Free The Presence by T. Davis Bunn Page B

that same lesson for you folks. Just sit down there right quiet, stop your fannin’, now, nobody’s gonna faint. Just sit there and tell me what you hear. Wait. What’s that? You hear what I’m hearin’? Is that joy I’m listenin’ to? Is that somebody out there singin’ praises to the Lord? Why, yes, I do believe that is.”
    The reverend’s eyes were blazing now. “There’s been something very alarmin’ brought to my attention. Something that scares me mightily. Know what it is? It’s pride. It’s greed. It’s the fear that freezes my belly up solid, scarin’ me so bad I can’t sleep at night, thinkin’ that so many of my flock are gonna burn for all eternity. You hear what I’m sayin’ out there? There’s people out there listenin’ to me that think they’re better off now that they sit in some fancy church, listenin’ to somebody else stand up here and do all the work.
    â€œListen up, you sinners. You let me do the work, the Lord’s gonna know it. He don’t give you salvation for comin’ here. No sir. He’s gonna let you in if you BELIEVE. Now tell me something. Who’s the stronger believer? The one who sits in here and wishes that old fool would shut up so they can get back to their dinner, or the ones over there across the way, singin’ and shoutin’ their hearts out, praisin’ their Lord?”
    Not only did the bickering stop, but the old hall began to fill up almost every Sunday. And when the services ended, when the congregation in the new hall walked calmly out into the Carolina sunshine, shaking hands and smiling and talking politely in little groups, the doors to the old building beneath the dogwoods would slam back, and out would pour a storm of singing, clapping, shouting, hand-waving people, eyes uplifted to heaven. Laughing and embracing and praising God. And the polite small talk would dry up in front of the new church like dew on a hot summer morning.
    Still there were those who sought to leave the old ways behind, to forget the horrors of the past and the old ways of worship with them. They sought to mimic the white worshipers, calling their way civilized; and in their quiet stuffy way these people threatened to tear the church apart. But Reverend Amos Taylor and his elders stopped that before the roots of destruction could gain hold.
    The church continued to invite the circuit-riding preachers and traveling evangelists to visit. And every time a guest preacher was invited to fill the pulpit, Reverend Amos escaped to the Praise Hall, along with his deacons and elders. It became an unspoken rule that no one could become a church leader unless he had put in his “hard time,” as it came to be known.
    And so the little church in the dogwood grove remained, and grew, and taught future generations sacred lessons about their heritage.
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    â€œThe Lord ain’t never late. He may not be early, but He’s always on time. His time. It’s your time that ain’t right.”
    TJ loved the services in the Praise Hall, especially once Catherine had exploded up to dance and shout and sing for both of them. He had never been able to let go like that. Spontaneity was not a trait he knew even on a nodding basis. But his heart was filled by what he felt and heard, and despite the disparaging looks from some of his fellow worshipers, TJ always sensed that this was what was most important.
    â€œWhen Jesus came in, the devil went out!” Another sister moved to the front and faced the swaying congregation. “There ain’t room for both in my life!”
    â€œGod is a great God!” another responded above the amens.
    The sister started her testimony, and TJ made note of her opening words in his little book. The leather-bound volume was dog-eared; he went through a couple notebooks a year, filling them with his thoughts during worship and study, including