Chapter 16

It was Tuesday morning when the phone rang. Mama answered it - Daddy was out in the field, while Cecelia and I were in the living room with our respective books and Darlia had walked into town to see a friend who lived there - and brought the phone to me. I took it and heard Rev. Goodson's voice.

"Reverent Carpenter," he said, giving the D a T sound as some blacks do, "of course we've all heard what happened Sunday night."

"Yeah, I imagine everyone has by now. That sort o' thing isn't usual around here, at least not these days."

"No, it isn't. It's got some of our people scared."

"It's got people scared at this end too, but – an' I'm not tryin' to imply any criticism – we're not gonna let whoever it was scare us off of anything."

"That's good to hear." Rev. Goodson's voice was light, and quicker than most of the black people around Leanna. I seemed to recall he'd come from somewhere up north - Illinois, I thought, or perhaps Iowa. "The reason I'm calling, Rev. Carpenter, is that you're on the program to preach this coming Sunday."

"Yeah. I've been pondering on that."

"I hope you're not thinking of withdrawing. I called especially to let you know that the invitation stands – more than ever, now. We will not allow those people to segregate us again."

"Even if y'all were ready to re-segregate, I ain't. I'm planning on being there, and preaching – I just don't know what to preach."

"The Lord changing your message?"

"I think maybe so. I've got my original sermon here, all printed and ready, but I keep thinking of Jesus clearing out the temple."

"A powerful passage, brother. If God leads you to preach on that, feel free. We've gotten used to you reading your sermons – perhaps we can also get used to you preaching off the cuff."

I grinned. "I am the oddest preacher ever, probably, in y'all's pulpit. Not only do I look white, I sure don't sound black."

"That's all right, Rev. Carpenter. As long as you preach the Word, we're satisfied. So you will be there?"

"If the Lord tarries an' the crick don't rise, I will be." Of course that phrase was just rhetoric these days – there is a creek between Mama and Daddy's house, and the building where Mount Tabor meets, but there's been a bridge across it for decades and the creek has never risen high enough to make it impassible.

"Then I'll see you there."

When I'd hung up – which in 2011 means pushing the red button instead of physically putting the receiver back on the hook - Cecelia said, "Was Rev. Goodson in some doubt as to your intentions?"

"He did wonder."

"He does not know you as well as I do; did he have that intimate knowledge, he would have been more concerned that you might wish to preach every service henceforth."

I grinned. "I ain't that greedy – I get enough regular preachin' at home."

"That you do – though not on a weekly basis."

"An' that's a good thing. I've seen preachers get so wore out preachin' every Sunday, an' doin' all the other pastoral stuff besides, that they burned out and quit the ministry."

"Whereas our plurality of elders ensures that each elder bears no more burden than he is capable of carrying. I was dubious about the system when Tyrone introduced it, but it works quite well."

"An' it's Biblical too."

"It is. I wonder why it ever died out – or perhaps I don't wonder, given the truth of the axiom about the propensities of power. A single pastor can be more powerful than one of several elders, even if he is completely honest, and an ambitious man can readily turn the pastorate into a dictatorship."

"I've seen it."

She looked at me. "I sometimes forget that Mount Tabor isn't the only black church you've attended."

"Well, the others were before I met you – but yeah, in Dallas I was a member of a black church, an' visited others, an' I've seen pastors who ruled with an iron fist. They may have been benevolent tyrants, but they were tyrants all the same."

"The pastors of Mount Tabor have not all been democratic," Cecelia said.

"I wouldn't expect it. But I am of two minds about the sermon."

"I heard your remarks. You have never asked me to determine your text or subject, or the manner of handling text and subject, nor have I ever desired to intrude into those things; what God gives the preacher is sacrosanct; a wife may not interfere. Nevertheless, I have a presentiment that the portion of Scripture you mentioned is that which God desires me to learn from on Sunday."

I looked at her where she sat across the room from me, in the corner of the sofa with her legs out in front of her. I shifted in my chair, which had the footrest up but wasn't reclined. "I've said – over your protests – that you're the best pastor I've ever had. I don't take your notions lightly. I haven't entirely made up my mind yet, but that feeling of yours is certainly a significant datum in my considerations."

She smiled. "You can thoroughly wreck your native tongue, and then turn right around and correctly use the singular of a Latin loan word. After all these years, I still find you baffling and surprising to an extent I would not have believed had anyone told me prior to our marriage."