Midnight Without a Moon(41)
Ma Pearl gave me a handkerchief, and I buried my face in it. Even though many others were crying, I somehow felt embarrassed to allow them to see my emotions so openly displayed.
“Jesus, forgive me of my sins, seen and unseen,” came a shout from the back. The voice belonged to Aunt Ruthie.
I peered back, but Ma Pearl’s head turned so fast, I was sure she would snap her neck. Aunt Ruthie, according to her, was what the Apostle Paul called himself: the chief of sinners. The only sin I knew Aunt Ruthie committed was marrying that old slue-footed Slow John, which was both a sin and a shame.
Aunt Ruthie stood, her arms splayed as though hanging on a cross. Her face turned heavenward, tears flowing, she cried out for mercy. Her children, all holding on to her, cried too.
By the time the choir and Deacon Edwards finished, the only dry eyes in the little church belonged to Ma Pearl. And even hers were a little moist.
My body rocked with emotion. Emotion I had never felt before. I remembered how I felt at my first funeral. How I cried because children—?grown children—?cried for their mother. And I remembered how I felt at Levi’s funeral. But something was different this time. This wasn’t a funeral, yet I felt as though it were. Somehow I felt that something worse had happened than what happened to Levi. This boy, Emmett, they say his name was, had only been visiting. He wasn’t like the rest of us—?born in Mississippi, stuck in Mississippi, just waiting for our chance to get out of Mississippi. He’d come here to visit, to spend time with relatives, enjoying good food and laughter, the way I had wanted Aunt Belle to. Instead he made one mistake, and he was sent back home in a pine box.
Sometimes I wished God would give Gabriel a big eraser and say, Gabe, I made a mistake. I should have made everybody one color. So take this eraser, go down to earth, and erase the color. Make everybody colorless so they can all feel special.
As tears streamed down my face and as Deacon Edwards moaned and sang, “‘I love the Lawd. He heard my cry. I-I-I-I l-o-o-o-ve d-e-e-e Law-awd. He-e-e-e hear-r-r-r-d my-y-y-y cry. And pitied every groan,’” I realized I was crying not for Levi Jackson nor for Emmett Till, but for myself, Rose Lee Carter. Because I was a Negro. A person of color. A person who could be killed simply because my skin had a color. And that color happened to be a dark shade of brown.
But really the shade of brown didn’t matter one bit. A Negro didn’t have be brown to be hated. He needed only to be labeled “Negro” by the blood running through his veins. The skin on the upper side of his hand could have been as light as the skin on his palms, like Queen’s, but because he was a Negro, he was despised and hated.
By the time the last shout had died to a whimper, Reverend Jenkins stood in the pulpit, armed with his Bible and, strangely, a newspaper. “For those of you blessed enough to own a Bible,” he said, “turn, if you will, to the book of Saint Matthew, the chapter being twenty-eight, and we shall commence reading at verse twelve.”
A few pages ruffled, as only a handful of people owned Bibles or, at best, could read them.
Reverend Jenkins read aloud while those of us who could, read silently:
“AND WHEN THEY WERE ASSEMBLED WITH THE ELDERS, AND HAD TAKEN COUNSEL, THEY GAVE LARGE MONEY UNTO THE SOLDIERS,
SAYING, ‘SAY YE, HIS DISCIPLES CAME BY NIGHT, AND STOLE HIM AWAY WHILE WE SLEPT.’”
“Now, we know from the Bible,” Reverend Jenkins said as he stepped from behind the podium and began pacing, “Jesus was raaaaised from the dead.”
A few “amens” came from the deacons.
“But look at this, folks,” said Reverend Jenkins. “When word of the Resurrection reached the ears of the chief priests, what did they do?”
“Preach, Preacher!” yelled Deacon Edwards, who obviously didn’t know the answer.
Reverend Jenkins strode back to the podium. “They asseeembled with the elders and took counselllllll.” He looked over at the deacons sitting crisply in the front row, smiled, and said, “In other words, they met with the deacons and came up with a plan.”
Reverend Jenkins paced again. “Can you imagine them,” he asked, “huddled around a table, whispering, ‘Where is he? What happened to him? How could he get out? His disciples must have taken him.’ Another shook his head and said, ‘We had soldiers guarding that tomb. That’s impossible.’ They straightened their robes and said, ‘But we can’t let this get back to Pilate. We’ll look like fools. He’ll know we killed an innocent man.’”
“So what did they do?” Reverend Jenkins asked, heading back to the podium.
There was a moment of silence. No “amens.” No “Preach, Preacher!” Just . . . silence.
Reverend Jenkins slammed his Bible so hard on the podium that dust fell from the ceiling. “They lied!” he said. “They paid off the soldiers to say the disciples came and stole the body while they slept. Now what kind of cockamamie story is that? Roman soldiers guarding the tomb? And all asleep at the same time? Pilate would have had them all killed for sleeping on the job.”
A few chuckles arose from the congregation; otherwise, the whole room was stiffly still and silent. The only noises were Reverend Jenkins and the whirring hum of box fans. It was the first time I had ever seen everybody awake during a sermon.
Reverend Jenkins removed his glasses, wiped them with a handkerchief, and placed them back on his face. He stared at the congregation for a moment, then placed the newspaper on the podium and spread it open. Whispers vibrated throughout the congregation.