Maybe my trouble understanding Reverend Jack comes from these tiny ears, a quarter of the space the Good Lord carved on either side of my head for hearing. Or maybe confusion comes from eyes gone pus-yellow driving Sunday sunrise fares out to the good places north, south, and west; far, far from the wicked, whirling city and never back into concrete Gomorrah a moment before 7 oclock the following Saturday night.
Or maybe Im carrying the soul of a Black Jew up inside me. Not like the one-eyed Candy Man, or the musty shysters on the corner of State and Madison, their nappy heads hid underneath unraveling crochet hats. Sammy Davis was a happy half-monkey/half-rat, and the zero corner hustlers call themselves Ethiopian Hebrews, selling their stinky incense sticks. I know I aint no chimp dancing on a music box or no rat running into corners, or no shyster either. Aint looking to get down with no big-boned Swedish honeys or start no funky sweet revolution. Just getting hold of this preachers babble before salvation passes me by, trying toBlack Jews, you see, dont sing or dance God or shout alleluia in the temple. We read holy script in quiet. That way, we understand what the rabbis spewing. We Black Jews get to know what the sermon means, Church.
My religion would explain this Scandinavian wanderers nose misplaced on my Down-Deep-in-the-field face. I smell from it plenty good, better had what with this crooked beak jabbing from my head, stabbing and jabbing at the rearview mirror reflection as I pull on seeing holes to explore my rot. The noses tip hooks down like those of the old olive diamond hawks underneath the tracks on Wabash Avenue, except that nostrils gape wide and jungle-black where cheeks meet. I breathe the stank of the Lord Jesus celebration: this funk of salt, Walgreens makeup counter product, relaxer lye, and air panted from deep in guts filled with only starvation and desperation. Smelling lets my beak know somethings ill in the reverends Sunday spiel, and that knowledge means trouble on the Mount.
But whys the world still so wicked if the Lord God sent His One Son down here to die and save us from sin? Let the Reverend explain the mystery to you
Reverend Jacks Satan changes every first and third Sunday. God is always the father, Jesus is his namesake son, and the Holy Ghost is that daytime creeping soul who slips inside the good Calvary Baptist lady in the satin dress, takes hold of her up in row ten after the reverend drops the sermons main point. Twists her skull at the base of the neck, bends her in half, then snaps her holy rock-head front to back with the drum sergeants beat; until the Ghost is done with her and he tosses the top half of this lady free so the end of her spine slams into wood pew.
She never cries or screams in pain as the Holy Ghost works her fierce like so; saved lady just shouts in this thrusting rhythm, Praise you in me, Holy Ghost. Stay up in me, Holy Ghost. Deep up in me, Holy Ghost. Glory. Praise you in me, Holy Ghost, and then again, before she hops into the aisle, mist rising from cocoa forehead, arms and legs flapping against each other while her neck snaps backwards without wood to interrupt the flow of ecstasy. There she goes with that sanctified chicken jig, same dance every other Sunday of the month.
Mount Calvary Missionary Baptist has sat just west of 77th and Jeffery Boulevard since the real Jews first let dark folks on these blocks fifty years back. Deep Down wanderers brought the Mount with them from Mobile County, Alabama, or some such burning place, so this is really Mount Calvary Second Baptist, too many words to get in before crooning an alleluia and interrupting the mission. The church used to be a rickety wood frame worship-shack blending in perfect with the houses leaned sideways by lake wind, siding smudged orange-brown by the burn of the wicked citys July sun, same as the Rothschild Liquor store across from the church parking lot. That old mud-weed lot where the Cadillac hearses parked whenever one of the Section C heads who sit under haberdashery and Easter brims passed on from this world to that better place prepared for them in the Kingdom.
But that old Deep Tuscaloosastyle shack didn't shine sufficient for the Good News. So Reverend sent me to the alderwomans main ward office in the old Gold Medallion cab, carrying five large from Calvarys tithe right after Mayor Harold died. Handed the flock loot over to that elected bag lady in exchange for imminent domain over half the row of homes just east of Jeffery, and the mud-weed lot too. City crashed down them shacks that used to line 77th long before they swore in Gomorrahs new king. Then the church board started passing around a second collection pot on the second and fourth Sundays. They called it the building reserve special blessing fund.
Give what you can, Church, Reverend told the flock then. Know times is rough for folk round here right round now, but sacrifice is remembered eternaland remember, you sacrificing for the One who gave the greatest sacrifice, who made that path into Glory with His own blood. If you cant give to build up a new place for celebrating Him, theres still gon be a place for you on the Path, Church. I promise it. Still gon be a place for you in His new house. Somebody say amen.
Before hardhats started pouring foundation to the new temple, Reverend had to payout six weeks worth of bingo proceeds to the bag lady, just so shed change the title to this block of 77th Street into his name. Original paperwork claimed the Lord, or the Mount itself, or the flock, as the new church lands owner. Naw, that aint right, Reverend moaned back then. All deeds got a price, Moral. Then he pointed me toward the bags of bingo gold, and watched as I piled them into my cabs trunk.
So the Church got to building its shining palace on the north side of 77th Street, foundation laid by the sacrifice of the flock, bricks stacked by the real big-time loot kicked back from D.C. in 93, after the reverend sent us around in the bingo vans and the hearse to collect all the living and dead souls, bring them on back to the rickety old shack to cast rightful vote for our good brother, slick Willie C. That honorary deacon on the Mount never would have sat on his high throne not for the tireless work we put in here in the city, and the new church never couldve afforded its masonry not for the deacons big payback.
Like the reverend say, Rejoice and be exceedingly glad: for great is our reward in the Kingdom. Thats from the Good News, Church. No trouble understanding that sermon, not even in my dwarf ears.
Today the wood pews in the Mount shine with fine finish, and you cant hear the high heels clicking as the Section C women prance about the vestibule cause this plush red carpet stretches front door to black angel choir bandstand to swallow the sharpest points. Drywall towers above us, spackled to match the floor, with stereo speakers built behind and up into the ceilings, too, so no matter whether youre sitting in row J on the second balcony or downstairs in the toilet stall, you hear his sermon in surround sound. My sweet Lord Jesus, dont forget those holy shining basement bowls below the Mount, porcelain from Taiwan with the automatic power flush, and the perfume shooting from vents as stall doors open and close. Just enough mist let loose so you never smell your own shit, no matter gaping nose holes.
Even if you arrive late to the 11:30 and find the Mount packed through to the balconies with blue-black city souls, and you end up sitting in the last row of main floor pews even then, you still see the reverends pockmarked skin turn orange as he spews the Good News in front of a thousand furs and brims and palms and heels stomping. Last summer, Reverend had me install this camera here over the back row, lens set to beam him to the four movie screens at each corner of the service. Lens dont leave the podium until Reverend Jacks calligraphy-mustached grill crackles from his microphone as he dances one of his glory circles and drops the main point. I strung the camera chord up to stretch past the Mounts balconies and the rafters, just like he told me, and now this wire carries the sermon and the sight of its pinstriped deliverer out for broadcast someplace way beyond the flock.