle of the church.