Water Lessons (15 page)

"Now, friends, if you carefully read the parable our Lord relates," the Reverend approached the center of the stage, "you will find that the rich man, called Dives according to tradition, 'fared sumptuously every day' and was dressed 'in fine linen.' So he wore some of the most expensive clothing of the day and enjoyed very fine cuisine. And he's got a dying, desperate, starving, diseased man named Lazarus just laying out there at that gate, just begging, pleading for some crumbs from the rich man's table. But eventually that beggar dies. And so does the rich man.
And those tables are reversed
," the Reverend whispered.

Despite their soft tone, these words echoed throughout the church's interior.

"Now, in this life," the Reverend said, "many who are in the position of Lazarus do
not
get their just reward… in
this
life, that is. And many like the rich man don't get their comeuppance… in
this
life. And sadly, many Lazaruses in this world, they know full well they're Lazarus. But many on this earth, many in our very blessed and wealthy nation, they
forget
they are dining sumptuously behind that gate while Lazarus is dying and calling out their name out in that street. And actually, many hear Lazarus' cries and
know
they're eating that feast of Lobster Newburg and filet mignon at that table, and they hear that Lazarus crying for even a piece of moldy bread, but on they go feasting! Woe to us all, is what I'm saying!"

A roar exploded from the congregation. Once again the power of the man's oratory rippled down Jim's spine.

"Now, some o' y'all got family down on that Gulf Coast and took that storm months ago pretty hard. But all the rest o' y'all didn't
need
family down there. I'm one of 'em. We watched from the safety and comfort of our living rooms as almost two thousand lives were
extinguished
. And some of y'all saw plain as day: there were quite a few Lazaruses dead and floating in those streets of New Orleans."

Emotion rose like steam in Jim's throat. He suddenly felt lightheaded, heat building in his cheeks and on his forehead.

"And some of y'all could see ol' Lazarus hunkered down scared on his roof, or on the streets of the Convention Center, or up in that Superdome. And you could see Lazarus sleeping on his front lawn in Mississippi while his little shack behind looked like a bomb had hit it."

Another roar, this time almost deafening, arose from the congregation.

"You could see Lazarus was often black. Imagine that? But hey, you could also see Lazarus was an old white man, a young Vietnamese woman, a Latino child. Some Lazaruses were dead and gone. Some had been flown up here to our state. Some had been evacuated to the desert towns of Utah and the logging towns of Maine and Minnesota. Many Lazaruses are still around, as they always will be. Ladies and gentlemen, Lazarus is here to stay."

Reverend Ward started to walk back to the podium, but stopped just alongside it. Several cries of affirmation shot from the congregation.

"Yes, brothers and sisters, indeed, Lazarus is here to stay and is right there in front of you. Y'all can hear his feeble knocks at the gate, at your door." The Reverend gave three hard taps with his fist on the side of the wooden podium.

Jim found himself holding his breath at the three eerie beats.

"That's Lazarus knocking at our door. He's still alive out there, maybe for a day or two longer. Are you gonna give him some morsels? Or are you gonna give him a whole dish? Or are you gonna shun him, and turn up the music? What are you gonna do?
You
decide!" Reverend Ward pointed toward the crowd.

A middle-aged man of athletic build shot up in the pew just in front of Jim. He had been sitting next to the old couple just adjacent to the aisle. "Feed him! Love him!" the man shouted.

A wave of people shot to their feet, shouting various words of confirmation. In a second everyone had risen to stand, with Jim, Walter, Jack, and Natasha along with them.

"Yes!" Reverend Ward shouted, pumping his fists with jubilation and marching back toward the center of the stage. "You chose wisely. Our Lord didn't just
tell
this tale. He is the Lazarus at your gate! Conversely, when you help Lazarus, you are honoring the Creator!"

Someone began to clap. Soon a fire of applause consumed the congregation.

The young Reverend motioned for all to be seated. "Now, many of you know the few souls sent to our church by some of our mission workers down in New Orleans. There is little Dwayne, his sister Teesha, and Ms. Arnette, their mama. But there is a new guest here. I have told you about him, and so have our good friends Mr. Henretty and Mr. Spaulding."

The Reverend nodded toward their aisle. Jim's head started pounding. As long as the pastor didn't ask him to speak or to come up in front of the congregation, all would be fine.

"When the storm hit, this young man lived in the center of New Orleans in a neighborhood called Mid-City. The storm hit on his birthday, no less. And rather than evacuate and seek his own safety, this young man ran looking for someone he knew on his block—a very diverse block of people, I might add, and the waters started to pour into the street. He risked his life to save Lazarus, who happened to be an old musician friend of his. I should mention—let's just say Lazarus was one of our tribe. But that ain't the point. Our young guest pulled Lazarus to the highest ground he could—cut a hole in his own roof. They were up there a few days. Well, in the end Lazarus didn't make it, rest his soul—"

"Bless him!" someone called out.

"That's right, brother," the Reverend said. "And
bless
the young man who helped his Lazarus.
Bless
Jim Scoresby, the young man I'm speaking of, right in the pew there. Everyone welcome him, thank him later for standing up for his Lazarus when he heard the knocking at the gate. He's come with our buddy, Mr. Henretty, today to worship. Mr. Henretty tells us Jim is scared stiff of public speaking. So I'll just do a little of that speaking for him, if he doesn't mind. Don't want our guest to get sick!"

The grinning Reverend snapped his fingers and pointed at Jim, who wiped the imaginary sweat off his brow. The congregation released a wave of resounding laughter.

"No man, no woman should run from Lazarus. Our man Jim actually ran
to
his Lazarus. He went to find him and care for him. That's where one truly gives back to the Creator, through one of his children in need. Now, the Lord God doesn't call us all to be the
sole
providers and to feed every Lazarus in this world every day 'til he's fat with sloth. But our God above does call us to have that special love to aid Lazarus when you learn he's lying out there at the gate. And a select few of you will be that sort who walks
out
of the mansion, if only for a while, to go
past
the gate to find a Lazarus in the streets. If that is you, truly
you
are the apple of God's eye, the very paragon of His creation."

The Reverend paused, and scanned the crowd with a searching expression. "But the ultimate tragedy is to become like the rich man in this parable. Yes, I tell you, this rich man Dives, he shut his eyes to everyone and was bent on only fulfilling his own pleasure. In the end, he destroyed himself, didn't he? In the afterlife, he paid the price for this selfishness. So I tell you all, many of the people of southern Louisiana and Mississippi are lying at the gate. Some will make it on their own. Some won't. You gonna go out that gate and feed 'em? And the people who suffered in that catastrophe, are they the
only
ones at the gate? So I ask you, friends, let us not always stay in the mansion. Let us not stroll to the gate and dole out a few pieces of bread. No, I give you all the challenge. I'm asking you, and God is asking you: go out from the gate and actively seek out Lazarus and give Lazarus the love God gives to you."

With that final plea, delivered in a rising shout, Reverend Ward was met with a volley of exclamations of joy and confirmation, from "Amen!" to "Hallelujah!" to "Praise God!"

Jim was struck mute, moved to the very core of his being. He looked to his left at Jack, and then to his right at Walter. Both men beamed at the stage, and swept up in the subsequent wave of applause, began to clap. Jim looked in front of him, and a little to the left.

The dapper old man and his stately wife smiled approvingly at Jim. The man nodded and laughed.

"His parents," Jack shouted in his ear above the din.

The fierce applause suddenly morphed into a nearly deafening hymn. Jim looked ahead. The Reverend clapped his hands and led the hymn's first line, after which the choir erupted in zealous singing, swaying and clapping.

At that moment, Jim ceased to ponder why Walter had brought him to the church. He sensed an unforeseen change within himself, a confluence of peace, love, and hope. Though he usually preferred to worship in a less emotional way, Jim now felt borne aloft by the sudden gust of song permeating every inch of the Mount Zion African Baptist Church.

The congregation stood and joined the choir in singing.

Jim's eyes roamed the joyous countenances of the choir, the ecstatic mien of the singing Reverend and felt admiration, love—and perhaps a tinge of jealousy—at this mysterious spiritual giddiness. The hymn ascended to its climax. The Reverend marched briskly down the center aisle toward the front doors of the church, singing as he went.

Jim realized he had not been in the company of more than two black people since his days in New Orleans. He felt that rush of heart, the ability to reveal intense emotion and longing so easily—that he missed, that he remembered in Freddy and in so many New Orleanians. Walter must be calling him to get involved in this church.

He had been running from poverty and desperation for seven months. Had he not escaped to only fulfill his own ambitions and comfort? Jim knew he must resolve to no longer run, but the question was: could he?

CHAPTER NINETEEN

As Jim and his three fellow Cape-dwellers stepped through the door, they found the renowned Bob's Southern Bistro on Columbus Avenue aswim with Dixieland jazz. Jim threw his head back and laughed with glee.

At the very rear the jazz quartet was arranged upon a platform. A drummer, a trumpeter, a banjo-picker, and a cellist performed before a rather large Sunday brunch crowd. A puffy-cheeked Louis "Satchmo" Armstrong, a sallow, serious Jelly Roll Morton, a piano-pounding, laughing Jerry Lee Lewis, a guitar-strumming, inward-leaning Leadbelly looked down from prints that festooned the exposed brick walls. There were prints of the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival and the Newport Jazz Festival, some going back to the early eighties.
 

Under an acrylic painting of the streetcars and live oaks of St. Charles Avenue, one diner looked faintly familiar. Reverend Cordell Ward sat alone in the middle of a long table covered in fine linen. He rose to his feet. "Here are our friends!"

"There you are, Reverend!" Walter said. "Great to see you."

The two men shook hands energetically. The Reverend turned to Jack and Natasha.

"And here are the Spauldings!" said Walter.

Reverend Ward first took the hand of Natasha, and then shook hands with Jack.

"Not
Mrs
. Spaulding just yet!" Jack said, then released a hearty laugh.

Jim detected an awkward nervousness in the laughter. "Reverend Ward, how are you?" Jim said. "I loved the service today. And all the great music! But I won't introduce myself. You seem to know all about me already."

"Well, Jim," Reverend began as he shook his hand, "we have a mutual friend here, Walter, who's told me all about you. And he let you date his daughter!"

"I'm glad he's told you… the
good
things," Jim said with a nod of gravity.

The Reverend motioned toward the seats. Walter walked around and sat next to the minister. Walter asked Jim, Jack, and Natasha to take their seats across from him. Jim was lost in reverie as he stared at the framed poster behind his host.

"That brings back lots of memories, Jim?" Reverend Ward said.

"So many, so many."

"Same here, Jim. I've served mission trips in Louisiana many summers, especially growing up. I love New Orleans. Know it like the back of this hand. So I heard you're a jazz and blues aficionado. I bet you're just loving Bob's! Place has been around nearly fifty years, first over on Mass Ave."

"I've heard of this place," Jim said. "But never been. I honestly feel as if I'm right back home." Jim turned and looked at the trumpeter wailing away on stage.

"Good, good," the Reverend said, his eyes radiating a rare kindness.

The thought began to gnaw at Jim once more: what surprise did Walter have in store for him? Was it merely attending the service? What was the old man putting him up to? Speaking in church next weekend?

Into the foyer of the restaurant, a black woman and a white man, both somewhere in their mid-thirties, led a steady stream of boys around the age of twelve or thirteen. Half of the children were white, and half of them black.

Walter grinned proudly and clapped once. Jack slapped Jim on the back and said, "You will like this new project… much more than trading stocks, I'll wager. I'm shanghaiing you into it!"

"My interest has been piqued all morning," Jim said.

The Reverend and Jim rose. All of the others lagged but a second behind.

"Hello, Reverend," said the white man, short and stocky and with a touch of sagging weariness about the shoulders. His dark blue polo shirt read "South Boston Fire Department Ladder 16." He stopped right before the Reverend and shook his hand. "I brought the whole crew here," he said with a thick Boston accent.

"Great to see you, Tim." The Reverend turned to Jim. "These are the boys from St. Brendan the Navigator Parish in Southie. And this is Tim Murphy, Knight of Columbus and Southie firefighter. He's also one of the youth group leaders at St. Brendan's."

Jim studied the boys. There were three of them, all sporting crew cuts, one red, one sandy-blonde, and one brown.