Where the Light Fell

by Philip Yancey

  A classmate who owns a 1964 Nash Rambler invites me to join him and a friend on the chain-gang route. “What’s that?” I ask.

  “Just what it sounds like, prisons for guys who are chained together. Basically, we tool around to some convict work camps and conduct a church service on Sundays. I did it last year. We get to stop for breakfast at some great Southern diners. Oh, and don’t worry about security—these guys are chained.”

  He proves right about the breakfasts. I’ve never eaten such deliciously unhealthy food: grits and red-eye gravy, salted country ham, chicken-fried steak topped with fried eggs. After stuffing ourselves, we drive to the work camp, and a warden escorts us to the makeshift chapel. “Try to knock some sense into these fellas,” he says with a friendly pat on my shoulder.

  A guard stands at the door with a loaded shotgun. Inside, I am shocked to see forty Black men dressed in zebra-striped uniforms, each with a chain around his ankle attached to what looks like a cannonball. Every time one of the prisoners shifts positions, his chain clanks with a grating sound.

  We students have prepared a series on the Ten Commandments, and as I sit on a bench beside the prisoners, I wonder what in the world I, a sheltered Bible-college teenager, will say to men who have broken more of those commandments than I can even name. Our team wins them over, though, with some rousing music. One of my companions plays an accordion, and the congregation comes alive when he asks if they have any special requests. He knows “Amazing Grace” and “When the Roll Is Called Up Yonder” but has to fake his way through “I’ll Fly Away” and “On the Wings of a Snow-White Dove.”

  After the service the warden lets us mingle with the prisoners, and I hear a side of life I have only read about: drunken fathers, knife fights, moonshining, juke joints, honor killings, police brutality. A career burglar gives me a helpful piece of advice: “Lot of folk leave a light on at night thinkin’ they fool us. We ain’t fooled. Jes’ leave on the bathroom light—that way we never sure if somebody ain’t really still up.”

  * * *

  —

  Near the end of the school year, Marshall’s spiritual crisis deepens. Mother must suspect something, because in her letters she keeps asking me about the state of his soul. He hasn’t written her in months, so I’m her only source of news.

  His roommate pulls me aside one day. “What’s going on with your brother?” he asks. “Last week, during the compulsory time for personal devotions, he looked up from the Bible and said, ‘I think this is just a human book.’ ” At a college with Bible in its name, that’s nothing short of treason.

  Marshall’s cynicism soon outstrips my own. One of his classmates tells me about a sophomore chapel in which the students took turns mentioning a “life verse” they had chosen from the Bible. “We heard some typical verses from Proverbs, Romans, and Ephesians. Then your brother stands and with a straight face recites this verse very rapidly: ‘At Parbar westward, four at the causeway, and two at Parbar.’ It’s from 1 Chronicles—he gave the reference. Say it fast, and it sounds like you’re speaking in tongues.

  “Later, he gave another life verse, from Psalm 137: ‘O daughter of Babylon…Happy shall he be, that taketh and dasheth thy little ones against the stones.’ You think your brother’s all right?”

  The faculty and staff add Marshall to their urgent prayer list. Two music students whom he accompanies on the piano invite him down the hill to the practice rooms. With a propane heater hissing in the background, they try to exorcize a demon from him. They press their hands on his head and in the name of Jesus command the evil spirit to depart. My brother feels nothing.

  In private, Marshall reveals to me that he has adopted a new goal, to break every rule in the school’s sixty-six-page rule book. He starts out with simple transgressions: holding hands with a girl, skipping devotions one morning, leaving his bed unmade. After a few weeks, he grows bored and decides to attempt the most iniquitous act of all—drinking alcohol.

  Neither Marshall nor I have ever met a Christian who drank, and we’ve heard dozens of sermons decrying “demon rum.” Christians led the campaign for Prohibition, which only lasted fourteen years, but even in the 1960s many counties in rural South Carolina still prohibit the sale of alcohol.

  Two jaded upperclassmen agree to assist Marshall with his goal. They tell him, “First, we have to find a source. That’s not so easy in this state. It’s illegal to have a sign on a liquor store, so they identify themselves by polka dots on the side of the building.” After locating a polka-dotted store, they buy a bottle of cheap rosé wine, obtain three cups of ice from a nearby McDonald’s, and drive down a dirt road to a secluded spot by the Broad River.

  That evening in my dorm room, Marshall fills in the details. “I felt like I was standing on the edge of a cliff, not a river,” he says. “You know how Mother thinks—one sip will turn you into a lifelong alcoholic. So my friends pour the wine into paper cups, and let it chill over ice for a few minutes. I’m about to drink certain damnation. I swear, my hands are trembling as I lift the cup to my mouth.”

  “How did it taste?” I ask.

  “Awful. I felt a little light-headed, and my heart seemed to beat faster, probably from the excitement. I drank the whole cup, and then we returned to campus. That was it.” The whole experience seemed anticlimactic.

  A few nights later, a great weight descends on Marshall, a pang of conviction over the grave sin he has committed. He reports to the dean of men, who listens intently to the account of his misdeed. “You did the right thing, Marshall, coming to me and repenting. I’ll decide on an appropriate punishment.” Marshall breathes a sigh of relief.

  But the dean has more to say. “However, surely you know that your repentance is not complete. I can’t accept it fully until you tell me the names of the students who participated with you.”

  Marshall’s stomach seizes up. It’s May, mere weeks before graduation. If he discloses the names of those students, both seniors, they’ll likely be shipped home from college, their scholastic records purged as if they had never attended the school. The dean ups the ante. “You’re not just confessing to me, Marshall. The Holy Spirit is awaiting your full repentance.”

  When Marshall breaks the news to his partners in crime, they pace their dorm room in a frenzy. “You can’t do this to us! It was your idea, not ours. We’ve spent four years in this place, paid out thousands of dollars. No, you can’t do it!” My brother hangs his head in bitter shame.

  The next day, one of the two seniors comes up with a plan so outlandish that it just may represent their only hope. He has reread the entire rule book overnight and discovered an astounding fact: nowhere does it mention alcohol. The sin is so self-evident and so heinous that, much like murder or sex with animals, no one has thought of specifying a campus rule against it.

  “We have only one defense,” the distraught senior announces. “We’ve got to act like we had no idea some Christians believe drinking is sinful. I know it’s a stretch, but think about it—I’m Episcopalian, and the churches I come from serve Communion wine every Sunday. It’s sacred. And the Bible refers to wine scores of times, often positively. Our only chance is to convince the dean of our ignorance.”

  Marshall’s two friends call me in that night and walk me through the plan. “We need somebody to role-play the dean. We’ve got to keep this a secret, and we can trust you to not betray your brother.”

  Over the next couple of days, the two seniors practice their defense. Like a prosecuting attorney, I try to catch them in inconsistencies and contradictions, until they get the story down pat. As we practice, my brother sits on a dorm bed, holding his head in his hands. Drops of sweat drip from his nose to the floor.

  Guilt-ridden, defeated, torn asunder, Marshall makes his way to the dean’s office and surrenders the two names. “God bless you, Marshall. Your repentance is complete. I’ll assign you twenty-five hours
of college service, and you can consider yourself forgiven. I know this must be difficult, but you did the right thing.”

  That same afternoon the two seniors appear before the dean. They stick to their story, though they can tell from his demeanor that the dean doesn’t believe a word of it. He refers them to a faculty committee, which in turn consults with board members. The two seniors take their final exams not knowing whether or not they will receive a diploma at graduation.

  By definition, legalists follow the rules. The college concludes it cannot punish someone for breaking a rule that has not been stated. The seniors graduate, the rule book undergoes a revision, and my brother starts filling out applications to transfer to another college.

  It is a curious thing, do you know, Cranly said dispassionately, how your mind is supersaturated with the religion in which you say you disbelieve.

  —James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

  CHAPTER 19

  MISFITS

  As Marshall plans his escape that summer, I find a job driving a food truck, affectionately known as “the roach coach.” I’m amazed that a company would entrust their vehicle to a seventeen-year-old college student and turn me loose in the Atlanta suburbs. The only downside: work begins at 5:00 a.m. Before sunrise, I stock one side of the truck with coffee, soup, and hot sandwiches and the other with cold sandwiches, snacks, and soft drinks packed in ice.

  Drivers work entirely on commission, and since the good routes are already taken, I bring home almost no income for the first few weeks. Just as I consider searching for another job, I hit a gold mine. I notice a new subdivision being developed at the end of a highway still under construction. There I meet a foreman named Jake, who offers me a deal.

  “Tell you what,” Jake says. “I truck in these boys from Athens every day.” He motions to his crew, shirtless Black teenagers sitting on stacks of lumber. “We’re so far out here, I ain’t got time for ’em to go someplace for lunch. If you show up every day at noontime, and keep a runnin’ tab on what they order, on payday I’ll take it out of their pay and give you the cash.”

  I sell more food and drinks that day than I’ve sold in a week. Speaking in a country accent I can barely understand, the ravenous workers order two sandwiches apiece, along with a couple of Cokes, maybe a bowl of Brunswick stew, and a MoonPie or slice of cake for dessert. In the afternoon I return with more cold drinks and snacks. I take note of what they like and stock the truck with extra portions the next morning.

  At the end of the week, the white foreman calls over the workers one at a time. “Lucius, time to settle up for your lunches.” Jake is paying his workers two dollars an hour, above the minimum wage at the time, and he pulls out four twenty-dollar bills.

  I add up Lucius’s food bill for the week, totaling $52.64, which I subtract from the twenties. When I put the change in Lucius’s hand, he stares at the money and looks up at his boss. “Suh, this all I git?” For five full days he has bounced along for an hour in the back of an open pickup for the privilege of hauling lumber and pounding nails. Now he has $27.36 to show for it.

  “ ’Fraid so, Lucius,” Jake answers. “Maybe y’all oughta cut down a bit on your lunches.”

  Lucius and his friends order just as much the next week and the next, all through the summer. I am charging the fixed prices set by the catering company, and at the end of each week I take home more than two hundred dollars.

  That summer gives me an insider’s view of injustice. I squirm from guilt every Friday night as I tally my profits, knowing they amount to far more than those kids made digging ditches, mixing concrete, and hammering studs together under a white-hot Georgia sun. Each new week, I do it again. I have to, I rationalize, in order to pay my tuition bills—for a Bible college.

  * * *

  —

  Marshall, still reeling from the wine-drinking incident, spends much of the summer applying to other schools. He sets his sights on Wheaton College, an elite Christian school near Chicago. “It has a conservatory of music, so that’s my first choice,” he tells me. “I missed the application deadline, but there’s a chance they’ll let me in as a hardship case.”

  He adds a caution, “Whatever you do, don’t discuss it with Mother. She’ll freak, and it may not work out, anyway.”

  Then comes one of those pivotal days that begins like any other but alters a life forever.

  I return home from my job on the catering truck to find Marshall sitting at the kitchen table going through the day’s mail. He looks up, waves an opened envelope, and grins like he’s just won the lottery. “You won’t believe it!” he crows. “Not only did they accept me, they’re offering me a scholarship.”

  “Hey, congratulations,” I say. “You got your number one choice. I hear Wheaton’s a great school. And it’s Christian—surely Mother won’t object.”

  I could not be more wrong. That evening, the three of us eat dinner around the dining-room table. Marshall says little as I describe my day’s adventures on the route. I can tell he’s churning inside. Just as we finish eating, Marshall brings up the letter. “So, I got some good news today,” he says in a nervous voice. “Wheaton accepted me and gave me financial aid.”

  Mother reacts quickly, as if she’s mentally rehearsed this discussion. She knew he was looking to transfer somewhere, and he’d mentioned Wheaton in passing.

  “I’d rather you go to some place like Harvard,” she says in a low, gruff voice, pronouncing the name with contempt. “There, they don’t even pretend to believe in God. Wheaton claims to, but they’re liberal. They use the same words we do, but they don’t really mean ’em. They’re apostate, son. You’re as likely to lose your faith there as at any secular university—maybe more likely.”

  Marshall takes the bait. “Get serious. Wheaton’s a Christian college, it’s just not as narrow-minded as some others. Didn’t Billy Graham attend there?”

  Wrong answer. Her voice rises: “Yeah, and look at him. Inviting liberals and Catholics onto his platform, meeting with the pope, talkin’ about someday visiting Russia. That’s exactly what I mean!”

  Sensing a storm, I retreat to a sofa to watch the two of them spar. Mother chews on her thumb, and I can see a tendon working in her jaw, a telltale sign of her anger. “How d’ya plan to pay for it? Money doesn’t grow on trees, and I certainly won’t help you. And how are you gonna get yourself up there—you don’t have a car.”

  Marshall explains about the scholarship, and about his friend Larry, who has agreed to drive all the way from Boston to Atlanta in order to give him a ride to Wheaton. “Larry and I play duets together. He was the choir organist and I played the piano. Now he’s also transferring from Bible college to the Conservatory. Maybe we can be roommates.”

  Mother’s eyes contract, and her face contorts into a fierce, wild look that I have never seen before. She spits out the words. “Let me tell you something, son. Nobody’s going to drive you to Wheaton. You’re not yet twenty-one, and in this state that makes you a minor. Mrs. Barnes from church works for a federal judge. I’ll get him to slap a warrant for kidnapping charges on anybody who carries you across state lines.”

  She pauses, staring him down. “You think I’m kidding? I’ll do it. Just try me.”

  Marshall does not yield. “Then I’ll fly. What’s he going to do, issue a warrant against Delta Air Lines?”

  Silence descends as Mother contemplates the next threat. Her jaw tendon twitches faster, though her facial expression does not change.

  When she speaks, the words come in a burst of fury. “Make fun of me if you want. I’ll do whatever it takes to stop you, young man. You listen to me. If you find a way to pull off this plan, I guarantee you one thing. I’ll pray every day for the rest of your life that God will break you. Maybe you’ll be in a terrible accident and die. That’ll teach you. Or, better yet, maybe you’ll be paralyzed. Then
you’ll have to lie on your back and stare at the ceiling and realize what a rebellious thing you’ve done, going against God’s will and everything you’ve been brought up to believe.”

  Her words hang in the room like a cloud of poison gas. Once released, it cannot be put back in the canister. Marshall pushes away from the table, scraping his chair so hard it leaves marks on the floor. He heads toward his bedroom, and a few seconds later I hear the slam of a door.

  I keep my head down, pretending to read a magazine. My vision blurs, and a quickened pulse throbs in my temples. Be still, my heart is the only thought I can form.

  In the tense quiet that follows, I picture my father, lying motionless in an iron lung, staring at fluorescent lights overhead. I’ll pray every day that God will break you—she would pray for that?

  * * *

  —

  Dozens, scores of times in ensuing years, my brother and I have replayed that scene together. We recall the same vivid details: the prominent “W” on the acceptance letter lying atop a pile of junk mail, the cold hard words coming from a face twisted in rage. Yet we always disagree about one crucial point, what our mother actually said after the words better yet.

  I remember the threat of paralysis, while Marshall remembers a different version: “Or, better yet, maybe you’ll lose your mind.” Those words embedded in him ever after, like barbed wire pressing into a tree’s heartwood. To this day, I believe my brother’s subconscious has backfilled his memory of her threat with what actually happened at Wheaton.

  * * *

  —

  The family silences grow longer that summer. In order to avoid the tension at home, I find excuses to work late on my catering job. Marshall takes a minimum-wage job as an orderly at Grady Hospital, cleaning bedpans and saving every penny for college. He deliberately asks for the evening shift, and sleeps late, to avoid contact with Mother.