His Mercy Endureth Forever

By Melanie Moye

Brother Joe, a Baptist minister, bears the scars of being reared in an orphanage and separated from his baby brother, who grew up to become a petty criminal. The pastor seemingly cannot catch a break as he is persecuted by a wealthy old parishioner in his first church assignment and struggles financially to support his only living kin. Just when he considers resigning from his charge, Brother Joe accidentally wins a half a billion dollars in lottery funds! Indoctrinated against gambling of any kind, the minister has the very unlikely challenge of hiding a fortune! He is now confronted with new conflicts of his faith, including his love for a beautiful divorcee. As his brother continues to pull him toward the dark side, the pastor finds he must choose between God and man. Or is it really that simple?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9781796091601

Melanie Moye

Melanie Moye lives in Middle Georgia, where she taught English at both Georgia College and State University and Georgia Military College. For many years she conducted a prison Bible study for men and women incarcerated in area institutions. Visit the author’s website at www.melaniemoye.com

Book preview

Chapter One

The July heat of a Sunday morning in Alabama had gone beyond being mere weather. Like any extreme temperature or condition, it had become malevolent, an enemy to humankind. The oppressive humidity made perspiration almost moot. Some, like the pastor of Beulah Land Baptist Church, suffered more than most. Although the church now boasted of central air conditioning (an innovation that Miss Minnie Roach deemed wasteful), the Pastor felt a trickle of liquid running down intimate parts of his freshly-showered body. He had to fight the urge to check the AC: Is it on? Is it working right? Can we turn it down a bit? I mean, up a bit? But, because this topic was a sore spot, he avoided it. It did not help matters that Miss Minnie also insisted that he wear a coat and tie every Sunday all day. Dress as if you are meeting the Lord, she would often say. He wished he had the courage to tell her that in the four Gospels, of all the many ragamuffins who came to Christ, none were turned away because of inappropriate attire. But, he did not have the intestinal fortitude to cross her. So, he preached his sermons in great distress, his J. C. Penny’s suit straining at every seam as he gesticulated in the manner he had learned at seminary. His necktie felt like a noose, and each time he glanced down to check his notes, he felt the rope tighten. I’ve got to lose some weight.

He looked out at the congregation. There were almost sixty people there. Not bad for the rural community just outside of Dothan. Not bad considering that there were five other Baptist churches in Malvern. In the three years he had been pastor, the attendance had never been over one hundred. When he first arrived, there was a great influx of parishioners, mainly to scrutinize him and to let him see that the people of this town were good church-going folk. They had ignored the thought that the Preacher might wonder where they were the other fifty-one Sundays in the year. But then, attendance had also spiked during revivals, homecomings, and that beautiful celebration wherein even secularists hedged their bets—Easter.

Looking out over his flock that morning, it was, as usual, very hard to keep his mind from wandering. Perhaps he had attention-deficit disorder. Perhaps this was the reason for the nervous attack during every sermon. He had initially thought that in time he would be comfortable in the pulpit, that he would feel at home. But, each Sunday it was all he could do to read from his prepared text, look up, make eye contact, and try to seem spontaneous. In Homiletics class, the instructor had emphasized that this apparent spontaneity was a must. Don’t read from your text too much…try to make it seem as if you are speaking to the congregation, one on one, Dr. Wilford had said. Yeah, right…how would a preacher ever speak one-on-one to Miss Minnie? He glanced over at her now. She never failed to unnerve him. She sat primly in her pew, and it was her pew—second row, his right side. Everyone in the church knew it was her pew, and only Miss Ada and Mr. Henry had the nerve to sit on it with her. She was a wealthy old bird who gave between seven-to-ten thousand dollars per year to the church. But, was that the full ten percent of her yearly income? No one knew or dared ask her. He fantasized that he would ask her someday. Ten grand had, in essence, made her the high priestess. He had lain awake at night thinking of sermons he could preach that would be very pointed, yet give enough wiggle room where he could deny ever at all intending to offend Miss Minnie. For example, he could mention ten thousand modern dollars in the same context that he mentioned thirty pieces of ancient silver. No, that would not work…perhaps Ananias and Sapphira. He would have to work on the exact reference…. He had already seen that money was her weak spot, and whereas she was the largest contributor, she did so grudgingly, feeling perhaps that ten thousand did not buy her the influence and power that it should have. Indeed, the price of everything had gone up! At every board meeting, it was a given that Miss Minnie would make some statement that at least in some area of the church budget, the funds were being misappropriated. Perceptive board members knew that the true meaning of misappropriated was that the expenditure had not originated in Miss Minnie’s mind. A great amount of time was wasted arguing to her the validity of buying new choir robes or fixing a leak in the roof. Usually, she would reluctantly concede, and a check would be cut for the budget item. But, the discussion did not rest there. For months or years after, Miss Minnie would complain that the new robes were the tackiest things she had ever seen, or that the wrong repairman had been hired for the roof job; he had overcharged. Yes, the Pastor dreaded the board meeting the following night. She is such a miser. She will never agree to my travel stipend….

Heaven help me, did I say that out loud?! He had lost his train of thought, and now everyone was staring at him intensely. He looked down at the line above his index finger and repeated it. All things work together for the good…for…ah…those who love the Lord and are…ah…called according to His purpose. He looked up in time to see Miss Minnie exchange a smug nod with Mr. Henry, the Head Deacon in the church. The Pastor felt himself turning red. He continued reading his text and looked up again. All was normal, status quo, really. If he had called Miss Minnie a miser to her face, lightening would have struck, or the roof would have caved in, or at the very least, her toady Henry would have contradicted him. All was well. He felt greatly relieved—jubilant even.

After the sermon he said a benediction while he quickly strode to the front doorway of the church so as to speak to the congregation individually as they filed out. He raised his voice to be heard over the squeaking of the wooden floor, straining under his weight. When he opened the door, it felt as if he were opening an oven. He squinted in the bright sunlight. Temperature notwithstanding, he enjoyed this part of the day. He had gotten the big challenge out of the way. For good or for bad, he was through for another week. He had six days before he had to face the firing squad again. That night at the evening service, there would be a very small, by-and-large friendly crowd (except for Miss Minnie), the temperature would be cooler, and his message would not be critiqued as stringently.

Good sermon, Preacher, said Audrey Rogers. She accepted his extended hand, smiled, and walked away. Trey Scott, a teenager, awkwardly shuffled up, looking as if he were tempted to pole-vault over the people in front of him—anything to get out as soon as possible. Me, too, thought the Pastor. Most of the good country folk felt a bit uncomfortable with this protocol. They felt that they were basically being corralled into a single-file line, and corralled into saying something, as the Pastor was blocking the only exit. And country people did not like to be forced into anything. Therefore, most simply shook the Pastor’s hand, quickly grunted a greeting, and left. Miss Minnie, however, refused to utter a word. She would come up to him with her erect posture, extend her hand (as if she expected it to be kissed), and nod. The Pastor figured that this was part of her strategy to signal to him that he was still on probation and probably would be as long as she lived.

Frequently, the Pastor had lunch with the Hartley’s, but they had gone on vacation and would not be back for a week. He had not realized how much he looked forward to being with them. They were the perfect family to him. Frances would fry some chicken just the way he liked it. There would be black-eyed peas, squash, corn, tomatoes, and cucumbers—all fresh from their garden… and, mercy me…cornbread! Crunchy, lacy cornbread fried to perfection and covered with butter. The ice-cold tea was sweetened just right. (He liked to imagine that his mother would have sweetened it that way.) Occasionally, Olin would make some peach ice cream for dessert, using an old churn they had had for forty years. In truth, he had never eaten this well; it was the kind of traditional Southern meal he had dreamed of, and which, in these modern times was becoming very rare.

He opened the door of the parsonage and immediately felt a little sad. He hated to eat by himself. "It is not good for man to be alone." His home was hot and stuffy because, to save money, he turned off the air conditioner every time he left for more than a couple of hours. He knew that the Executive Committee carefully noted any rise in the electric bill, and he did not want anyone to think that he was being wasteful. The summer bill always was higher, anyway. He headed for the bedroom to change into something more comfortable—not too comfortable, however, because he might have guests. And he did not want them reporting to Miss Minnie that he was wearing some ragged tee shirt on the Sabbath. Finally, he settled on merely taking off his coat and tie, and unbuttoning the top of his shirt. He had already turned on the AC; he would be comfortable soon.

During the sermon that morning, he had found himself thinking about a Tupperware container of barbeque that Rhonda Thigpen had brought him a few days before. Is there enough left in the fridge to make a proper sandwich—a big one? "Please turn in your Bibles, if you would, to Romans 8:28," he had said, looking down and absentmindedly going to the bookmarked page…. Is there enough, no, is there any Brunswick stew left? Lord, forgive me…. "Again, that’s Romans 8:28"…. And now, opening the refrigerator door, he found less of both than he had thought, but he was able to make a skimpy sandwich, heat up a little stew, and fill in with a large bag of potato chips he had bought the day before. He had quickly learned that in this small town, he must not be seen shopping on the Sabbath. He tried to make Saturday the grocery day. Yesterday, however, had been especially hectic, and he had forgotten. He often had to overcome the temptation to drive to a neighboring town to buy ice cream; yet he, too, subscribed to the Biblical injunction that one should at least try to keep the Sabbath holy…it should not be business as usual. Yet, Sunday was actually his work day. That confused matters a lot. Aside from pastoral visits to shut-ins and the hospitalized, the safest bet on a Sunday afternoon was to stay inside and watch TV. In the present scorching heat, he had no problem with that plan.

Chapter Two

Monday morning it had rained a bit, cooling things down. By 7:00 P.M., as the Pastor walked the short distance from his home to Fellowship Hall, the temperature was actually pleasant. He was glad for the rain for another reason: The weather was always a safe conversation topic—no argument there. In a metropolitan setting perhaps, there could have been a disagreement over climate change, conservative view versus liberal view. But, here in this very rural location, it was certain that a consensus of opinion would be reached that it had, in fact, rained, and the rain was, in fact, greatly needed, and it had, in fact, cooled things off. That intellectual discussion should take up at least thirty minutes before the Board meets. No, I am being unkind…I must not become cynical…. It was just that he hated the awkwardness at those meetings.

Why is it awkward? The Pastor had often wondered. Were they not all united in their Christian faith? Were they not all soldiers of the cross? Should there not be unity and camaraderie and joy? Instead, there was always tension in the air, always the idea of one group or faction opposing the other. And most often it was over some trivial budget item, like the roof being patched…. The tension is always over money!

The Pastor took a seat on a wobbly folding chair at a table by himself. Seven other individuals were seated at a couple of tables in front of him. Four were deacons, and the other three were the heads of various committees, though none more important than that of the finance committee, of which Miss Minnie was chair; she was also the church treasurer. William Tucker, a newly-elected deacon in his early thirties, rose and cleared his throat. He moved toward the table where the computer was set up for a presentation. Miss Minnie glared at the blue jeans he was wearing and would later remark that he looked like he’d just come in from plowing the field. William was a manager at a local textile plant, and as part of a younger generation, tended to dress casually for after-hours events.

Good evening, he quipped cheerfully, and the others muttered the same in response. I have a brief film to show you…. He began fumbling with the laptop. The Pastor moved to a different seat so as to be able to see the screen that had been set up. Dan Woodard, a farmer, who was, aside from Mr. Henry, the longest serving deacon, moved to the light switch, awaiting William’s signal.

Now, as y’all know, William continued, we all voted to sponsor our missionary in Liberia for another year. He nodded to Dan, and the latter flipped the light switch. The first few images were not the ones that the younger man had planned to show, but after five minutes of adjustments and bored sighs and looks of disgust by the older ones, the words Habitat Hope came on the screen. In the background one could see a group of smiling villagers with the missionary and his family, assembled in front of a tin-roofed community center. Well, Missionary Flynn and his wife are coming to visit us in November, I believe. He cast a quick look at Myra Sanders, who was, unofficially, the church secretary and who had a book-keeping business in Malvern. She nodded assent. Well, Mr. Flynn has written to tell us of his need for—

—more money, said Miss Minnie in an audible whisper. Deacon William ignored her.

"—more resources to meet a growing need since the Ebola outbreak. We plan to take up a special collection next Sunday when our Pastor gets back from the Conference. But, I think that in light of the emergency they are experiencing now, we need to vote on increasing their allotment." All the while, the deacon was bringing up images of the orphanage that the church had agreed to sponsor. Children at play or in their cribs were shown; most were smiling. The Pastor wondered how many pictures had to be taken before just the right ones were made…the ones that would be sent to the people in the States. These pictures always affected him viscerally. He could not help it. He almost wished the images would stop; he was, after all, powerless to make any real change in the little ones’ lives, and he knew how the vote would turn out.

That night back in the parsonage, the Minister sat in his old recliner in front of the TV, which he had not turned on. The rain had begun again, and he was glad for Dan Woodard and his crops. He thought of the latter and smiled. Despite the vote against giving the Pastor a travel stipend (the Conference had, after all, been the Pastor’s idea, not the Board’s) or maybe it was because of it, Dan had taken the Preacher aside and slipped a hundred-dollar bill into his hand. The latter, at the time did not know that it was a hundred; if asked, he would have guessed a twenty. Everyone knew that Dan struggled to make ends meet. He had had the same old tractor for twenty-five years, and each year with a lick and a promise, he had patched it together long enough to harvest the fields of his small farm. Don’t deny a man a blessing, he had quipped, as the Preacher offered the usual disclaimer of, I can’t accept this. The widow’s mite…. The Minister quickly amended the thought. He did not mean to elevate contributing to his travel stipend to the level of contributing to the Church proper. But, it is always like that…always somebody like Dan…the spirit is willing, but…the wallet is weak.

In truth, he was hurt more by the fact that the Executive Committee had voted four to three (he was not allowed to vote) to not increase the missionary fund. It would have been a different story if Deacon Olin Hartley had been there. On the other hand, Deacon Tom Harrington was also on vacation; the Pastor was not sure which way he would have voted. Perhaps they would have canceled each other out. At any rate, William had done his best; he had given a well-prepared, impassioned plea. We have so much! he had stated. We must share! But Miss Minnie had eventually held forth, as the Preacher knew that she would. She spoke with a degree of righteous indignation.

I think that the collection next Sunday will be sufficient; we have so many needs ourselves. All the while she was talking, Mr. Henry sat nodding…like one of those bobble-head dolls. The Pastor had inadvertently smiled at the image. His smile was misinterpreted. Miss Minnie looked straight at him and raised her voice a bit. Well, you can scoff if you want too, but everybody knows we have to look after our own first. She’s the Devil…. He waited for a response, but no one bothered to contradict her. What would be the point? Church attendance in the summer was so scanty that the following Sunday they would be lucky to collect thirty dollars, after they had passed the usual plate. And we need to remember that ‘charity begins at home,’ she continued. We have children in our own community that need to be looked after. At this, Mr. Henry had nodded even more vehemently, as if she had made some very astute point. The Pastor wished desperately that he had the resources (he was fast approaching having the courage) to stand up and tell her that this was a load of baloney. There were very few kids in the community, and the ones who were there were well sheltered, fed, and loved. In fact, in his opinion, they were spoiled. He felt his own burgeoning indignation…. Charity begins at home, is certainly a pithy platitude, but exactly where is it written in the Bible? He could not remember. But, what he did remember was verses admonishing the Believer to heed the cries of the poor. Yes, he needed to study the Scriptures more.

When he had first felt the call to the ministry five years earlier, he had immediately begun reading the Bible. He would come home from his job as assistant manager at the Honda dealership and stay up late at night trying to digest what he had read. He had studied the Book of John in the New Testament and then decided to read the entire Bible, from Genesis to Revelation. He had gotten as far as the book of Malachi before enrolling in seminary. There, he was assigned so many random Scripture readings that he had discontinued his own personal study. He now regretted it and felt himself at a great disadvantage.

Of course, the other great disadvantage was the lack of money. Where would he go if he left Beulah Land? He could not be maligned straight out of the gate. He could not be dismissed from his first church! He knew he was called, but to what? Pastoring that church did not feel the way he thought it would feel. Maybe God was humbling him. But, to his own way of thinking, he had had enough humbling to last several lifetimes. Yet, it is not up the servant to make that determination….

It was late—almost 11:00 P.M. But, he knew that he would not be able to sleep, so he sat on the front porch and watched the rain, a soft, refreshing shower. He felt apprehensive, knowing that he had such a long drive ahead of him—to Atlanta. But, there was no question that he had to go. The Conference in Atlanta provided a great opportunity for him to see Jerry. Fewer questions would be asked; it was a perfect cover. He wanted to bring him money, but try as he might to cut corners, he did not see how he would be able to—well, maybe a twenty. He had honestly anticipated a travel stipend of, at least, three hundred dollars, and even that would not have covered the three-nights lodging at the Regency, the meals, the tab for gas, and, of course, the thirty-five-dollar registration fee. Why is there always a registration fee? He had never been good at managing money. I am a preacher, for Pete’s sake, not an accountant! As it was, he would have to dip heavily into the money he was saving for his vacation. What vacation? He could have considered the trip to Atlanta a vacation, especially had he been able to stay at the Regency Hyatt House, where the Conference meetings were to be held. That would have been so convenient for him. As it was now, he could not afford even the group rate, so he had booked a room in Motel 6 for three nights. The trouble was that he would have to drive for an hour to and from the Conference center, battling downtown Atlanta traffic. And speaking of driving, he worried if his Mercury could handle a lot of stop-and-go traffic. Foolishly, he had traded in his reliable Honda for a vehicle that was newer and that had fewer miles on it. But, one repair job after another had left him longing for the older car. Currently, he had a leaking radiator. Days before, he had filled it full of Stop Leak, but he knew that using the component was just a temporary measure. Well, as long as I can stop somewhere and put water in it…but will I have the time?

As the Pastor rocked in the wooden chair that had been at the parsonage so long that no one could remember who had donated it, he thought, Many are the afflictions of the righteous…. But, his afflictions seemed so trivial. St. Paul was beaten, shipwrecked, bitten by a poisonous snake, and eventually beheaded. The Minister did not want to be guilty of making pious comparisons of himself to spiritual giants in the Bible, who had, in fact, endured true hardships. He detested that kind of self-righteousness, not to mention, self-pity. His monetary problems and leaking radiator were nothing really…yet, this was his life, the only life on earth that he had known or would ever know. From his limited perspective, the challenges seemed daunting enough.

His current afflictions served also, in his opinion, to beg the question of God’s Will. Was he truly called to the ministry? Shortly after he had begun preaching at Beulah Land, when he thought, ironically, that he was making strides toward becoming the pastor he dreamed of becoming, Mr. Henry had called him aside, asking to have a word with him, and suggested that he could serve God just as well by selling cars. You can always witness to new customers…you never know who you’re going to touch. The remark had cut him to the quick. He could only imagine the background of this thinking. The leaders of the church had obviously talked about him…his preaching and decided that he was no good.

Chapter Three

The Minister had not gone to bed until 2:00 A.M. the night before. Yet, despite the lack of sleep, he felt exhilarated as he drove. The farther away he traveled from Malvern, the happier he became. He had hoped to get off earlier, but Miss Minnie had come up with a list of office tasks—things that could easily have waited until when he returned—that had to be done right before he left. And, if that were not enough, she suggested that he stop in to see Hank Taylor in the hospital in Dothan. It’s on your way…you can just drop in to see him...you know he just had his gall bladder removed. It was all the Pastor could do to keep from groaning. He knew better than to argue with her.

Well, were there any complications? he asked, trying to look concerned.

"No, not yet…but you know…a man his age having any kind of surgery…you need to get up there as soon as possible." He tried one more tactic.

"Well, nowadays, a lot of surgeries are same-day surgeries. He may be at home by now." The corners of her mouth turned down, making her jowls more wrinkled than usual.

Well, we need to call him right now to find out! She had outwitted him once again. A pastoral visit was to be made, and he supposed that it would be easier for him if he dropped by the hospital, as opposed to Hank’s home, which was in the opposite direction of Atlanta. He promised her that he himself would call Hank and then visit him. But, what he had left unsaid was that if the convalescent were at home, his visit would be by phone.

Hank Taylor was, in fact, still in the hospital, and the Pastor felt irritated that parking there was very difficult, and he had had to trudge up a flight of steps and walk a country mile to get to the hospital entrance. Breathing heavily, with perspiration running down his face, he felt that Miss Minnie would be pleased at his inconvenience. To him, not only would she have liked to have seen more physical labor with his weekly schedule, but also a degree of martyrdom. She, like many others, believed that taking up one’s cross and bearing it involved pain and misery. The latter was a sign that the Believer was doing it right. She completely ignores…Take my yoke upon you…for my yoke is easy and my burden light. He shook his head in disgust. He had worried so about the travel delay, yet, upon seeing Hank’s congenial face, he felt guilty. He genuinely cared for the old man. It was not Hank’s fault that Miss Minnie had made it a priority to come see him that day.

The Pastor had forgotten that he had left some traveling snacks in the hot car and was further miffed that the tuna fish sandwich absolutely had to be trashed. But, at last, he had set off on his journey, and it was not long before the anticipation of going to the big city overtook him. Besides, he would be seeing Jerry, whom he had not seen for two months now. Cruising along the interstate, he forgot about Miss Minnie, Mr. Henry, and even Hank Taylor. He began to look forward to being with his colleagues, other men of the cloth. There would be workshops and seminars and sermons delivered by the best—old favorites and even dynamic, up-and-coming rookies. He found himself in a better mood than he had been in for weeks. He felt free! Of course, on the other hand, he had never been the kind to shirk his duty. That night he must call Jerry and find out when the latter would be allowed to have a visitor. Regardless of what would be on the schedule at the Conference for that day, he would have to slip away and visit his brother.

Around 8:00 he was nearing Atlanta. The preponderance of signs on the interstate told him he was entering a metropolitan area: Mega Millions Jackpot: 509 Million. A sign right next to it read, Killed or Injured? Call Sibilsky and Futch What are attorneys doing? Taking on ghosts as clients? Hmm… He suddenly had a great idea for a sermon: Suing God. What if, in death, you could sue God for your life? The hardships…the disappointments…the broken dreams…. He knew that masses of the living wanted to sue God. He had encountered so many bitter individuals in his time. But did not he, of all people, have a right to be bitter? But he was not. Hallelujah, he was not!

He had been driving for hours and began to feel fatigued. Where is the motel? He greatly wanted to be settled in his room; it was getting late. Thank goodness, he was on the Perimeter now. He had to stay alert and look for his exit. He had gone online and found the cheapest motel that was the closest to the Conference site. He strained to focus straight ahead, yet the road signs were distracting. That too, gave him an idea for a sermon. He began to think of the gist of it, when a large brightly lit billboard caught his eye: Hooters, 3 miles ahead, Exit 14. The sign featured a sultry, dark-haired girl seductively holding a large plate of food. "The world is too much with us," he said aloud. He quickly cast another look back at the Hooter’s sign… Gorgeous girl.... At last, he saw his exit and turned on it while fumbling in his pocket for the piece of paper on which the address of his motel was written. He had to make a decision: to go and secure his room first, and then go get some gas for the car and food for himself or vice versa? His hunger pangs made the decision for him. Seeing a Chick fil-A in the distance, his spirits rose. So as to stretch his legs and use the restroom, the Pastor decided to go inside rather than drive through. He stiffly got out of the car, feeling all of his forty years of life. But, once he had walked a bit and eaten a tasty meal, he felt as good as new. He was mere moments away from a place where he could relax and get some much-needed sleep.

The Pastor drove another quarter of a mile and saw a FastMart, boasting the lowest-priced gas. Yet, the station itself was rather dark,