or express the way they were feeling, which was fine as far as Faith was concerned. She just wished folk would call it what it was and quit acting like they were being uncontrollably possessed or something.
Then this same pastor was caught having affairs with not one, not two, but three ladies in his congregation at the same time. What was worse, his wife was the one who finally caught him on tape. When she brought her audio evidence before the congregation during one Sunday morning’s service, proving he was with this one woman, that caused two other women to pop up mad and argue there was no way this could possibly be true, seeing as he was with “her” exclusively. Talk about angry. They didn’t seem to mind that he was cheating on his wife, but it was a whole other matter when they learned he wasn’t being so faithful to them, either.
The pastor confessed to his loyal congregation a week later. Faith happened to be there that Sunday by special invitation from Dominique. They had front-row seats. He delivered a passionate, tearful plea, begging for forgiveness. He claimed Satan had him bound, using his godly gift of loving others against him. Apparently, he loved all the people in his congregation so much, he couldn’t bear to see any of them in pain.
The pastor claimed he hadn’t meant to hurt anyone, especially his lovely wife, who, incidentally, was driving a brand, spanking-new Mercedes-Benz and sporting a three-carat diamond ring. But he was only a man and not God, he said, and he was not perfect, nor, coincidentally, was any of them sitting there. A few people behind Faith were whispering that one or two of those women just might have put some type of voodoo on him to cause him to behave that way. Faith didn’t believe in voodoo.
Then the pastor closed with a classic line: “He who is among you without sin, let him cast the first stone.” As he looked over the audience, he knew there wasn’t a person there who hadn’t done something wrong. Maybe not that week, and maybe not to the extent that he’d done, but they were all guilty of something. “And a sin is a sin is a sin. There are no big or little sins in God’s sight,” he said, looking repentant, then upward toward heaven.
His closing defense was: “God uses imperfect people to do His work.” Yes, he had fallen, but no one had a right to judge him when everybody there was guilty of something themselves. “Amen?” he said, jumping up as he got more “in the spirit.”
Faith was a visitor and all the visitors had been asked to wait outside the sanctuary during the vote. Faith couldn’t believe the congregation actually bought into what he had said and overwhelmingly voted to allow him to stay on.
“I just don’t understand,” Faith said to Dominique as they walked toward the parking lot. “Why in heaven’s name would y’all vote to keep a scumbag like him as your pastor?”
Dominique had only said, “But girl, the man can preach! Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a real man…I’m talking about a real man who can preach and sing? Honey, hush! We’re not letting the devil come in and mess up our good thing. Now, he came forward and asked for forgiveness. The Bible clearly admonishes us to forgive. How often? Seventy times seven. The pastor has been talked to about his behavior. He understands he can’t do things like that anymore. So what more do people want?” She smiled, then popped her chewing gum three times.
And that was that.
Okay, so the man could preach and he could sing, Faith thought. But she couldn’t help but believe these people needed a good reality check. Dominique insisted Faith was the one who was wrong, and the least she could do was give the church a real, honest try.
“Visit a few more times, Faith, and see for yourself. Everybody, including you, needs a good church home and family. Stop being so judgmental,” Dominique said.
So Faith came regularly for a month. She had to admit, she did enjoy the services. She decided to join the church, even though she had been appalled by the pastor’s behavior and the congregation’s permissiveness. “There are no perfect churches here on earth—they all have something wrong,” she’d been told on more than one occasion. Being a member, she did see how compassionate and loving the good reverend seemed to be. He indeed had compassion for his members, just as Dominique and the others had declared.
Almost a year later, the pastor pulled Faith off to the side and mentioned he needed to speak with her privately. There were things Faith’s friend, Dominique, had come and talked with him about concerning Faith’s well-being.
“Sister, I must be honest with you. I believe my office might be bugged, and I don’t want to risk your business becoming known if that is the case,” the pastor said.
He suggested an innocent place for them to meet: “Somewhere public, of course.” He knew it wouldn’t look right for him to visit Faith at her home—he wanted her to know he was on the up-and-up, so he took her to a five-star restaurant and bought her an expensive dinner. Right after dessert, he asked her to accompany him to his secret hideaway for some “faith healing,” or, as he put it, “the laying on of hands.”
“We must rid you of the demons inside of you, Sister Faith. And I want you to know—I’m committed to stick with you through this for as long as it takes,” he said as he held his diamond-ring-laden hands in the air. “You see, I’ve been called to love everybody. I want to help you. These healing hands of mine are a gift from God. I must use my gift or lose it.”
In August, 2001, Faith, along with Hope and Charity, left New Orleans, Louisiana, for Birmingham, Alabama, without looking back. Faith never bothered mentioning to anyone what the pastor had attempted to do.
What difference would it have made anyway? She’d learned very early in life that the woman usually took the blame, regardless of the details of what really went down.
Chapter 3
I know both how to be abased, and I know how to abound: every where and in all things I am instructed both to be full and to be hungry, both to abound and to suffer need.
(Philippians 4:12)
“Pastor George Landris,” a tall, burly man with a deep, Barry White-like voice, called. “Good to have you here in the Magic City of Birmingham, my preach-brother. My name is Reverend Paul Knight…but all my friends call me Poppa Knight.”
Pastor Landris looked at the man standing behind him who had walked up without having made a sound. He was dressed warmly enough in his wool, charcoal overcoat, thick, gray scarf, and black Banjo Paterson hat with a reed leather sweatband, perfect attire for the last day in January.
Pastor Landris was looking at a building he was hoping to rent or purchase so he could start conducting church services. Earlier this month, he and Johnnie Mae had discussed what he really wanted to do in his ministry. He told her he wanted to preach God’s Word. God had called him to be a pastor, and he was sent here to start a congregation, but he would need a facility. His plan was to sell the radio station he hadn’t really wanted in the first place, but according to Thomas, there was some snafu that was stalling the deal temporarily. And for some reason, he couldn’t get his money back, at least not at this point. Pastor Landris planned to use the funds from selling the radio station or the refund to build a church.
Johnnie Mae had found forty acres of prime land she believed would be perfect to build a worship center. With the funds from the station sale, money wouldn’t be an issue, but until that became available, Pastor Landris would have to make do.
God had spoken to Pastor Landris and instructed him to rent or buy a small building. This building was a bit run-down, but with some effort, it could be a nice place to get started. He was there checking it out when Reverend
