When It All Falls Down (4 page)

I never attempt to drink cognac straight, but today is as good as any to try new things. The day hasn't even cracked the noon hour and here I am with a drink in my hand. I often question whether what I do is God's will or not. I consider my profession to be protected under the umbrella of ministry and a branch on the tree of recovery. I often wonder if I am a minister who thinks outside of the box, or if I am a little lower than a political advisor who engages in cover-ups and smear campaigns. Every question leads me to a dead end.

“Are you going to drink it or stare at it like it's a painting?” a man about two barstools down says.

“Well, it is a work of art. Its name comes from the town of Cognac in France.” I finally take a swig from the glass.

“Knowing all of that fancy stuff doesn't take away from the fact that this”—the guy holds up his drink—“is a drink and its purpose is to drown your problems.”

My problem seems to float no matter how much alcohol I drink. The guy and I take drinks at the same time and slam the glass on the bar. My chest burns from the taste.

“So what problems are you drowning?” I ask.

“My job gave me my walking papers.” The man stares at the glass. “Nineteen years. Job said it came down to the money that I made, too. I'm upside down on my mortgage. Now I'm drinking to avoid going home and telling my wife.”

“Tough break!” I take another sip after the bartender refills my glass.

“So what are you trying to drown?”

“I lost something.” The golden elixir hypnotizes me and the conversation with the guy becomes muffled. Pastor Lewis committed suicide because I encouraged his church to replace him. I have gone so far from my original intention that I don't recognize the man in the mirror.

“Hello! What did you lose?” the guy asks.

I finish the rest of my drink and slam the glass on the table. In fact, I slam the glass twice to vent my frustration. I get up and pull out my wallet. I leave a hundred dollar bill on the table for the bartender.

“For mine and his drinks.” I point to the guy a few seats over. I walk over to my impromptu bar buddy and pat him on the shoulder. “Go home; your wife is your best life preserver.”

“Thanks.” The man holds up his drink to salute me, but I walk out the door and I do not give the guy a second thought.

In the past I have had a lot of situations that did not work out like I have hoped, but never have I encountered a situation that involves a suicide. Pastor Lewis marks the first pastor I've lost and I cannot shake the fact that I had a hand in his demise.

 

 

The next two days it is hard to decipher what is true and what is false. Any guy in my position would revel in the fact that I get voicemails and e-mails full of prospective clients who are willing to pay anywhere between $25,000 to $50,000 for my services, depending on the problem and whether I actually like the client.

The price depends on the problem. I can't help but to wonder if maybe, just maybe, with so many job offers to choose from then perhaps the church had gone horribly wrong. The church in and of itself is supposed to be a recovery center. The church is a place where people from all walks of life find salvation and redemption. I used to believe in that purpose wholeheartedly. I used to not pursue monetary gain, but that was a lifetime ago. The money drives me to continue in the problem-solving business long after I lost faith in God's people.

I have $175,238.86 in my savings account. I have $53,686.34 in my checking account and I have an additional $50,000 tied up in investments and mutual funds. I don't own a house because what's the point of owning a house when you're never at home?

I have a one-bedroom apartment in Carson right by the mall, and for $1,100 per month, I'm able to pay my rent as well as some of my other bills up to six months at a time. I can walk away from my profession and take some time off to gather my thoughts.

I can only stay in bed for so long so I decide to get out of bed and make my way into the living room. I don't know if it's an occupational hazard or what, but I love a lot of space, to the point where my living room does not have massive plants or vases or a coffee table with outdated magazines on it. I have a couch pushed up against the wall; I don't own a loveseat because I am neither in love nor am I inclined to entertain a lot of visitors. I have hardwood floors and a flat-screen TV. The TV is my worst investment. I am never home to watch TV and when I am home I only watch sports and enough news to stay informed. Otherwise, I hate most news pundits, most TV shows are melodramatic and my life is much more interesting, and I hate reality shows. This apartment is easy to manage, which is essential for a tenant who has to be able to leave at a moment's notice.

The doorbell rings and I don't even need to guess who is at my door. Only one person knows where I live. Not even members of my family know my address because they all live out of state. My sequestered life is airtight to everyone except for one person. I get up and open the door before the second ring, and lo and behold it is Garland Fisherman. Garland stands outside my door like a long-lost lover hoping to get into his true love's place.

“You look great, what is your secret?” Garland says.

“A pack a day, sleep deprivation, and a stream of church scandals.”

We both shared a chuckle and then a hug. Garland represents the closest thing I have to representation or management. He is the person who encourages me to help churches with the problems that they do not want to go public. After I did a great job solving a problem that involved the church we both met and worked in, Shiloh Temple, I decided to help other churches as well. In the beginning I had the best intentions, but in the end not all churches are like Shiloh. Shiloh is a great church with good, hardworking people who live by the principles of the Bible.

In retrospect, what I love about Shiloh is that it is not superficial. The people who attend Shiloh are not interested in fashion. Most members dress in casual clothes and dresses. Shiloh does not have a massive choir that is led by a charismatic choir director. I wanted to be involved in the ministry so I enrolled in the minister's class and received great instruction from Pastor Louis Green. Garland and I both flourished in ministry there, but then I discovered that Pastor Green had a problem taking one too many tips from the offering. Instead of going public, I confronted the pastor in private and got him to make a sizeable donation to the church.

I stopped going to Shiloh, but Garland keeps in touch and he is the only person I confide in from the church. So he brings me clients and, instead of a fee, he asks that I donated money to the youth ministry. As skeptical as I am about donating money to Pastor Green's church, I trust Garland and I keep the stream of money flowing.

“You know you really should answer your phone. I've been calling you for the last two days,” Garland says. He closes the door behind him and enters my place.

“I haven't really felt like talking to anyone.” I resume my position on the couch, only now I am lying prostrate on it.

“I heard about what happened in Detroit. You know that wasn't your fault.”

“Oh really, so the pastor decided to shoot himself for no reason? No, the one thing he loved I took away and he couldn't live with the shame of his actions.”

Garland puts his hands in his pockets and begins to pace the floor, and since there is not a loveseat he can sit on, Garland sits on the opposite side of the couch. I have one chair in the dining room and other than that, my apartment gives off the “you will not be staying long” feel. Garland is used to my setup and he makes himself comfortable.

“If you could figure out and control people's actions without violating their free will, well, then that would make you smarter than God,” Garland says.

“I could've thought of a way for him to keep his job, but when I saw the look on that girl's face, all I wanted to do was make him pay,” I say.

“Don't let the devil into your mind. He'll never let you have it back.”

I take a moment to consider my friend's words. Garland has more wisdom than half of the ministers I've seen. Maybe I did let the devil into my thoughts and that caused me to give poor advice.

“I got a job for you,” Garland says.

“Not for me. I'm out the game.” I sit up to find my cigarettes. I pat my pockets and find a pack. After I allow a cigarette to sit at the edge of my lips, I make my way to my granite counter to find my lighter.

“You know you should quit smoking.”

“Francis Assisi smoked,” I say after I light my cigarette and take a drag.

“Yeah, but he was literally being attacked by the devil every night.”

“So was I; you want to see my scars?”

“I told Minister Blackwell that you would meet with him.”

“I don't know why you told him that.” I once again take my seat on the couch.

“Come on, Nic, everybody has a bad day at the office.”

“Does your bad day end with someone committing suicide?” I shake my head as I blow out a trail of smoke.

“This isn't some corporate job that you can just walk away from. It's a calling and God has blessed you with a gift to help people and you have to answer that call.”

It amazes me how after all that Garland has seen he is still hopelessly naïve. Garland continues to grow in faith while I continue to wax cold the more I deal with God's people.

I grow more skeptical. I am not skeptical of God, but I am skeptical of His people. Only Jesus could save these people and I am convinced that maybe I am standing in the way.

“Look, you could do what you want, but I was told to give you this.” Garland reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. “I was told to give you a figure just in case you were a little reluctant.”

I take the piece of paper from Garland and open it. When I look at the figure, I decide that it can't hurt to have a conversation with this minister.

$150,000. I am sure that this is not an easy problem to solve. Before I even consider the problem, I have to consider jobs that I have had in the past that did not pay me anywhere near the amount that this job is going to pay me. I once took a job in Mississippi where the pastor there was convinced that polygamy was biblically correct so the church had not one, not two, but three first ladies. The murmurs amid the congregation started to cause speculation with the local news media so for $25,000 I disposed of the problem. It turned out that one of the first ladies was not in the United States legally and that the good citizens of Belize wanted her back. The pastor quietly resigned because the Belizean wife was by far the best looking of the wives.

In Fort Lauderdale, a pastor condemned his congregation to damnation for not paying 20 percent of their wages: 10 percent tithes, and the other 10 percent to the pastor. The pastor also had a need to take additional monies from the church. That job paid me $30,000. My last job paid me $25,000 so I can only imagine what problem would cost $150,000; and would I be willing to admit if I am in over my head and leave the money on the table?

I never left any money on the table and this would be a crazy day to choose today to do so. I also never ran into a problem with a church paying my rates, but I did have a church decline my services. Now that was an interesting scenario.

If I had a dime for every time I was called a scumbag, I'd probably be playing golf with Bill Gates and Warren Buffett.
“You are human and God is forgiving, but the media and your congregation are not.”

He didn't have to ask me twice to leave, and his wife's lover didn't hesitate to drag his name and his church's name through the dirt. The lover pressed charges. Pastor Griffin got community service, which was a no brainer; the main point was to humiliate the pastor. The lover went on to do a tell-all book that was a scandal throughout the Northeast. Pastor Griffin's situation was proof that everyone pays, even if they don't pay me.

I sat at Joe's Diner across the street from the L.A. Civic Center. The restaurant harkens back to the sixties and I like it because it does not care about its décor as much as its chow. Joe has the best meatloaf in all of Southern California, but in this day and age, that is no longer a selling point when everyone in Southern California is about eating healthy and portion control. I am working on my third cup of coffee when Minister Blackwell arrives.

“God bless, Minister Dungy, it's an honor.” Minister Blackwell flashes me a lottery winner's smile and extends his hand.

“How are you?” I say after I shake his hand.

“My, my, my, we had an awesome time tonight at the Faith Fest Convention. Have you ever been?”

“I used to go, but lately I've been too busy,” I say as I take a sip of my coffee.

In truth, I stopped going to conferences years ago. To me they are more about egotistical lifts and grandstanding. Furthermore, I stopped being impressed by how a preacher preaches. I know preachers who can cause people to run out of the church and jump into a lake to get baptized. The anointing is strong with the ministers when they are at church, but away from the pulpit they live like the devil. For me the real judge of a person's character is who they are when they are alone with God . . . that, and whether I get the call from a staff member of their church.

“Minister Blackwell, I may be forward in saying this, but can we get down to the reason for this meeting?”

“Well, I first heard about you when you helped Celebration Christian Center.”

My mind immediately goes back to Dallas, Texas. Celebration Christian Center has the same situation that Mount Zion has; Pastor Herald did not get up to preach with anything less than a fifth of Jim Beam in his system. While his congregation suspects that he might be under the influence, they will dismiss it because Pastor Herald is a darn good preacher.

When I went to Celebration even I was impressed with how well Pastor Herald was able to preach while inebriated. In the end, Pastor Herald checked into a program and several preachers preach in his stead while Pastor Herald recovers.

“Minister Blackwell, I don't know if my associate told you, but I don't talk about previous jobs.”

“Well, did your associate tell you about the money?”

“Yes, but not about the job,” I say while trying to be mindful of my voice level.

“Can I get you anything, hon?” A middle-aged blond waitress appears with a pen and note tablet.

“Coffee would be fine,” Minister Blackwell says.

“Same here.” I hold up my cup as a sign for a refill.

“Well, Minister Dungy, if you could just come up here and observe the situation, you would see what we need your help in. Jubilee Temple is a wonderful church.”

“Minister Blackwell, I don't go anywhere without knowing why. I don't care if you offer me a million dollars, if I don't know the problem and everything down to the most minute detail, then I won't take the job. If I feel like you're not being straightforward with me in what's going on, then I won't take the job. Just so we're clear.”

My firm policies do not sit well with Minister Blackwell; his silence and nervous body gestures convey his displeasure.

“Here you go, hon.” The waitress returns and pours both of us a cup of coffee.

I take casual sips of my coffee while I listen to the sounds of tables being bused and mindless chatter from the other patrons in the restaurant.

“Our first gentleman, Tony Robinson, is missing.”

“First gentleman?”

“You know, the husband to the pastor who is—”

“Who is a woman, I know. But why is he missing?”

“We don't know. All we know is one night he didn't come home. He hasn't been to church and he hasn't been to work.”

“Was there something wrong with their marriage?”

Minister Blackwell's diverted eyes tell it all.

“Tell me or I'll walk.”

“There have been rumors that maybe she is having an affair with one of the brothers.” Minister Blackwell still doesn't make any eye contact.

“Are they true?”

“No!” Finally Blackwell gives me eye contact.

A woman pastor is a tough sale in this day and age. She represents a progressive movement that believes that Paul's initial rebuke of women teaching is open for interpretation. Still, even in a progressive age where women are at the forefront of social, economic, and political change, a woman pastor is a heavily scrutinized position. To the point where a woman pastor cannot afford any scandal.

“Pastor Robinson is a good woman and an anointed preacher. We don't want anything to happen to her. Will you take the job?”

“No,” I say before I took a sip of water.

“That's disappointing. I was led to believe that you would be more forthcoming and sensitive.”

“Something tells me that it's not the first time you've been misled; and I'm not sensitive to your situation, which is why I'm good at what I do. I'm able to operate and observe a situation objectively and come up with the best conclusion of how to solve a problem.”

Minister Blackwell is beside himself and I understand. I admit that I come off a little mean-spirited, but sometimes it's best to be direct and to the point. Minister Blackwell regains his composure and leans forward to have a more private conversation.

“I heard about the pastor who killed himself in Detroit. The man got caught up in a domestic violence charge. You have anything to do with that?”

“Minister Blackwell, let me be clear that I don't talk about other clients with prospective clients.”

“Minister Dungy, if you don't feel that helping this pastor find her husband is a worthy cause, then fine. But consider that we're willing to pay you a lot of money for your trouble. Will you help us?”

Search and rescue is not my forte. Who knew where Pastor Robinson's husband could be, and who knows what details Blackwell is leaving out for this enormous check?