But really the shade of brown didn’t matter one bit. A Negro didn’t have be brown to be hated. He needed only to be labeled “Negro” by the blood running through his veins. The skin on the upper side of his hand could have been as light as the skin on his palms, like Queen’s, but because he was a Negro, he was despised and hated.
By the time the last shout had died to a whimper, Reverend Jenkins stood in the pulpit, armed with his Bible and, strangely, a newspaper. “For those of you blessed enough to own a Bible,” he said, “turn, if you will, to the book of Saint Matthew, the chapter being twenty-eight, and we shall commence reading at verse twelve.”
A few pages ruffled, as only a handful of people owned Bibles or, at best, could read them.
Reverend Jenkins read aloud while those of us who could, read silently:
“AND WHEN THEY WERE ASSEMBLED WITH THE ELDERS, AND HAD TAKEN COUNSEL, THEY GAVE LARGE MONEY UNTO THE SOLDIERS,
SAYING, ‘SAY YE, HIS DISCIPLES CAME BY NIGHT, AND STOLE HIM AWAY WHILE WE SLEPT.’”
“Now, we know from the Bible,” Reverend Jenkins said as he stepped from behind the podium and began pacing, “Jesus was raaaaised from the dead.”
A few “amens” came from the deacons.
“But look at this, folks,” said Reverend Jenkins. “When word of the Resurrection reached the ears of the chief priests, what did they do?”
“Preach, Preacher!” yelled Deacon Edwards, who obviously didn’t know the answer.
Reverend Jenkins strode back to the podium. “They asseeembled with the elders and took counselllllll.” He looked over at the deacons sitting crisply in the front row, smiled, and said, “In other words, they met with the deacons and came up with a plan.”
Reverend Jenkins paced again. “Can you imagine them,” he asked, “huddled around a table, whispering, ‘Where is he? What happened to him? How could he get out? His disciples must have taken him.’ Another shook his head and said, ‘We had soldiers guarding that tomb. That’s impossible.’ They straightened their robes and said, ‘But we can’t let this get back to Pilate. We’ll look like fools. He’ll know we killed an innocent man.’”
“So what did they do?” Reverend Jenkins asked, heading back to the podium.
There was a moment of silence. No “amens.” No “Preach, Preacher!” Just . . . silence.
Reverend Jenkins slammed his Bible so hard on the podium that dust fell from the ceiling. “They lied!” he said. “They paid off the soldiers to say the disciples came and stole the body while they slept. Now what kind of cockamamie story is that? Roman soldiers guarding the tomb? And all asleep at the same time? Pilate would have had them all killed for sleeping on the job.”
A few chuckles arose from the congregation; otherwise, the whole room was stiffly still and silent. The only noises were Reverend Jenkins and the whirring hum of box fans. It was the first time I had ever seen everybody awake during a sermon.
Reverend Jenkins removed his glasses, wiped them with a handkerchief, and placed them back on his face. He stared at the congregation for a moment, then placed the newspaper on the podium and spread it open. Whispers vibrated throughout the congregation.
“Suffer me a moment, if you will, as I read portions of this article from this morning’s edition of the Memphis Commercial Appeal,” Reverend Jenkins said.
Ma Pearl grunted.
Reverend Jenkins held the paper up to display the headline. “Charleston Sheriff Says Body in River Wasn’t Young Till,” he read. He placed the paper back on the podium. “I had written and rehearsed an entirely different sermon for today. But when I got this paper this morning, special delivery from a close friend, I knew I had to address this issue.”
An even quieter hush fell over the congregation as Reverend Jenkins read from the paper:
“Sheriff H. C. Strider said yesterday he doesn’t believe the body pulled from the Tallahatchie River in Mississippi was that of a Negro Boy who was whisked from his uncle’s home accused of whistling at a white woman.
“‘The body we took from the river looked more like that of a grown man instead of a young boy,’ the Tallahatchie County Sheriff said in Charleston, Miss.”
Reverend Jenkins stopped reading and stared at the congregation. “Y’all know of any Negro men missing in Mississippi?”
Heads shook, and voices murmured, “No, sir.”
Reverend Jenkins grimaced and continued reading.
“Sheriff Strider said the victim looked at least eighteen years old and probably had been in the water four or five days.”
Reverend Jenkins chuckled and said, “Four or five days, huh? I ask you again, y’all heard of any Negroes gone missing in the last few days other than the Chicago boy, Emmett Till?”
Murmurs filled the church.
Reverend Jenkins quieted the crowd with the wave of his hand, then continued reading.
“He said there was a large silver ring on the boy’s middle finger of his right hand.
“‘Mose said he couldn’t identify the ring and would have to talk to his boys to see if they could identify it,’ Sheriff Strider said. He was speaking of Mose Wright, Till’s uncle with whom he had been staying.
“Sheriff Strider said he believes Till is still alive.”