“Still, the people had no faith. They wanted to go back to Egypt and that friendly Pharaoh. They preferred the devil they knew to the God they didn’t. They still had a soft spot for that golden calf. They wouldn’t mind going back to being slaves. They wanted to give up their civil rights. They wanted to forget their sorrows in dope and disgraceful behavior on Saturday nights. The good Lord said, ‘I can’t stand this people.’ This tribe of Israel. And He asked Moses and Aaron, as if just for the information, ‘How long shall I bear with this evil congregation, which murmur against me?’ He doesn’t wait for the answer; He answers Himself. The Lord, He slays all the scouts except for Caleb and Joshua. He tells all the others, that evil congregation, ‘Your carcasses shall fall in this wilderness.’ He sentences the others, all twenty years old or older, who had murmured against Him, to forty years in this wilderness—‘and your children shall wander in the wilderness forty years, and bear your whoredoms, until your carcasses be wasted in the wilderness.’ Think of it. Forty years, with no time off for good behavior.” He repeats, “With no time off for good behavior, because you have been an evil congregation.”
A male voice in the congregation cries out, “Right on, Reverend! Evil!”
“No time off, because,” continues the Christian imam, “you lacked the faith. Faith in the power of the Lord Almighty. That was your iniquity—let me give you the wonderful old word in all four of its syllables, in-ick-qui-tee: ‘visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation.’ Moses tries to soften Him up, the mouthpiece pleading with his client. ‘Pardon, I beseech thee,’ he says it right here in the Book, ‘the iniquity of this people according unto the greatness of thy mercy, and as thou hast forgiven this people, from Egypt even until now.’
“‘No way,’ the Lord says back. ‘I’m tired of all this forgiving I’m supposed to do. I want some glory for a change. I want your carcasses.’”
The preacher slumps in the pulpit a little wearily, and rests his elbows informally on the massive holy book with gilded edges. “My friends,” he confides, “you can see what Moses was driving at. What was so terrible, what was so”—he parts with a smile, pronouncing—“in-ick-qui-tuss, about going into enemy territory, scouting out the situation, coming home and giving an honest, cautious report? ‘Things don’t look good. These Canaanites and giants have a good tight grip on the milk and honey. We better back off.’ It sounds just like good common sense, doesn’t it? ‘Don’t cross the man. He has the stocks and bonds, he has the whip and chains, he controls the means of pro-duc-shun.’”
Several voices call out, “That’s right. Good sense. Don’t cross the man.”
“And to drill home His point, the Lord sent down plagues and pestilences, and the people mourned, and decided too late to go up into the mountains and face the Canaanites, who didn’t look so bad now, and Moses, that good old mouthpiece, that savvy lawyer, advised them, ‘Don’t go. You shall not prosper. The Lord is not with you.’ But these wrongheaded Israelites, they went up anyway, and what do we read, in the last verse of Numbers fourteen? ‘Then the Amalekites came down, and the Canaanites which dwelt in that hill, and smote them, and discomfited them, even unto Hormah.’ ‘Even unto Hormah’—that’s a long way. It’s a long way to Hormah.
“You see, my friends, the Lord had been with them. He gave them a chance to go forward with Him in all of His glory, and what did they do? They hesitated. They betrayed Him with their hesitations—their caution, their cow-ar-diss—and Moses and Aaron betrayed Him by letting themselves be swayed, as politicians do when the polls come in—pollsters and spokesmen, they had them even then, in the days of the Bible—and for that they were held back from the Promised Land, Moses and Aaron left there on that mountain looking over into the land of Canaan like children with their faces pressed to the window of the candy store. They couldn’t pass through. They were impure. They hadn’t measured up. They didn’t let the Lord act through them. They had good human intentions, but they didn’t trust enough in the Lord. The Lord is trustworthy. He says He’ll do the impossible, He’ll do it, don’t tell Him He can’t.”
Ahmad finds himself getting excited along with the rest of the congregation, which is stirring and murmuring, relaxing from straining to follow every turn in the sermon, even the little pigtailed girls in the pew beside him, switching their heads back and forth as if to ease a pain in their necks, one of them looking up into Ahmad’s face like a bug-eyed dog wondering if this human being is worth begging at. Her eyes shine as if reflecting a treasure she has spotted within him.
“Faith,” the preacher is proclaiming in a voice roughened by oratory, gritty like coffee overloaded with sugar. “They didn’t have faith. That is why they were an evil congregation. That is why the Israelites were visited by pestilence and shame and defeat in battle. Abraham, the father of the tribe, had faith when he lifted up his knife to sacrifice his only son, Isaac. Jonah had faith in the belly of the whale. Daniel had faith in the lion’s den. Jesus on the cross had faith—he asked the Lord why He had abandoned him but then in the next breath he turned to the thief on the cross next to him and promised that man, that evil man, that ‘hardened criminal,’ as the sociologists say, that that very day he would dwell with him in Paradise. Martin Luther King had faith on the Mall in Washington, and in that hotel in Memphis where James Earl Ray martyred Reverend King—he had gone there to support the striking sanitation workers, the lowest of the low, the untouchables that haul our trash. Rosa Parks had faith in that bus in Montgomery, Alabama.” The preacher’s body leans out, growing taller, and his voice changes tune as a new thought strikes him. “She took a seat in the front of the bus,” he says at conversational pitch. “That’s what the Israelites didn’t do. They were afraid to sit at the front of the bus. The Lord said to them, ‘There it is, right behind the driver, the land of Canaan full of milk and honey, that seat’s for you,’ and they said, ‘No thanks, Lord, we like it at the back of the bus. We have a little game of craps going, we have our little pint of Four Roses to pass around, we have our little crack pipe, our heroin needle, we have our under-age crackhead girlfriends to bear our illegitimate children that we can leave in a shoebox at the disposal and recycling facility on the edge of town—don’t send us up that hill, Lord. We no match for those giants. We no match for Bull Connor and his police dogs. We’ll just stay in the back of the bus. It’s nice and dark there. It’s cozy.’” He returns to his own voice and says, “Don’t be like them, brothers and sisters. Tell me what you need.”
“Faith,” a few voices weakly offer, uncertain.
“Let me hear it again, louder. What do we all need?”
“Faith,” comes the more unified reply. Even Ahmad pronounces the word, but so no one can hear, except the little girl next to him.
“Better, but not loud enough. What do we have, brothers and sisters?”
“Faith!”
“Faith in what? Let me hear it so those Canaanites quake in their big goatskin boots!”
“Faith in the Lord!”
“Yes, oh yes,” individual voices add. A few women here and there are sobbing. The mother, still young and comely, in Ahmad’s pew has gleaming cheeks, he sees.
The preacher is not quite done with them. “The Lord of who?” he asks, answering himself with an excitement almost boyish: “The Lord of Abraham.” He takes a breath. “The Lord of Joshua.” He takes another. “The Lord of King David.”
“The Lord of Jesus,” a voice from the back of the old church puts forth.
“The Lord of Mary,” cries a female voice.
Another ventures, “The Lord of Bathsheba.”
“The Lord of Zipporah,” calls a third.
The preacher decides the time to close has come. “The Lord of us all,” he booms, leaning as close into the microphone as a rock star. He is wiping the shine from his tall bald head with a white handkerchief. He is filmed with sweat. It has made his starched collar wilt. He has been in his kafir way
wrestling with devils, wrestling even with Ahmad’s devils. “The Lord of us all,” he repeats, mournfully. “Amen.”
“Amen,” many say, in relief and emptiness. There is silence, and then a businesslike sound of muffled pacing as four men in their suits march two abreast up the aisle to receive wooden plates while the choir with a massive rustle stands and readies itself to sing. A small robed man who has made up for his shortness by growing his kinky hair into a tall puff lifts his arms in readiness as the grave men in pastel polyester suits take the plates the preacher has handed them and fan out, two down the center aisle and two on the sides. They expect money to be placed in the plates, which have red felt bottoms to soften the rattle of coins. The unexpected word “impure” returns from the sermon; Ahmad’s insides tremble with the impure trespass of his witnessing these black unbelievers at worship of their non-God, their three-headed idol; it is like seeing sex among people, pink scenes glimpsed over the shoulders of boys misusing their computers at school.
Abraham, Noah: these names are not totally strange to Ahmad. The Prophet in the third sura affirmed: We believe in God, and in what hath been sent down to us, and what hath been sent down to Abraham, and Ishmael, and Isaac, and Jacob, and the tribes, and in what was given to Moses, and Jesus, and the Prophets, from their Lord. We make no difference between them. These people around him are too in their fashion People of the Book. Why disbelieve ye the signs of God? Why repel believers from the way of God?
The electric organ, played by a man the back of whose neck shows rolls of creased flesh as if to form another face, makes a trickle of sound, then jabs out a swoop like a splash of icy water. The choir, Joryleen among them, in the front row, begins to sing. Ahmad has eyes only for her, the way she opens her mouth so wide, the tongue inside so pink behind her small round teeth, like half-buried pearls. “What a friend we have in Jesus,” he understands the opening words to say, slowly, as if dragging the burden of the song up from some cellar of sorrow. “All our sins and griefs to bear!” The congregation behind Ahmad greets the words with grunts and yips of assent: they know this song, they like it. From the side aisle a kafir man taller than most, in a lemon-yellow suit, with a big broad-knuckled hand that makes the collection plate look the size of a saucer, passes it into the row where Ahmad sits. Ahmad passes it on quickly, depositing nothing; it tries to fly out of his hand, the wood is so surprisingly light, but he brings it down to the level of the little girl next to him, her scrabbly brown hands, not quite a baby’s, reaching to snatch it away and pass it on. She, who has been looking up at him with bright dog-eyes, has inched over so that her wiry small body touches his, leaning so softly she may think he will not notice. Still feeling himself a trespasser, he stiffly ignores her, looking straight ahead as if to read the words from the mouths of the robed singers. “What a priv-i-lege to carry,” he understands, “everything to God in prayer.”
Ahmad himself loves prayer, the sensation of pouring the silent voice in his head into a silence waiting at his side, an invisible extension of himself into a dimension purer than the three dimensions of this world. Joryleen has told him she would be singing a solo, but she stays in her row, between a fat older woman and a skinny one the color of dried leather, all jiggling slightly in their shimmery blue robes, their mouths pretty much in unison, so he cannot tell which voice is Joryleen’s. Her eyes stay on the puff-haired director and not once stray toward Ahmad, though he has risked Hellfire to accept her invitation. He wonders if Tylenol is in the evil congregation at his back; his shoulder hurt for a day where Tylenol had gripped it. “…All because we do not carry,” the choir sings, “everything to God in prayer.” These women’s voices all together, with the deeper ones of the men standing in the row behind, have a stately frontal quality, like an army advancing without fear of attack. The many throats are massed into an organ sound, unanswerable, plaintive, far removed from an imam’s single voice intoning the music of the Qur’an, a music that enters the spaces behind your eyes and sinks into a silence of your brain.
The electronic organist slips into a different rhythm, a hippity-hop studded with a knocking noise, a wooden percussion produced at the back of the choir, by an instrument, a set of sticks, that Ahmad cannot see. The congregation greets the shift of tempo with mutters of approval, and the choir begins to keep the rhythm with its feet, its hips. The organ makes a gulping, dipping sound. The song is shedding the clothing of its words, which become harder to understand—something about trials and temptations and trouble anywhere. The skinny dried-up woman next to Joryleen steps forward and, in a voice that sounds like a man’s, a mellow man’s, asks the congregation, “Can we find a friend so faithful, who will all our sorrows share?” Behind her the chorus is chanting the one word, “Prayer, prayer, prayer.” The organist is bouncing up and down, seemingly going his own way but keeping in touch. Ahmad hadn’t known the organ had so many notes on the keyboard, high ones and low ones, all in clusters hurrying upward, upward. “Prayer, prayer, prayer,” the chorus keeps chanting, letting that fat organist have his solo say.
Then comes Joryleen’s turn; she steps forward into a spatter of clapping, and her eyes skim right across Ahmad’s face before she turns the full-lipped oval of her own face toward the crowd beyond his pew and higher, in the balcony. She takes a breath; his heart stops, fearful for her. But her voice unspools a luminous thread: “Are we weak and heavy laden, cumbered with a load of care?” Her voice is young and frail and pure, with a little quaver to it before her nervousness settles. “Precious Savior, still our refuge,” she sings. Her voice relaxes into a brassy color, with a rasping edge, then rises in sudden freedom to a shriek like that of a child pleading to be let into a locked door. The congregation murmurs approval of these liberties. Joryleen cries out, “Do-hoo thy friends despise, for-horsake thee?”
“Hey, well, do they?” the fat woman next to her calls out, chiming in as if Joryleen’s solo is a warm bath become too inviting to stay out of. She jumps in not to jostle Joryleen but to join her; hearing this other voice beside her, Joryleen tries a few off notes, harmonizing, her young voice getting bolder, transported into self-forgetfulness. “In his arms,” she sings, “in his arms, in his arms he’ll take and shield thee; thou wilt find, oh mercy yes, a solace there.”
“Yes, a solace; yes, a solace,” the fat woman echoes, and steps out into a roar of recognition, of love from the crowd, for her voice takes them deep into and then right out of the bottom of their lives, Ahmad feels. Her voice has been seasoned in the suffering that for Joryleen is mainly ahead, a mere shadow on her young life. With that authority, the fat woman, her face as broad as a stone idol’s, begins again, with “What a friend.” Dimples appear not just below her cheeks but at the corners of her eyes, the sides of her broad flat nose, as her nostrils flare at a fierce slant. The hymn has by now been so pounded into the veins and nerves of those gathered here that it can be accessed at any point. “All our sins, I mean all our sins and griefs—hear that, Lord?” The choir, Joryleen among them, hang on undismayed while this fat ecstatic snaps her arms back and forth, swings them for a moment in the mock-comic jaunty triumph of someone striding down a gangplank after crossing a stormy sea, and shoots out a pointing hand to the writhing reaches of the balcony, shouting, “Hear that? Hear that?”
“We hearin’ it, sister,” comes back a man’s voice.
“Hear what, brother?” She answers the question: “All our sins and griefs to bear. Think of those sins. Think of those griefs. They’re our babies, isn’t that right? Sins and griefs, our natural-born babies.” The chorus keeps dragging the tune along, but faster now. The organ clambers and jounces, the percussion sticks keep knocking out of sight, the fat woman shuts her eyes and slaps the word “Jesus” across the blindly continuing beat, shortening it to “Jeez. Jeez. Jeez,” and breaking into, as if another song is leaking in, “Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, Lord. Thank you for the love, all day, all night.” As the choir sings, “O what needless pain we bear,” she sobs
, “Needless, needless. We need to take it to Jesus, we need to, need to!” When the choir, still under the control of the small man with the high puff of hair, arrives at the last line, she does too, singing it, “Everything, every- thing, every little old thing to God in prayer. Yeaahuyess.”
The choir, Joryleen’s the widest-open, freshest mouth in it, stops singing. Ahmad finds his eyes heated and his stomach in such a stir he fears he might vomit, here among these yelping devils. The false saints in the soot-darkened tall windows look down. The face of a scowling white-bearded one burns with a passing beam of sun. The little girl has snuggled into his side without his noticing; suddenly heavy, she has fallen asleep in the heart of the huge, belting music. The whole rest of the family, down the length of the pew, smiles at him, at her.
He doesn’t know if he should wait for Joryleen outside the church, as the worshippers in their pastel spring outfits push out into the April air, which is turning watery and chill as clouds overhead tarnish darker. Ahmad’s indecision is prolonged while, half hiding behind a curbside locust tree that survived the demolition that created the lake of rubble, he satisfies himself that Tylenol was not in the crowd. Then, just as he decides to sneak away, there she is, coming up to him, serving up all her roundnesses like fruit on a plate. She wears a silver bead, holding a tiny reflection of the sky, in one nostril-wing. Beneath the blue robe all along there were the same sort of clothes she wears to high school, not dress-up church clothes. He remembers her telling him she doesn’t take religion all that seriously. “I saw you,” she teases. “Sitting with the Johnsons, no less.”
“The Johnsons?”
“That family you were with. They are big church people. They own do-it-yourself laundry places downtown and over in Passaic. You’ve heard of the black boor-shwa-zee? That’s them. What you staring at, Ahmad?”