Journey To Redemption E-Book

Ryan T. Moorer

• Herausgeber: Firebrand Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 342

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Journey To Redemption

Daunted by the pain of his past, Terrell attempts to start a new life away from "The Church". The tormented young believer struggles to make sense of the choices he´s made and the direction life has taken him.

As he attempts to start a new life, the demons from the cult like religion he was once a part of still dominates his every waking thought.

Damaged yet driven, Terrell learns that he has to find closure before the pain of his past causes him to commit the ultimate sin...murder. 

While he wrestles with his inner demons, he must confront the rage within him that has festered for years. 

This journey to find himself takes many twists as he seeks Redemption.

Leseprobe

Journey To Redemption

Ryan T. Moorer

Copyright © 2021 by Ryan T. Moorer

All rights reserved.

Published by Firebrand Publishing Atlanta, GA USA

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions coordinator,” at the email address: [email protected]

Firebrand Publishing publishes in a variety of print and electronic formats and by print-on-demand. For more information about Firebrand Publishing products, visit https://firebrandpublishing.com

ISBN: 978-1-941907-41-2 (paperback) ISBN: 978-1-941907-42-9 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Preface

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

About the Author

Preface

“God won't put no more on you than you can bear.” I have heard that scripture all my life. It’s easy to say for those who ain’t never been through shit. The truth is all tests, all trials and all suffering feels like it’s “more than you can bear.”

Hate is weight. Too heavy to walk with, too heavy to hold, and too heavy to productively function with. Hate is not just heavy, but it is also darkness. It is the darkness of depression, of worry and pain. We try our best to function as we walk hunched over in a fog of instability and uncertainty. A fog of wondering “when will life be normal again.” Eventually, we realize on the other side of vulnerability is strength. On the other side of pain is relief. On the other side of disappointment is clarity. Momma used to say, “Everyone has to cross fool’s mountain.” Sometimes the journey across that mountain takes a long time, but eventually we cross it.

My journey began when I was wide-eyed and trusted the world. My voyage was a winding road of mistrust, failure, heartbreak, and growth. My stepdad was an abusive man. His rage was terrifying. He never pretended to be anything other than a cruel man. My pastor, however, was different. He was a manipulator and a con. I never believed in my stepdad because I knew who he was. I believed in Pastor Rudders, and I later learned that was part of his con. He fooled me into thinking he had my best interests at heart, and I hated him for that. That hatred turned into rage. A rage so strong that the only way to satisfy my thirst for revenge was by killing the Pastor.

Chapter One

I learned how to manipulate people from a young age going to church. Pastor Rudders Prangles always put on a show. I watched him watch people. He told his congregation of eager listeners what they needed to hear. “You’ll be healed,” “You’ll be blessed,” “Your change is coming.” He would spout clichés that ignited a swell of enthusiasm and excitement as music would blare and bodies would dance in the isles.

My mother came to Trueway Church the summer of 1990. She was in an abusive relationship that had caused her many sleepless nights. She walked in with her five boys and filed into the back pew. I’m the second oldest of my brothers. Ron was fourteen, I was twelve, LJ was six, Marc was four and Mell, the youngest, was only three. We stood there in that gutted, double wide mobile home, dressed in our khaki pants, white starched shirts, and buster brown shoes in Bamberg, South Carolina. Momma had been fighting the night before, her dark skin puffy around her eyes. Momma was a strong woman, but she carried her pain in her face. She always looked like she wanted to cry but refused to ever let her children see her tears. Her eyes had the slightest hint of a gray ring around the pupils. Her face carried her fatigue. She had lost many fights. But she was a proud Christian woman. She was a product of old school salvation. The kind that stayed there till “death do you part.” The kind that prayed until change came. The kind that loved hard and hurt harder. Many nights we could hear her through the thin walls of our three-bedroom apartment, praying after she had fasted all day. She had a beautiful voice and always started out prayer with,

“I know somehow, I know some way, we’re going to make it. No matter what the test or whatever comes our way, we’re going to make it. With Jesus on our side, things will work out fine. We’re going to make it.”

And there she stayed, on her knees praying and praying, calling out to Jesus until the tongues came. There she stayed until the spirit took hold of her, moving her body in praise and dance, slaying her in the spirit, breaking her, exhausting her until her body slumped over, reducing her to tears. Then she would get up, ready to face another day, renewed in faith but still tired. She wanted something better for her children. She wanted something better for herself. She was tired of fighting at night then getting up to see her children off to school in the morning; tired of her body aching and stiff every morning; weary of fixing meals in the dark because the lights were off again; shattered from pleading for this man to stop hitting her while muffling her cries so that her children wouldn’t hear her torment and pain; disgusted from the smell of Schlitz malt liquor beer and Newport cigarettes lying next to her; fed up with the broken promises and countless extra women; frightened from the thought of what type of men these five boys were going to be with the example that lived at home. She prayed every day that God would intervene and save her boys from following the path of their live-in example. She prayed for a better illustration of a man.

That was how we found ourselves in the back of that church listening to God’s word from Rudders Prangles.

It seemed like he could smell her concerns. He was very observant. All predators are. He walked over to us and smiled in a way that made us feel comfortable. I was amazed. Never had I seen a man that didn’t drink or smoke, and he still took care of his own family. He was the first man that I had ever known who didn’t have children outside his marriage. He had a job, a real job that he kept year-round, unlike my stepdad who quit every few months. We sat there and watched as he looked at my mom in her face and told her, “God hears your prayers.”

She burst into tears. It was as if she had finally gotten confirmation that all of her suffering and pain would soon end. I remember how she cried and cried. I remember thinking about how different things were going to be now that God had heard her prayers. We all cried. My mom laid her head down in the palms of her hands. The other mothers and missionaries rushed to her with towels. They stood her up as the Pastor reached for the olive oil bottle. He unscrewed the top, poured it into his hands, rubbed them together and anointed her forehead. The oiled trickled down the side of her face as he prayed over her.

“Father God in the name of Jesus, once more again we come before you with bowed heads and humbled hearts.”

She looked renewed. Someone started clapping loudly. The drummer grabbed his sticks and began a hand clapping rhythm. The organist and the bass guitar player followed suit. And Momma danced. She danced and danced and danced. The Pastor walked over to all five of us and grabbed us all, anointing us all with oil. We jumped up and down, not really on rhythm, not sure what we were jumping for. But we jumped. Momma, on the other hand, glided across the floor. She had an angelic spirit that made us sit back and watch as she moved. She seemed to be with the angels. We left the church that day and went home with great expectations. Momma was happy. I hadn’t seen her smile in a long time, but nothing had changed.

Chapter Two

We came home from church that day to find my stepdad waiting at the door. He was a big man, standing over six feet tall. He towered above us all. His presence was intimidating. He had light brown skin with a mini afro that he hadn’t let go from the 70’s. He was a hard man, hardened from his father and his childhood. He didn’t finish high school, so he was put to work at an early age. The calluses on his hands were from years of working in his father’s cotton and tobacco fields. He was an angry man, angry at the way the world had unjustly shit on him. It had cheated him, toyed with him. He never had enough education, but he had the skill. He was strong but not young enough. He was the perfect fit but didn’t read well. He could count but couldn’t write. His life was filled with buts and almost’s or close but not quite’s. And that was the source of his rage. It was a quiet rage, one that he controlled until that rage built up and he exploded in uncontrollable violence. He loved the fear of others and we were all afraid of him.

We entered the apartment, and he immediately and quietly asked,

“Who stays at church this late?”

The softness in his voice was unnerving. We had all experienced the quiet buildup of his

uncontrollable violence. Momma looked at him and said,

“We didn’t have a ride, Harry.”

“So, you expect me to cook my own dinner?” he asked.

She paused before she answered him. She knew that the wrong tone

would be construed as disrespect in front of the children.

“No, Harry. I took something out and it won’t take long to make,” she said.

My stepdad sat down in his favorite chair, flipping the channels between football games. No one said anything. We knew better. Our place was in our room, quiet. And that’s where we went. All five of us tip toed up those stairs and piled into our bedroom. We sat on the floor with our legs crossed, Indian style, playing Connect Four. My stepdad was quiet too, silent while he drank beer after beer. Soundless while his imagination mixed with the alcohol, pushing him into a delusional state.

“You must got a new man at that church!” he yelled.

My mother started to hum her prayer song, Myrna Summers’ We're Gonna Make It. Her melodious voice drowned out the mad scoffs of my stepfather. She called us down to dinner and we saw the tears in her eyes. The tears of expectation. The tears of foreknowing that this night would be like so many other nights.

I looked at her and asked, “What’s wrong, Ma?”

Her response was in song. “With Jesus on our side, things will work out fine, we’re gonna make it.”

She leaned down and kissed my dimples. Her tears dampened my face. I sat down at the table and ate my dinner in silence.

Later that night, I awoke to the sound of shattered glass and an angry scream.

“Who stays in church that long?” he yelled.

It was the drunken rage of my stepdad. Quickly, I jumped out of bed and blindly ran towards the light pouring out from the cracks of their bedroom door.

“Stop!” I screamed.

I was now standing witness to a horrible scene, a nightmare that wasn't a dream but too often a fixture of my reality. There stood my stepdad, holding his hand in a threatening grip around momma’s neck as she grasped for air and cringed in pain.

“Let her go! You’re hurting her!” I screamed.

“I’m just showing your mother something. Go back to bed,” he asserted.

Did he think I was an idiot? Did he think I was stupid? I could see shards of broken glass in the room. I ran towards him and tried to pry his fastened fingers from her neck. I was a child. Small and scared. He batted me away with ease and flung her to the floor. I ran back to her side as he straddled her. I felt helpless knowing that he would just swat me away again. I jumped on his back, trying desperately to pull him backwards as my mother struggled to get out from under him. He released his grip as I bit down on his shoulder. He threw me off his back and stormed out of the room, and for an instant I thought the nightmare was over. Within seconds, he came back into the room with his thick leather black belt wrapped around his fist, swinging it wildly in anger and screaming that he would teach me a lesson. Momma did her best to shield me from the blows, absorbing most of the abuse. When he had exhausted himself, he left. Momma was hurt but she tended to my wounds first. I wanted to ask her why, I wanted to ask her “How could he?”

She saw the questions in my eyes and answered them simply.

“He’s your daddy and you have to love him. God wants you to love him.”

I laid in my bed that night thinking that the Pastor had lied. Nothing had changed.

I watched Momma endure abuse both physically and mentally, all the while telling her five boys to love and respect their dad. I didn’t want to love him, but I did. I didn’t want to respect him, but I had to. Doing the right thing vindicated my mom. With each beating, I discovered that my fear of him gradually slipped away. With each beating came a promise of change. Each beating ended with him asking for repentance and a second chance. My stepdad’s empty promises along with Pastor Rudders’ manipulation through scriptures was partially why she stayed.

The other reason she stayed was for her boys. Her boys, her five boys. She thought she was doing what was best for us. A day would barely pass before the sound of forceful strikes and gut-wrenching cries echoed throughout the house. Sunday after Sunday, she would gather herself, get dressed, and take us to church. Some days when it was just my mom and us in the house, she would become so overwhelmed with fear, anxiety, and loneliness that she would suddenly burst into tears. We watched her. We saw her pain. We knew why she hurt. We saw her in the prayer line every Sunday, waiting for the Pastor to tell her to leave, but all she got was

“And unto the married I command, [yet] not I, but the Lord, let not the wife depart from [her] husband,” (1 Corinthians 7:10-17) or “And if a woman shall put away her husband, and be married to another, she committeth adultery,” (Mark 10:12).

Looking back, all she got from Pastor Prangles was scripture and a bunch of sob stories about needing another vehicle or a new suit or a new riding lawn mower. It hurt to know that she was suffering and that all this “Man of God” could offer was a forehead wet from cheap olive oil, a chance to shout on sore bruised legs, and an opportunity to buy his wife a new hat. It hurt to know that every time she spoke to the Pastor, the only advice he could give was one of his many tired clichés.

“Hold on and don’t let go.”

“Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.”

“He may not come when you want him, but he’s always on time.”

He never told her to leave. He never told her to protect herself. He never told her to take her family and run. All he did was yell and give us his cliché’s. Who needs a fucking cliché when your eyes are swollen and your lip is busted?

My stepdad beat us the same way he did Momma. I preferred the beatings to hearing the hurtful sounds of him using my mother as his punching bag. Sometimes I stood at the bedroom door when he came home. Usually I just shook like a leaf trying to hold onto its branch during a brisk fall breeze. It seemed like every Saturday night before church and Sunday after church, my stepdad was in that crazy-ass way, blaming Momma for everything. Everything was Momma’s fault. She couldn’t do anything right. When he started, she took things to the bedroom and closed the door to spare us from seeing her battered.

I hated my stepdad as much as I loved him. The contradiction was painful. The hardest part was trying to understand Momma. I didn’t understand why she let my stepdad treat her like that. Why was she always praying? Why did she keep saying to trust in God? If she couldn’t stand up for herself, how would she protect us? What happens to us when he kills her? I didn’t want to believe he would kill my brothers and me, but I couldn’t be sure. We couldn’t possibly defend ourselves against a strong man like my stepdad, especially not when he was in one of his rages. But mom stayed, trusting, hoping and waiting for a change, believing that each prayer she received was the one that would make all her hurt go away.

We stayed in that church for years. Each Sunday was a buildup of emotions. High spirited praise, shouting, jumping and dancing. Nothing changed. We were told each Sunday that life would be different if we danced long enough or cried hard enough. We sat there each week believing every word that was uttered from the mouth of this pastor. Momma gave everything, hoping that the beatings would stop, that the lies would cease, and that the pain would end. Because of her faith, she sacrificed money for bills and even gave portions of her income tax returns. Years of putting more and more money into Pastor Prangles pocket. And whenever we failed at anything, it wasn’t because of his advice. It was because of our shortcomings and our lack of faith. Pastor Prangles twisted the Bible and the image of God into something ugly and frightening. Most of the time, he just wanted to step on us, to grind his Christian truth into us with the heel of his $400 Wing-Tip Oxford Salvatore Ferragamo shoes. It was years before I became so disgusted by the hate radiating from this pastor that I would leave. He made me sick. And I thought to myself if that’s what being a Christian is, then I wanted nothing, absolutely nothing, to do with it. That was also the beginning of the turning point for Momma.

Chapter Three

I loved and hated my stepdad. I saw other dads in my neighborhood. They were everywhere, with mustaches and wearing Hawaiian shirts, carrying wallets and drinking beers. They were at family gatherings, throwing the ball to their sons, teaching them about life and love, showing them the right way to do things. On TV, Dad’s gave stumbling advice or blathered into obnoxious temper tantrums, flaunting their cosmic ineptitude while watching the flames of the charcoal grill. Sitcom dads were teased by wives and taunted by children until the moment of crisis when violins would swell and fatherly advice was dished out like alcohol for a skinned knee. It hurt but it was good.

The dads I met in real life showed up for football games and school plays. My stepdad was not one of them. I wondered if all dads acted the way mine did behind closed doors. I wondered if my friends’ mothers cried at night. After a while, I did what my mom did and acted as if the beatings didn’t happen. I’d pretend that we were just like everyone else, a happy family with five great kids. But it was hard to pretend after witnessing the most brutal of my stepdad’s beatings which was Mom’s final straw.

It was a cool Sunday morning. I remember that day clearly. The house felt different. Momma was up early as usual, but my stepdad was up too. We only had one full bathroom in that apartment which made daily hygiene a struggle. We filed in one by one on rotation, each waiting eagerly for the next to finish, each thinking the person before him was taking way too long. This day was different. My stepdad disrupted the rotation. He was up shaving. I went in after he was done and could still smell his Old Spice aftershave. I wondered why he was up so early, but I didn’t dare ask. We all rushed through our routines and got dressed. I was the last downstairs to breakfast and the last to notice my stepdad fully dressed. He had on a shirt and tie.

“OH, MY GOD, is he going to church?” Momma had a joyful expression in her eyes that could not be contained. It was all over her face. Her smile made all of us smile. Her joy gave us all joy. We sat down to grits, eggs and bacon for breakfast. Momma rushed upstairs to put on her dress.

After breakfast, we sat quietly in the living room waiting for her to come downstairs. This was the first time my stepdad ever wanted to come to church with us, and she wanted to look good. She wore an off-white top with a navy-blue skirt and matching jacket. Her shoes were nude. Momma loved her hats. She came downstairs proudly wearing a lightweight textured horsehair fabric, off white 2 1/2 inch turned down brim hat with silk flowers. Momma loved her hats. It was beautiful, and she wore it well.

We piled into his T-Top Cutlass and drove to church with a smile on our faces. The sultry summer day was hot and the air conditioner didn’t work so my stepdad took the glass out of the roof. We entered the church and my stepdad walked in last, almost reluctantly. Momma sat in the middle row. Not her usual spot, but I figured she didn’t want to make the old man too uncomfortable. We filed in beside them. The seven of us filled the entire pew. Church started like normal with devotional services, high spirited praise, dance and then the offering.

The Pastor always came out of his study right before the offering. He stood in the pulpit and said in his booming voice,

“Will a man rob God? Yet ye have robbed me. But ye say, wherein have we robbed thee? In tithes and offerings. Ye are cursed with a curse: for ye have robbed me.” It was Malachi 3:8. It put the fear of God into all stingy givers. Then it was time for the sermon. Prangles stood in the pulpit and spoke to the church, lecturing the church on responsibilities and manhood.

“For also when we were with you, we enjoined you this, that if any man does not like to work, neither let him eat 2 Thessalonians.

For if a man has not the art of ruling his house, how will he take care of the church of God? I Timothy 3:5.”

And that’s the way the entire service went. Minutes turned into hours of finger pointing and innuendos wrapped around, “God’s Word” and “sound doctrine.” I could feel my dad growing angrier by the minute. We all sat silently. Why would he antagonize my dad? Why was he poking the beast? When the service was over, Pastor Prangles stood there in his pretentious glory, thinking that he had delivered us from evil. We left the service in silence. My dad was quiet the entire way home. Almost immediately upon entering the house did the screams and the banging began. We knew the drill and quickly ran to our bedrooms. My younger brothers held their ears, waiting for the sounds to stop. But this time was different. Waiting for the silence, I heard the bedroom door slam and the sounds of footsteps rumbling down the hallway. Momma was trying to get away. The footsteps grew louder and closer. He was chasing her down the hall. I looked out to see him dragging her by the hair back into the bedroom. Momma was crying. I saw my stepdad lunge forward to grab her by the neck again, but she pulled back and screamed.

“Harry! Stop! Harry! Please!” I had never heard her sound so afraid. The bedroom door flew open and they spilled out into the hallways.

“Daddy’s going to kill her,” I said to my brothers.

“We have to do something.”

I ran into the hallway and jumped on his back. Momma was half dressed, her blue and white top torn. Her legs were splayed wide open and my stepdad was straddling her, pummeling her with clenched fists. Each lick seemed to echo as he screamed, “WHAT DID YOU TELL THEM PEOPLE? WHY WAS YOU TALKING ABOUT ME!”

Every word out of his mouth was followed by a fist. Blood spurted from Momma’s face. She started thrashing around, kicking her legs, holding up her arms to ward off the punches, trying to break free, trying to save herself. I was frozen in place, but then something inside of me took over, and I knew I had to do something. I felt no fear, only rage. I gouged at his eyes as my other brothers came running and screaming,

“Leave her alone! Stop punching my momma!”

He didn’t turn around. He just kept punching, swatting us away like flies. The next thing I knew I was on my back absorbing wild blows. My two younger brothers jumped on his back, trying to pull him off. Sweat was dripping down his face and his eyes were glazed and wild. He paused, breathing heavy, looking down at me, bloody and crying. For a moment, I expected an apology. But it was as if I was looking into the eyes of a stranger. A stillness came over the room. The smell of blood and sweat was thick in the air.

That’s when we heard a faint voice yell,

“I’m calling the cops.” It was our neighbor next door.

My father looked stunned. It was as if he’d awakened from a bad dream. His head dropped, and his shoulders slumped. I looked over at Momma. Her eyes were purple, and her face was bloody. She didn’t look back at me. My stepdad left after that day. Momma pressed charges. She never talked about the beatings.

The next Sunday was her last Sunday at church. She testified about the grueling ordeal that she had faced. She stood and talked about the worst experience of her life. All Prangles could muster was another tired ass cliché. “He may not come when you want him, but he’s always on time.”

All Momma’s giving, shouting, crying, praying and fasting had amounted to ten years of the same situation. The beatings had taken their toll on her and she soon lost her vision because of them. The only answer that she ever got was her change hadn’t come because her faith wasn’t strong enough. The only change in her life was her slowly diminishing vision. Momma was done with this fake pastor and his bullshit ministry. She left because she knew he was fake, and her eyes were finally open. Pastor Prangles was quick to remind me that Momma walking away from the church equated to her walking away from God. It was a confusing time for all of us. I knew Momma was strong in her faith, but we were conditioned to believe that Pastor Prangles spoke for God himself. I didn’t know God for myself. I only knew what Pastor Prangles told me.

That is the con of the small country church. The pastor presents himself as Lord over God’s flock. He hovers over them, demanding attention like a spoiled child. And when that attention is not given, he throws a long-winded tantrum in the form of a sermon. That was the way of Pastor Rudders Prangles.

Chapter Four

I didn’t leave when Momma left. Me and LJ stayed. There is an arrogance in small churches. An arrogance mixed with a cruel ideology. The belief that no other church is right or is teaching God’s word correctly. LJ and I were essential members of the congregation; I was the devotional leader and he played the drums. We were a small congregation of thirty and somehow we thought that all of Heaven belonged to us…ONLY! Even though eight years had passed, I was still young and naive. I believed every word out of Prangles mouth. Pastor Prangles’ cult-like ministry constantly reminded us that “No one teaches the truth like I am” or “If you leave this church you are gonna fall and everything you touch will fail.”

Trueway Church was a stronghold of intimidation that trapped and misled the young, hurt, broken or lonely. Every member encompassed one of those features. My brother LJ and I embodied those characteristics. We were broken, searching for a father figure. Our desire to feel a father’s love blinded us to the effects of that venomous ministry. Prangles knew that and he seized every opportunity to play on our self-doubts and insecurities. He gave us titles and jobs. LJ played the drums and I was Deacon Terrell. I was the church trustee and Youth Sunday school teacher. I was also the pastor’s armor bearer and scripture reader in church. Not only that, but I was the guy they called when he wanted to get the “Holy Ghost party” started.

I stood about 5’10’’ in height and was built like a Sumo wrestler. My midsection refused to stay above my belt line, spilling over into my lap. I had skin the color of soft brown leather and two dimples that pressed deep into my cheeks. Chestnut brown eyes and thick brows and lashes made my round face stand out. My self-esteem was low because of my weight but I didn’t know it.

I was 18 when I met Tanya at Trueway church. She was the best singer in the choir. That made me feel important. I was filled with vanity and pride. Tanya was the first woman that showed real interest in me, and I latched onto her. She wasn’t a gorgeous woman, but she had pretty features. Tanya was 5’4’’ with big, round brown eyes. Her voice and her apple ass were her greatest assets. She had small adolescent tits and a thick midsection that made her breasts seem even smaller. She was raised in the church…the old-school church. The kind that wore skirts below the knees. She had dark brown skin, a shade lighter than brown autumn leaves. She wore her hair in a French roll that made her look older than she was.

I was attracted to her because she was attracted to me. I had learned how to look like a Christian, talk like a Christian, and even dance like a Christian. I could hold a conversation with any minister and quote scriptures off the top of my head. I was never real about it. I enjoyed the attention and allowed it to change who I was. I had forgotten the core values that my mom had instilled in me. Pride, vanity and regular church girl pussy will do that to you.

My ego and my penis were the guiding forces in my decision to stay at Trueway Church. Momma’s eyes were opened to the con of the Pastor, but I wasn’t convinced. I listened to his ungodly bullshit. I listened to him say that Momma was weak. I even convinced myself that she was wrong for leaving. I knew my mother hadn’t lost faith, but I was caught up in my new position in the church. I was young, naïve, and I was a Deacon.

Often in small churches, we equate titles to closeness with God. I was just plain stupid. I was the typical young adult with hormones. A few times those hormones got the best of me and that young, talented choir singer. She conceived a child, and in my distress and embarrassment to try and keep it hidden, I asked her to terminate the pregnancy. The frustration and stress of not wanting the church to know that we were sinners caused us both to agree that an abortion was the best solution. I had looked down my nose at so many folks, and now here I was covering up my own mess hoping not to be exposed. Tanya’s conscience was heavy. She felt an urge to testify about her ordeal. She confessed to “our” sins in a long drawn out tearful soliloquy during testimony service.

In small churches in the south, there is a moment called testimony service. I always hated testimony service. I never understood how talking openly to sinners about their sins made them less sinful.

Church folk have a confusing habit when it comes to sharing testimonies. They tend to prefer telling dramatic stories about dark, reckless pasts turned around in a sudden moment just to grab the attention of the crowd and stir their emotions. Church folks are the best actors. They read the crowd, waiting for that climactic moment to tell of God pulling them up from the lowest moment.

“And that’s when God stepped in right on time.”

A swell of emotion brought other church folk to their feet, dancing and congratulating for believing in God and for telling your business to judgmental, gossiping ears and eyes. The more dramatic the story, the better.

At Trueway Church there seemed to be an obsession with sensational testimonies. There was a hunger for the juiciest story or gossip. This hunger was what propelled church folk to tell their stories, ending them with a “this changes everything” moment and “because I openly told you all my business, I’m all better.” I have sat through hundreds of so called “testimony services” and said to myself, “Now you know that shit didn’t happen like that” or “that negro knows he is lying.”

I had to leave Trueway Church to understand that struggle is a reality. Temptation is a reality. Failure is a reality, even for those who are actively walking with Christ.

But that wasn’t the way of Pastors Rudders Prangles. According to him, God was perfect, and we should be perfect. Anything less than perfection was ungodly. It was a hard life. No one can be mistake free. And after Tanya’s confession, he latched hold to her testimony and in all self-righteous glory, proceeded to bring down condemnation on me as a sinner. He walked through the bible, twisting the scriptures to promote his own agenda of marriage and of filling his congregation.

“Adam knew Eve, and she did conceive. Genesis 4.”

“King David knew Bathsheba, and she did conceive. II Samuel 11.”

“And Deacon Terrell knew Tanya, so he must do the right thing.”

I sat there Sunday after Sunday hearing the same thing over and over. I finally consented to marrying her. The church went through the same routine of shouting and jumping. I sat there, feeling that something was wrong. The pressure to do what this man said was overwhelming. The pressure to do what the Pastor said was an unbearable stronghold. My mind told me to flee, but my heart wouldn’t allow me to. He assured me that I was doing what God wanted. He assured me that I was doing the will of The Almighty. He assured me that I would be blessed. And because of all these assurances, I followed his plan. On July 17, 1999, I married Tanya at the age of 24 off the word of my pastor.

Chapter Five

Almost immediately things went downhill. We initially moved in with her parents, in Denmark, South Carolina. It was degrading. We went to church Sunday after Sunday. Each Sunday, I was in the prayer line. I stood there in front of the Pastor.

“Young man, what are you asking God for?”

Each Sunday I would reply, “Pastor, me and my wife need a house.”

Pastor Prangles presented himself as Lord over his congregation. Somehow, asking him to pray for you always felt like you were asking him to release your blessing. His presence made you feel as if he was the hand of God. So, we all waited for him to reach for the olive oil and recite his redundant prayer opening

“Father God in the name of Jesus.”

Each Sunday, I would close my eyes and squeeze Tanya’s hand tight. I wanted a house so bad. I wanted to feel like a man so bad. I wanted to feel some measure of success. So, I focused on every word the Pastor said. I believed him and believed in him.

“In Jesus name, we pray…Amen.”

I would leave church filled with anticipation. I believed with all my heart that I would get a house…any house. I had worked hard in the church. I felt like somebody owed me something. I felt like I had the inside prayer line to God because I was the Pastor’s right hand. As Deacon Terrell, my life was supposed to be spectacular. Every Sunday after prayer, a strong feeling of joy would overwhelm me. The church would begin clapping, the drummer would grab his sticks, the organist would tickle the keys, and the bass player would grab his guitar. We would dance all around that church. The entire church danced with us. Everybody was happy for us. Each Sunday, we went back to her parents’ house with a renewed type of faith. This routine went on for months, and then one Monday I went to work and found a house to rent. I immediately called the Pastor.

“We’re moving sir. God has blessed us,” I cried with joy.

He asked, “Where is the house?”

“Sir, we are renting a little house in Blackville, South Carolina,” I said.

He laughed. “That’s good. Now that you’re blessed, don’t forget God.”

His sentiment guised his real meaning. We had been blessed, now it was our turn to bless the church. Unusually that meant putting a little something extra on the plate.

“Oh, yes sir Pastor,” I said. “I’m going to remember God, Sir.”

We went to church that Sunday and danced again. It was the same pattern. Sunday after Sunday, shout, jump, dance, pay your money, then leave. Shout, jump, dance, pay your money, then leave. Sunday after Sunday. We had a form of Christianity based on a cult like ministry. Pastor Prangles was the new Jim Jones. He was another Charles Manson, instilling fear and condemnation in anyone that didn’t praise God and thank HIM.

By the time Tanya and I moved into our new home, she was focused on someone else. She loved the spotlight of the church, but the routine and pattern was growing old to me. She wanted me to follow all the “prophecies” that I was going to be a minister. I couldn’t see it. I wanted out of that fish bowl, but she didn’t. So, she began confiding in Minister Lawrence. Lawrence was a young minister from another church. “On fire for the lord,” but he was also on fire for my wife. Tanya didn’t have a job, so while I was at work, Minister Lawrence was working on her.

Chapter Six

About three years and three children into the marriage, Lawrence began showing up to church on a regular basis. He was a short, skinny guy who looked like Flava Flav in the face. The complete opposite of me. He was loud and flashy and always had a crease in his forehead from wearing his dew rag too tight. He wore the type of suits you would see in old gangster movies, the ones with the long overcoat and several buttons. He wore Steve Harvey suits before it became a trend.