The God Robbers

THE GOD ROBBERS

by Gene Jennings

Copyright 2011 Gene Jennings

Smashwords Edition

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If my people, who are called by my name, will humble themselves and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven and will forgive their sin and will heal their land. (2 Chronicles 7:14

PROLOGUE

It’s sad that people don’t honor the house of the Lord anymore, Mattie Hutchins, pianist and preschool Sunday School teacher, told Fay Kirkland.

It sure is, said Fay. If your church ain’t safe, then you know your house ain’t safe either.

The good thing about this particular Sunday morning at Southside Fellowship Church was that the events of the previous night created a buzz in the small congregation and a fire in the pulpit. There was excitement for a change. Southside was, at least temporarily, out of its rut.

Pastor Roy Thomason made the discovery early in the morning. Thieves had broken into the church’s fellowship hall and made their way through the entire building. The broken glass was the least of their worries. What really hurt was that Southside’s same old way of doing church had been disrupted. With the loss of two guitars, most of the drum’s components, three amplifiers, microphones and speakers, the group was bound to sing by Mattie’s piano music only. For this particular Pentecostal church, the piano wasn’t enough. Sure Mattie’s talent was appreciated and even excellent. But this congregation had grown used to a loud, exciting, electronic, sweat-inducing hour of worship prior to Preacher Thomason’s sermon. What would they do this morning?

This is the fifth church burglary this month, Deacon Randy Hornsby was overheard reporting to Preacher Thomason. As a deputy with the Paulding County Sheriff’s Office, Hornsby knew this was becoming a problem in the metropolitan Atlanta area. Nearby Bartow County had reported over half a dozen in the last two months. Fayette County had seven since July.

I feel violated and angry at the same time, Harland Grubbs told the Paulding Courier reporter. Tammy Hale heard the news on her police scanner early Sunday morning and decided to come do the story for this week’s edition of The Courier.

I just pray for these people, Pastor Thomason told Tammy as she scribbled down his holy words. People like this have no values and no conscience, he said. We need to pray that God will touch their hearts and turn them from their wicked ways. This act of rage against the church is symbolic of the contempt in our country for the church. People don’t care about the church anymore. They don’t honor the house of God like generations of the past. It is a definite sign that we are near the end of the age. We are in desperate need for a revival in the land.

The leaders of Southside’s congregation spent most of the Sunday School hour cleaning up after the burglars and talking among one another about the sad state of affairs the world had come to. But by the appointed hour, 11:00 AM, they gathered in their designated pews and worshipped under the graceful but lonely piano of Mattie Hutchins. They didn’t clap, shout, and sing with the same energy. No one got overly emotional or carried away during the musical portion of the service. It was a subdued praise and worship time. Preacher Thomason’s sermon was more relevant and vibrant as he called on God to bring healing to the sinners who damaged God’s house.

It was nice to be out of the rut. Breaking routine is refreshing sometimes. Curiously, when the service was over, many in the Southside Fellowship congregation were actually glad that it was a little different today. At the same time, however, they hoped that the band would be able to recover their loss by next Sunday. They liked Southside Fellowship Church just the way it was before this week’s disruption.

CHAPTER 1

The fan belt on the ‘89 Chevy van squawked as Tony Cartrell turned the engine over in the Waffle House parking lot. Dog! He said looking at the dashboard. We need some gas. You got any cash?

A few dollars, Chuck said as he reached into his wallet to see if a few twenties had somehow magically appeared since he looked there last.

We need some money, Tony looked at Chuck. I’ve got an idea. We did this thing a couple of times when I was in high school. You ready for some excitement?

What are you talking about? Chuck asked as Tony turned right on to Highway 41 north of downtown Atlanta and gave the van all it had.

Just do what I tell you. It’s easy. Help me find a convenience store that’s not too busy, Tony said while the Steve Miller Band sang Take the Money and Run on the classic rock station. Tony sang along with every word while Chuck nervously sucked on a Marlboro.

Chuck exhaled smoke out of the right side of his mouth in the general direction of the window. Shouldn’t be too hard, being Sunday morning and all. Nobody on the road except church goers and shift workers, he said.

That one looks perfect, Tony said after a few miles. He pulled the van to the gas pump that was farthest away from the store. He got out and began filling the van up with 87 octane.

So, what’s the deal? Chuck asked.

I’m going to go in the store while you finish filling up the van, okay? When you get done, pull the nozzle out of the tank and shoot some gas on the ground away from the van before you turn the pump off. Be sure no one’s watching you.

Alright.

Start the van. Light a cigarette and then go back and throw your cigarette in the gas and haul tail out of here.

Are you crazy? I’ll blow up. Chuck whispered loudly.

No, you won’t. I’ve done it before. Just be quick about it. Pick me up down the street by that used car lot. Tony pointed to a puke green sign with yellow letters two blocks away that read Affordable Autos. No Credit. No Problem.

What are you going to do?

I’m going to get us some money while you’re creating my diversion, Tony said. Watch the store and make sure I’m alone in front of the counter with the clerk in there before you do it. We don’t want any witnesses.

Tony walked toward the store while Chuck took over the gas pump duties. He discreetly scoped out the cashier’s area of the store as he entered and went back to the coolers and grabbed a Wild Cherry Pepsi. Then he got a bag of peanut M&M’s from the candy aisle. He was the only customer in the store and Chuck was the only person at the gas pumps. Tony placed his items on the counter where a young, rotund African-American woman name-tagged Tawana stood. Two seconds later, he saw flames leaping from the ground out of the corner of his eye. Holy cow! Your gas pumps are on fire.

Oh, Jesus, Tawana cried out in a gospel choir voice.

Call 911! Call 911! Tony instructed the clerk pointing toward the phone behind her.

Chuck burned rubber out of the store parking lot.

Oh, Lord. Help me, Tawana prayed as she turned her back to Tony and the cash register to dial 911. Tony immediately reached over the counter to the cash register and hit a couple of buttons until the cash drawer popped out. He reached in and grabbed a handful of twenties and tens then he lifted the drawer up to take any fifties or hundreds that may have been hiding there.

Yes, this is an emergency. The gas pumps are on fire at the Marietta Pump and Shop. Tawana said loudly with her eyes focused on the fire and her back to her customer. She gave the 911 operator the address twice. Hurry before the whole place blows up.

Tony shut the cash drawer and shoved the money in his pants pocket just as Tawana turned back around toward the register.

I’m getting out of here before this place explodes, Tony bolted out of the store until he was out of Tawana’s sight. Then he broke down into a casual walk toward Affordable Autos. He heard sirens coming in his direction as he climbed into the van.

Man, that was crazy, Chuck laughed. Is that place going to blow up?

I doubt it. Let’s move. We don’t need to stay close to here, Tony said as he dug the cash out of his pants.

How much did you get? Chuck asked as Tony unfolded the wad of bills.

Jackpot, Tony held up two one hundred dollar bills. I was hoping she’d have some big bills in there for me. He counted and sorted the fruit of his labor. Looks like about four hundred and sixty dollars. That’ll get us by for a little while. Not bad for a few minutes work, huh? Tony smiled at his partner.

Where to now? Chuck asked his boss.

Let’s go to church. Their pitiful Chevy rumbled north on Highway 41 as The Allman Brothers sang Ramblin’ Man.

*****

Well? Chuck said.

Piece of cake, Tony whispered as he confidently slid into the pew. What number?

353

Chuck was slightly nervous about their plans. Meanwhile, Tony flipped to hymn number 353 and began to belt out There Shall Be Showers of Blessing with zeal.

The congregation at Crestview Church sang spiritlessly through the hymn. Some folks stared at the music director. Others stared at their hymnbook, members of the choir, the marble floor below, the chandeliers above, or the back of the person's head in front of them. A few people sang the hymn with sincerity but most merely endured it.

Chuck leaned toward Tony. Did you find it? he whispered.

Yep, Tony inserted quickly between measures.

Why are you late?

Tony leaned toward Chuck and softly answered, No problem. Just had a good chance to look around. I haven't missed anything have I?

Are you kidding? Just the pause for worship.

You mean 'Call to Worship.'

Whatever. You know, the first song.

You'll catch on one day. Tony straightened up when the second stanza of 353 began and let his tenor voice be heard. It was beautiful. Chuck never told him but he loved to hear Tony sing. Chuck could tell Tony had been around churches as a kid. He was a pro. He knew many of the hymns by heart.

Chuck was still uncomfortable with the idea of robbing churches, but it seemed to be going well. Besides, they had found a unique niche in the crime business. These jobs were truly a piece of cake.

The worship leaders meticulously followed the order of worship that was handed out by the lifeless ushers at the front door. Chuck wondered how a dead ritual could have anything to do with God. Why do these people put themselves through this agony week after week? If this is what heaven is going to be like, I'm glad I'm going to hell.

The pomp and circumstance dragged on while Chuck fantasized about being financially independent. The pastoral prayer, sluggish hymns, Scripture reading, the offering, - the offering. Now that caught Chuck's attention. Twelve ushers marched down to the front of the church as the congregation labored through the final stanza of Come, Ye Thankful People Come. They were preparing to receive the offering. A short, bald headed fellow with reading glasses stepped up on the podium and walked behind the pulpit. According to the order of worship, he was Luther Van Alstyne, Deacon. From a distance, he had the face of a pit bulldog. His personality probably fit his looks too. Hopefully, Chuck thought, he was more cordial up close. As the offertory prayer was mumbled by Deacon Van Alstyne, Chuck couldn't help but imagine what people like Luther and the rest of these church folks would think if they knew what he and Tony were planning.

The gifts and the givers were blessed. The twelve disciples headed toward the five thousand with empty platters and a mission to fill them in a matter of minutes.

Chuck watched the idiosyncrasies and attitudes of the congregation as they placed their money in the offering plate. A middle-aged woman two rows up had to rouse her husband with a firm elbow to the side so he could reluctantly dig a five dollar bill out of his wallet. A mother of two preschoolers was so busy keeping her youngsters entertained with pew pencils and paper that she almost missed the plate as it passed by. One senior adult gentleman dutifully placed his check face down into the offering plate. Many folks received the plate and passed it on to their neighbor like they were playing hot potato. Chuck had always heard that religious folks were supposed to be cheerful givers. These people didn't seem too happy about it.

Five minutes into the sermon, several men had already nodded off to sleep. Chuck was about to join them. Tony had his Bible in his lap, yellow highlighter in hand, on the edge of his seat acting as if he were soaking up every word of the minister. Tony tried to tell Chuck that they should look and act like believers during the service. Tony thought people would be less suspicious if they played the part. From Chuck's observation, he was the one looking normal.

Crestview was a gorgeous church in a wealthy section of North Atlanta. Apparently the money the members loathingly gave was going towards something. Padded pews, stained glass windows, palatial marble floors, golden chandeliers, a sound system any fledgling rock band would envy, and a two million dollar pipe organ, this church had it. There was plenty of money at Crestview Church. It was obvious that the women knew the floor plan of the Galleria Mall like the back of their hand. Most of these dresses weren't purchased at Wal-Mart. Chuck could tell that the men hit the malls frequently too.

Chuck and Tony barely fit in with the crowd. Chuck wore navy blue slacks with a white pinstriped shirt. Tony had khaki pants with a pink Polo shirt. Chuck felt out of place since they didn't wear ties this week. But then, he felt out of place every time he went to church. Their Dockers were in pretty good shape. No one would ever guess they bought them at the Salvation Army for three bucks. Their Steve Maddens came cheap too. Tony lifted them off of a display rack at a shoe store in Southside Mall six weeks before.

Though it bored Chuck, there must have been something at Crestview that made it worth attending. After all, about five thousand people were pressed into the sanctuary. Mostly white upper-middle to upper class, they seemed satisfied that they made it to church but didn't seem interested in getting anything out of it. They were there for the appointed hour. They'd paid their dues for the week. Now they were ready to go home.

Chuck endured the sermon by watching the backs of people's heads. Since he and Tony sat near the back of the sanctuary he could see almost every attender. He had invented a game based on the inattention of church members. When he spotted someone's head jerk up, as if waking from a near catnap, he gave himself a point. Chuck wasn't sure how the game could be officially sanctioned but it kept him entertained for the remainder of the hour. Last week, he scored 35 points.

When head bobbing got boring, Chuck studied the preacher. He was a typical North Atlanta yuppie. Expensive suit. Flashy tie. Gold watch, cufflinks, and bracelet. A big ring on his right hand, a million dollar smile, and perfect hair. He looked like a successful corporate businessman. He was. Blake Simmons was his name. Thirty-five to forty years old. Charismatic. Friendly. In control. Full of wisdom. He preached like a used car salesman. Everything was positive. There were no negatives. He couldn't find anything wrong with life. Just a few minor problems along the way but nothing to really worry about. Smile. God is good. Life is wonderful and it will all work out in the end. That seemed to sum up the character of Blake Simmons.

Simmons had been quite blessed in the past few years. When Dr. Walter Owens, the former Senior Pastor of Crestview, was tragically killed in a car accident the church allowed Simmons to step into the pulpit as their interim pastor. He had been on staff as the Associate Pastor for less than two years. He had little experience for a church as large as Crestview but he was a dynamic speaker and the congregation immediately fell in love with his preaching style. After only four months without a pastor, Crestview appointed Simmons to be the youngest pastor in the history of the church. He has been on a climb to success ever since.

Pastor Simmons used the Bible occasionally to proof text what he was preaching. You can do anything that you want to do, Simmons said to his flock. All you need to do is carry a positive mental attitude with you at all times. God will see you through. If you have a personal goal in your life that you're trying to achieve, God will help you. You can do it. If you think your boss will never recognize your hard work, hang in there. Don't give up. If you don't think your ship will ever sail its way into your life, be positive. It will happen. Be a confident Christian. Confidence creates blessings.

Confidence creates blessings? Where have I heard that before? Oh yeah, there are billboards on the freeways advertising this place. Crestview Church - where confidence creates blessings!

Chuck remembered the books by Blake Simmons for sale in the foyer. He happened to see one as they entered the sanctuary. Confident Christianity: How a Confident Faith Can Bring You Blessings.

That must have been what attracted all of the wealthy baby-boomers in North Atlanta. Blake Simmons had come up with a way for them to be religious and financially successful at the same time. No wonder the place was packed three times on Sunday mornings. Simmons was telling them that Jesus wanted them to be rich. Materially rich. And they needed to have it confirmed in their souls so they could justify their BMW's, Mercedes, sailboats, hot-tubs, and million dollar mansions.

A boomer head bobbed a few rows ahead. That's 23 points so far.

Chuck noticed how convincing Tony was as he acted as if he was really paying attention to the pastor. He had all three of Simmons' alliterated points written down. Even a few Scripture references were jotted down in the margin of his Bible. Tony played the church game like Judas played a disciple. His Bible was worn and appeared well read. In fact, last week at Cold Creek United Methodist Church a woman noted, I can always tell a sincere Christian by looking at the wear and tear of their Bible. I know you must be a very dedicated young man.

Yes, ma'am, Tony lied, I've had this Bible since I was baptized in 1973. My pastor gave it to me.

The last part was the truth. Tony really did get a Bible when he was baptized as a kid but the wear and tear wasn't from study. It was from being thrown on the dashboard of his van, dropped in parking lots, and baking in the hot July sun. One time it rode home from a church on the roof of the van. Somehow the black genuine leather cover managed to stick to the hot metal roof and the old King James Version survived.

The fourth characteristic of a confident Christian - Simmons proclaimed. Another point? Chuck thought Pastor Blake was almost finished. Guess that means more head bobbing.

Aha! Numbers 24 and 25 dropped almost simultaneously.

Tony must have been disappointed about point number four, too. He didn't write it down. He was busy drawing a mountain scene at the bottom of his paper. He always doodled the same thing. A mountain range. A stream flowing from a vanishing point in the midst of the mountains and a tree planted on the left front side of the picture.

Chuck scanned the sanctuary. If I had the money that some of these folks have, I sure wouldn't be here. Chuck dropped the head-bobbing contest to dream about Lake Lanier with a jet boat and two scantily clad women. He couldn't put faces on the girls in his vision but that didn't matter. He caught himself smiling and quickly wiped it away. He didn't want anyone to see him daydreaming in church.

These folks have it made. Why do they bother? It must be some silly habit or superstition because this surely can't be of any benefit to them - with the exception of Blake Simmons puffing up their lifestyles.

There's number 26. If Simmons goes to a fifth point it could be a record day.

Chuck was dying for a cigarette. He had a hard time going over an hour without a smoke. Today he'd have to fast for several hours. It would be a long afternoon. Chuck couldn't understand why Tony insisted on doing this job in the daylight. Why not at night so he didn't have to quit smoking for half of the day?

"Let's pause