The Hand of God (8 page)

“Well, Vanessa here said he is gonna have a meeting tomorrow night.  Everyone is invited.  It’s gonna be like a healing service.  Kind of like an old fashioned tent revival!” Jeff answered. “That’s just what this community needs!  The Spirit will be at work tomorrow!”  The kid’s voice was actually cracked as he spoke, as if he’d just hit puberty.  I gathered that Vanessa was the short blonde standing next to him.  I’d only seen her around once or twice.  I would have normally found the whole thing funny, except that I realized how it all made sense--the Bishop was building a following.  He would come in, perform a few miracles, get people worked up with some big revivals and before you know it, the Bishop’s like the pied piper, leading everyone out of their churches and into his. And, along with them, the money and manpower that kept the individual churches in business.

I needed to find out what his plan was. What. What did he want?  No doubt, I’d learn a few things at the revival.  That gave me some time to sort things out.  I was still fuming about him getting to Nancy Martinez first.  Could God be speaking to him too?  If so, that would be a pretty sick joke.  Questions began to fill my mind.  It would be nice if I could speak to David Davidson again, but that didn’t seem likely. 

I could try to find Davidson, but he was like a ghost.  Our last encounter was only because he chose to seek me out.  He left no contact information and had no identifying characteristics or information I could use to track him down, other than his weird name. That wouldn’t get me very far on Google. My followers might suggest I pray for guidance in this situation. But, prayer for me was a funny thing. Of course I publically prayed as would be expected of a pastor. But privately, for myself, I didn’t pray the same way others did. I didn’t sit and ask God for things.  I figured He knew everything I needed.  The Bible says ask and you shall receive, but I wasn’t like everyone else.  I was the Hand of God.  He would keep me steady and provide for my needs.

I went into my office and opened my laptop.  Using Google and Yahoo, I did a few people searches looking for David Davidson.  Oddly enough it was a fairly common name.  The San Antonio area has around 2 million people so that makes finding anyone even harder.  I closed the laptop and rubbed my eyes.  The last few days had been crazy and it was giving me a headache.  I would have to wait until the revival tomorrow night to get some real answers. 

Chapter 14

When Wednesday night rolled around, the whole town was buzzing with excitement.  People were curious about the Bishop and rumors were flying. Some thought he was a prophet; others were skeptical and thought he was out for money.  I was sure it was neither, but hoped to find out.  I went ahead and canceled our Wednesday night services since half the town would be at the revival.  The other half didn’t bother with Wednesday night church anyway. 

The revival was held at a large field just outside of town.  There was already a line of cars backed up for at least half a mile.  After sitting in traffic another half hour, I finally got to park in the field.  The tent was huge, and looked similar to a circus big top.  I wasn’t even sure where you’d find a tent that size.  As I approached the line of people standing outside, several recognized me and came over to greet me.

“Hey, Pastor Charlie!”  It was Lee.  Of course he was there.. I just wasn’t in the mood to hear him theorize about the Bishop.  I was going to hear it, though.

“Hi Lee. How’s it going?”

“Great!  I’m ready for the Lord to do some amazing things tonight!”

“Me too, Lee,” I looked around trying to take in the setup.  There were men in suits at the entrance seating people.  I saw one of the Bishop’s goons near the front.  I entertained the thought of going up to the Bishop and saying hello just to see if I could get a feel for what the goons were up to. I already knew whatever it was, it was no good..  Though I already knew it was no good.  Either way, I decided against the straightforward approach.  Nothing good would come of that.

“Excuse me, Lee,” I said before he could get started rambling too much.  “I need to check on something.”  I left him hanging mid-sentence and began to work my way through the crowd. It was a humid evening, and way too hot to be wearing a suit.  There were several large fans placed throughout the tent.  There were also coolers filled with ice and bottled water.  At least the Bishop didn’t want anyone keeling over from heat stroke during the service.

             
I worked my way toward the front of the stage.  The short goon was there talking to someone.  Before I could reach him a woman stepped in front of me.

“Hello sir, could you take a seat please?”  She looked to be in her thirties with red hair and was wearing a blue, flowery summer dress.

“Sure.  I just needed to ask that man a question real quick.”

“I’m sorry.  No one is allowed near the stage.  I will tell him you’d like to speak with him, though.”

“It’s very important.  I know he works for the Bishop.  I just need to—“

“Is there a problem here?” The short goon said.  I hadn’t seen him walk up behind her.

“This man says he needs to speak with you,” she,” she said.

The goon was Latino. He. He was stockier close up and had a perpetual scowl.  His name tag read Jesus.  Under different circumstances I would have found that funny.

“My name is Pastor Charlie Sims.  I’m a friend of the Bishop’s.  I was wondering if I could speak to him for a moment.” I began to walk toward the stage as I spoke.

“I’m sorry.  He’s preparing for tonight’s service.” Jesus firmly pressed his hand against my chest. 

“I just want to say hello.. I won’t keep him long.” I said.

“I said, he’s busy,” he stepped toward me.  “He is not taking visitors right now.”  The tall goon walked over when he saw the commotion.  His name tag said Jeremiah.  They had the whole biblical name thing down, that’s for sure.  Jeremiah was white, and had a scar on the left side of his face.  This made me wonder if one or both of these guys were ex-cons.

“What seems to be the problem?” Jeremiah asked.

I gave up, not wanting to make a scene.

“Nothing,” I said.  “I was just going to my seat.  Thank you.”

I could feel their eyes on me as I turned and walked away.  People were now filling their seats.  I found a spot in one of the middle rows near some older couple and a young family.  Within twenty minutes or so the place had filled up.  There were people standing up along the back of the tent and in the aisles.  Ushers were pushing people in wheelchairs to a roped off section in the front.  There were plenty of people there I didn’t’ recognize.  This told me people from the city and maybe even further away came out for the show.

Finally the lights went out and everything went dark.  After a couple minutes, people began muttering among themselves wondering what was going on.  It remained dark for almost ten minutes, pitch black.  I figured this was part of the Bishop’s theatrics.  I knew I was right when music began to play.  It started out quietly at first and then got louder.  I recognized the music; it was Ecstasy of Gold, from an old western. The music had an epic sound to it; fitting for the Bishop.

The crowd got quiet as a light came on behind the stage, then smoke appeared.  As the music got louder and worked to its buildup, a silhouette of a man appeared, rising from the stage.  People began to cheer.  The man held his arms out to his sides.  The cheering got louder as the music reached its climax.  The crowd rose to its feet and the man thrust his arms into the air.  The music stopped and the stage lights came on, illuminating the Bishop.

He was wearing a white suit this time along with a headset that included a microphone.  He smiled at the crowd, which was still cheering.

“Thank you my brothers and sisters!  Thank you!  Amen!  God bless every single one of you for coming out tonight!  God is going to do amazing things here!  Prepare to be blessed beyond measure!”  He jumped as he said the last line and the crowd roared.  It was show time.

Chapter 15

The service-or show was more like it- was nothing short of spectacular.  The Bishop jumped around on stage as he preached his message of hope, faith and healing.  I wasn’t sure how the old guy had so much energy, but there he was.  You’d have thought he was a rock star.

“My brothers and sisters, God is doing amazing things in town!  In the past week alone, two people have come back from the dead!”  People cheered while shouting “Amen,” “Hallelujah,” and other shouts of praise.  This was one thing that always scared me about being in ministry.  Religion, more than anything, was susceptible to a mob mentality.  In most cases it was downright scary. 

It would start with someone seeing or hearing about some miracle, and the next thing you know it has spread like wildfire.  People would start going crazy over whatever it was and the stuff just kept feeding and growing.  In almost every case, the minister or prophet turns out to be a fake, or else people would just get bored and move on to the next big thing.  Either way, in my own preaching I always tried to avoid sensationalism.  A few years ago in Lakeland, Florida there was a big deal about some prophet down there who was doing healings, resurrections and everything else.  Half the churches in the country thought it was real, the other half thought he was a fake, and there were some scattered few thinking he was a false prophet sent by Satan.  Well, he got busted having some kind of affair with his secretary, and the whole thing fizzled out.  The Bishop had a different feel to him though.  I was sure he wasn’t a fake. I just didn’t know what he was. `

“Who here is in need of healing tonight?” he asked the crowd.  They all cheered again as he walked toward the wheelchair section.  He climbed down from the stage to a little boy sitting in the front row.  The boy was seated in a wheelchair and wearing a Houston baseball cap.  A man came up and handed the Bishop a microphone.  He knelt down and asked the boy his name.

“Brandon, sir” the boy said into the microphone.

“Well hello Brandon,” The Bishop put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.  “How old are you?”

“Twelve.”

“And can you tell us why you’re in that chair?”

“I was hit by a car when I was riding my bike.”

“How long ago was that, son?”

“When I was ten.”  The boy’s voice cracked as he remembered the accident that put him into that chair.  The crowd let out a collective “Awww.”

“Tell me Brandon, would you like to ride your bike again?”

“Yes,” the boy said as he nodded.  Tears were running down his cheeks as a woman next to him squeezed his hand.  She was most likely his mother, she was crying as well.

“Well, then Brandon, in the name of Jesus Christ, get up out of that chair and walk!”  He took Brandon by the hand, with his mother holding the other, and guided him to his feet.  Brandon was a bit wobbly at first, but in a moment got his balance and took a step, then another.  He walked slowly in front of the stage, then he started running up and down the aisles as the crowd roared and rose to its feet.

“Praise the Lord!  God is good!” the Bishop shouted.  “Amen!  Go home and ride your bike my son!  Amen!”

While I was impressed, I’d seen many so-called healers do similar things.  They would usually plant someone in the audience in a wheelchair and heal them of whatever.  It was never an injury people could see.  It always involved someone in a wheelchair, or with cancer or something easy to fake that didn’t provide   visual evidence.  In a lot of ways, healings were a joke in many Christian circles.

When I looked back to the stage, the Bishop’s goons were helping a woman onto the stage.  She was on crutches and only had one leg.

“Can you tell me your name my dear?” he asked.

“My name is Katie,” she said.  She appeared to be in her twenties, had blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail.

“What happened to your leg Katie?”

“I was in a bad car accident a couple years ago.  My car went off the road and rolled several times.  My leg was pinned.  They got me out alive, but couldn’t save my leg.”