.....but that's another story.
The Rev. Jessup Jackson mounted the altar at the head of his entourage, which spread out behind him, and, with grave face, took his place behind the pulpit.
Always a man of his people, he wore a $7,000 Armani suit; his shirt and shoes both cost more than most of these people made in a year, but his tie was cheap…he’d bought it at a Saks in Los Angeles for a mere $450.00. It wasn’t even on sale at that price! What a buy! It cost almost as much as his haircut.
His eyes swept across the small sea of black faces, dotted here and there with a few white, that filled the pews in the sanctuary which spread out below him. Old black women in elaborate hats and matching dresses fanned themselves with their programs or small folding fans emblazoned with various advertisements or pictures. Men in brightly-colored suits sat gazing at him thoughtfully, in anticipation of what this Great Leader of the Black Community would say or do to solve this terrible problem. Sunlight, bright in this cloudless day, streamed in near transparent in rays, coming colorfully through the stained glass windows, illuminating the motes of dust which floated in the air.
His speechwriter had prepared this speech the night before, and he knew that whatever point he was to make here, the words would hit it hard, and he knew that these people would hang on his every utterance.
It had reached his ears a week ago that there had been a tiny amount of trouble in a couple of the rental properties in this insignificant flyspeck of a city. Both properties were owned by the same landlord, and it was a matter which, ultimately, was of really no concern to him personally. But, at the same time, it had the very faintest whiff of a possibility of a chance that they may have involved race discrimination in some peripheral way, and that was enough for him. Time to show up and ‘stir the pot’, as he liked to say .
He knew just what to do; the incidents would be drawn out and magnified until they appeared to be a horrible problem, an out-of-control and stampeding racist monster that threatened the lifestyles of every black in America.
Then, after he’d stirred up sufficient anger and hatred here, and had devastated the life of the white landlord and reminded these yokels once again of their status as the eternal victims of the big, bad Whitey, he’d take it on the road. First the local, then the national news, and then he’d begin making the rounds of the talk shows and collect his money.
If he were lucky, he’d maybe score a few lucrative speaking engagements out of it, too. A couple or three universities, maybe. That would be nice. Also, Larry King hadn’t had him on in a while. "Air America" would maybe be a possibility, too, but then, they didn’t really pay all that much since the losers had virtually no listening audience.
Oprah, now….if he could convince her that this problem was big enough to warrant her attention, he could work a big payday out of that. This initial speech, though…this was a freebie; an appearance in a church in the neighborhood in which the problems occurred. To show them that he cared. He was a man of God, after all.
Once, a couple years ago, a new, fresh-out-of-school, wide-eyed young intern of his had made the suggestion that he start making the rounds of the conservative talk radio shows; Limbaugh, Hannity, etc. He said that "the Message should be heard", and if he, Jackson, "faced his detractors directly", it would "only increase his cache."
Jackson had smiled at that. Such fiery youth, such spirit, such faith. Such naïveté. That kid was gone the next day. If he ever faced his "detractors" directly, he risked being exposed as the fraud he knew himself to be. No, he’d stick to stirring the race pot and making money speaking in forums where no one was going to debate him or his ideas.
He raised his arms, palms out, to quiet any errant churchgoers who may not have been focused on him. Silence quickly descended. He inhaled deeply and spoke;
"Friends…" sudden pain seized his chest; he groaned, and couldn’t breathe. His left arm went numb, and he clutched at his heart with his right. He slumped to the podium and pitched forward off the altar, collapsing to the sanctuary floor, dead of a massive coronary before anyone could move to help.
Jessup Jackson blinked his eyes. Everything was blurry; why was that? Where was that light coming from? He groaned and tried to sit up. Or was he laying down? Something wasn’t right here; what had happened? Where was he, the Emergency Room? The light in his eyes would seem to indicate that. If he was, he hoped his people had come with him, in case he’d said anything while he was out. Anything….embarrassing.
"Jessup?" a soft, male voice said gently. "Jessup Jackson?"
Jackson opened his eyes. The light was bright, but somehow not unbearable; it didn’t hurt to look into it, and it seemed to be coming from everywhere. He was standing upright, but felt as though he were laying down; that is, his body felt at total relaxation and rest. There was music of some kind, ethereal and faint, in the air, as though the air here itself were made of it, or at least consisted of it.
He looked at himself, and saw that in place of his expensive suit was a simple robe, or perhaps sheet, of white linen.
"Jessup…" the voice came again, more urgent now. He turned in the direction of the sound. He seemed not so much to "hear" it, as to sense it. But he knew which direction to turn.
"Yes?" he asked. He saw an old, gray-bearded black man in a robe of shimmering white silk, emerging from the light. In his hand he held what appeared to be a ledger bound in gold. "Who are you?" Jackson asked the old man.
"You know who I am…" the man said, stopping before him and smiling cryptically.
Jackson stopped and considered. Suddenly, he knew what had happened; "Oh, my Lord….are you Saint Peter?"
The man smiled.
"I knew it! I always knew it! God is black!" Jackson said, jumping around and clapping his hands, whooping with delight. The old man followed him with his eyes, smiling oddly.
"Weeelll…not really," the man corrected. "Technically, God is of all races and colors; man is, after all, made in His image."
"Hmmmm…" Jackson said, slightly troubled. The thought that God might be white hadn’t occurred to him in years. Oh well. He’d made it to Heaven. "Now what happens?" he asked.
"Come with me," the man said, motioning the newcomer to follow. Jackson fell into step beside him.
As they approached a break in the light, Jackson stopped. "What’s that?" he asked, pointing.
"One of the many mansions, my son…." Saint Peter said. "enter it, and your Eternal existence begins."
"I see….so…when do I meet Jesus?"
"Oh, He knows you’re here," the old man answered."
Jackson nodded. "So, that’s my mansion?" he asked, indicating with a motion of his head.
"Yes….and welcome to your reward!" came the answer.
Jackson thanked him a stepped through. There was a slight drop, and he might have sprained his ankle, had he been alive. But he didn’t. He looked around his mansion, and couldn’t believe what he saw; white, black, yellow, red, brown….all the races, mingling and laughing, eating together and existing in perfect harmony. They were obviously enjoying each other‘s company.
"Waitaminnit;" Jackson said. "Is this heaven?" he asked. "It’s not as I expected it to be somehow….it’s different…." his voice trailed of, slightly troubled.
The old man smiled slyly. "Who said anything about Heaven?" he said, and tore off his face with a clawed hand. Beneath the kindly features of old "Saint Peter" was the red face of Satan, who laughed evilly. Jackson, startled, took a step backward, trying to go back through the breach and into the light, but was tossed away, sprawling to the ground. This time, it hurt. He got up painfully and looked back at the breach. Now the light was gone, and darkness ruled the other of the gap. He knew instinctively that this did not bode well for him.
"Go on, Jessup….." Satan prodded mockingly, smiling; "ply your trade…work the masses. Play them against one another. ‘Stir the pot’. Complain about everything, no matter how insignificant or important. And yet, at the same time, make it seem as though you’re REALLY working toward racial unity….Oh, yes! That’s right! Racial unity is achieved here. There’s no racism, no discrimination, no hatred at all. No need for your ‘mediation’ and interference." his smiled dropped. "Looks like you’re out of luck," he hissed, and turned away.
Jackson dropped to his knees, clutching his burning head in both hands.
"nnnnnNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOooooooo!" he screamed to the eternal universe.
"Don’t worry," Satan said; "you’ll have company soon….Sharpton and Farrakan aren’t getting any younger, you know.
And Satan laughed again. "Enjoy your reward," he said, walking away, and chuckled.