Song of the Shank

Now if Christ preached that He rose from the dead, how say some among you that there is no resurrection of the dead? But if there be no resurrection of the dead, then is Christ not risen? And if Christ is not risen, then our preaching is vain, and your faith is vain. Yea, and we are found false witnesses of God, because we have testified of God that He raised up Christ, whom He raised not up, if so be that the dead rise not. For if the dead rise not, then is not Christ raised? And if Christ be not raised, your faith is vain; ye are yet in your sins. Then, they also which are fallen asleep in Christ are perished. If in this life only, we have hope in Christ, we are of all men most miserable.

You ready to sing?

No church music.

Okay.

Don’t go doubting Jesus’s gift.

No!

The Almighty gave each of us a gift. We need to know what our gifts are. And we need to put our gifts to use for God and the church.

Two deep breaths.

Some Sundays I can’t wait to get here to church. The sisters look good, they smell good, and what they cook is good. Everything is good.

Tell it.

You must have the audacity of hope. Lord, your church often seems like a boat about to sink, a boat taking in water on every side. In Your fields we see more weeds than wheat. And the soiled garments of Your church throw us into confusion. Yet, we got to remember something. It is ourselves who have soiled the garments.

Preach!

We put holes in the boat.

Yes!

We failed to plant the seeds!

Ready?

We can’t go out and change the world until we’re right. He took some breaths. I wish some of you wouldn’t sing in church.

Ha!

And I wish some of you wouldn’t cook. You got to know what your gifts are.

He lets the organ move about the room. And they start in on a hymn. Then it gets quiet again.

You got to know what your gifts are. You got to put your gifts to use for the church and the nation. And you got to get right.

The organ speaks.

There’s a reason that Blind Tim is here in the church this morning. He ain’t here just to sing. Some of you think that. “When is he gon shut up so Tom can sing and play us some piano?”

Laughter.

The time has come for us to forget and cast behind us our hero worship and adoration of other races, and to start out immediately to create and emulate heroes of our own. We must canonize our own saints, create our own martyrs, and elevate to positions of fame and honor Ethiopian men and women who have made their distinct contributions to our racial history.

But I think I said enough. The Almighty has been fortunate enough to bless us with the presence of one of our heroes, the Original Blind Tom.

The congregation applauds. Before Tom can take his bows the two walk him on legs to the front and sit him at the piano. He doesn’t touch the keys, just feels the wood beneath his hands. He feels the wood for a long time.

Play! Play! Play!

The whole church shouting to the roof, but he keeps feeling the wood. Then Reverend Pastor speaks something and the two walk him on legs to receive the wafer of bread. He takes the thin wafer onto his thick tongue. Take, eat. This is my body.

Be quiet, Reverend Pastor says, grinding the words through his teeth.

They put the cold cup to his mouth.

This is my blood. Drink.

I am one of the greatest men that ever walked the earth.

I’m sure you are. Now drink.

I overcame the earth. Mouth quiet.

They put the cold cup to his lips, and he sips from the chalice filled with blood.

The tasteless water of souls.

What did you say?

The tasteless water of souls.

Then the two take him away and sit him. Then the Reverend Pastor. Words fall from his mouth. Ends his sermon with, Become. New or old, become. Citizen or Freedman, become. Change is the only constant. Become. Don’t die. Multiply.

Let us pray.

Two men (the same two?) take him outside after his mouth settles down. He says it, word for word. My gift is the peace which I leave unto you. Whoever drinks from my mouth will become like me. I myself shall become that person. He says it again. And again and again.

Two take him back to the house. Still saying it. Mr. Tabbs isn’t there.

Stay here, one says, until your tongue gets better.

I didn’t afford you prayerful consideration, Wire says. I should have sought your permission first, I will admit that. A revolting expression flamed on his face. I’m actually glad he doesn’t play Christian music. Over the years I have given enough to substantiate my claim of precedence for the Almighty’s natural laws and their marvelous, even incomprehensible working, over any so-called supernatural endowment.

Big sparse drops of rain patter on the window.

But they already have their Tom, Tabbs says. Haven’t you heard? He doesn’t try to hide the sarcasm in his voice.

We are a peculiar people, prone to prayer on the one hand, and superstition on the other.

How do we put an end to this? You have to put an end to it. Speak to Double.

Double is of different stock. He was born in a white womb.

Can it be that he and Wire are feeling the same ache?