It was late January, on a gray and dying afternoon some years ago, when I found myself in front of the Ebenezer Baptist church building. I was tired and cold, looking for a place to warm up and rest my legs. I’m not sure what compelled me to try the door. I was surprised to find it unlocked.
I went inside and called out, “Hello? Anyone here?”
From somewhere in the back of the building, I heard a voice answer. “Back here. In the fellowship hall.” So, I followed the voice.
In the fellowship hall I saw someone I assumed to be the janitor setting up rows of bright orange folding chairs. “I just came in to get warm,” I said. He nodded and placed another chair. From the kitchen, just off the fellowship hall, I could hear the gurgle of a coffee pot brewing.
“What are you setting up for?”
“It’s not for me to say, really. But you’re welcome to watch,” he said and then left the room.
I found a spot along the back wall where I could stand, next to a bookshelf filled with hymnals and children’s books. I waited but nothing happened for several minutes. So I let myself into the kitchen, found a ceramic mug and poured myself a cup of coffee. Then I took my spot by the bookshelf to continue waiting.
After a few more minutes the fluorescent lights overhead flickered and the coffee maker in the kitchen hissed. The door of the fellowship hall opened and the Senior Pastor entered. I knew it was the Senior Pastor because his framed photo was hanging on the wall next to the bookshelf. He had a dignified look – silver hair, manicured beard. He was dressed in a white seersucker suit. He sat down in one of the orange folding chairs at the front of the room. Then the doors opened again, and the church elders came in with folders, and papers, and clipboards, and notebooks. They assumed their seats and the church board meeting was called to order.
I felt a hand on my shoulder and jumped. “Watch this,” said the janitor behind me. “You’ll like this.”
From somewhere beyond the hall, I began to hear shouting. Curses. Vulgarities in a vaguely New York accent.
“Old business,” one of the elders announced. “New business,” another said.
“The same business,” the janitor whispered behind me.
“I don’t know who you radical-left thugs are. Vermin. But you’re going to regret this. Nasty women. Losers. Scum. You’re animals. Animals. Animals!”
The voice was dragged through the doors. and I saw his orange skin and flyaway hair. “Who is this?” I asked the janitor.
“Oh, him? He’s nobody, really. Just one of a long line of monsters horning their way into history. They’re always turning up.”
“What’s going to happen to him?” I asked.
“Watch.”
I turned back to the board meeting. The Senior Pastor said, “The mouth has spoken. Have his words been recorded?”
“They have,” announced the body of elders.
“So be it,” declared the Senior Pastor.
“Amen,” intoned the body of elders.
And just like that the orange-skinned vulgarian went up in flames.
“What the hell is this?” I nearly shouted, turning back to the janitor.
He led me over to a tripod stand with a series of Bible maps. “Look here,” he said and pulled down a map of Egypt. Then another of Babylon. And Persia. And Greece. And Rome. And. And. And. One map after another after another. “This is the way of beasts and empires. They receive a lease of life for a season and a time, but then…” And he tore away the successive maps and threw them to the floor.
“Do you understand this?” he asked me.
“I don’t think I do,” I said. “Not yet.”
“Have you finished your coffee?” he asked. I nodded and he took the mug from my hands.
I don’t remember leaving the fellowship hall, but I found myself once again standing in the sidewalk snow and slush in the fading January sun.
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