by J W Brazier
Chapter 24
White River’s new jogging trail followed the meandering riverbank. Swayed by his wife’s pleading, Steve struggled with the first quarter-mile lap. He ignored the embarrassing sight of his three hundred and fifty pounds bouncing and wiggling like Jell-O with every step.
Every part of him ached. He wondered if his lack of exercising hadn’t caused his muscles to atrophy. These workouts are kicking my butt. Payback time from years of bad habits, he thought.
Halfway into the third and final lap, his doctor’s words of warning blinked like a neon light in his thoughts: Lose it, or die. That wake-up call had come when a mild heart attack struck during a stress test in the doctor’s office.
Finish line in sight, his stomach growled in protest, a reminder of a strict diet and skipped lunches at Miss Pearlette’s restaurant. He’d flat-out refused to give up Gus’s barbecue. His wife had crossed a line. “Sherry, you’ve gone too far,” he’d pleaded, but lost the argument.
Now bent over, hands on knees, gasping for breath, Steve looked up at the river park’s newest addition, a statue of Gaia. The mother earth goddess stared down at him.
The thing’s mocking me, he whined, but then he froze in place at what else he saw.
He bolted upright. “Dear God,” he said with labored breath.
With his damp sweatshirt, he wiped away the sting of sweat in his eyes to focus. Letters scrawled in blood were faint, but still visible. The blood had drained into the grass around the base.
The question Dean Cohen had asked several days past, at Joshua’s dinner party, came rushing to the forefront of Steve’s mind. He’d brushed aside Dean’s question, considering it journalistic enthusiasm by a young, naive reporter chasing rumors.
Fervor with religious manifestations in the twenty-first century were questionable, but there it was. Steve could see it and touch it. The rumors he’d heard—and Joshua’s report—were indeed true.
In front of Steve was the answer to Dean’s question. A single word, its letters spelled out in blood. Steve staggered backward in anguish, realizing what the word meant.
“Dear Lord, forgive me,” he said and then ran for his car.
Two hours later, he sat in his office, still shaken by what he’d seen in the park. He tried to keep his mind occupied, away from thoughts of those bloody letters. He busied himself putting the finishing touches on a special Fourth of July sermon for that night, but what he’d seen in the park dogged him. His phone rang. He sighed upon seeing the name on the caller ID.
“Hello?” Steve said.
“Pastor McAdams, Ben Archer here.”
“Mr. Archer, it’s been awhile. What can I do for you?”
“Two things, and I’ll be brief. One, you’d better put the word out to your people that I’ll not tolerate the defacing of public and government property.”
“Wait, Mr. Archer. What are you referring to?”
“Does the word ‘Ichabod’ ring any bells, Preacher?”
“Well, yes, it’s from the Old Testament, meaning ‘the glory of the Lord has departed.’ Why are you asking?”
“I’ve received information that your group might be behind the wave of vandalism. They’re using human blood to write Christian garbage, Pastor. The Muslim community is upset. Seems they started with their mosque, in Southside. Last Sunday, they defamed several churches. Last night, they struck the city park and defaced our new statue of Gaia the earth goddess. This morning, it’s the city’s welcome signs and, of all places, my office, including General Phillips’ headquarters.
“Now this has got to stop, Preacher. I don’t know how they’ve managed to evade security cameras and military patrols, but I will soon enough; you can take that to the bank.”
Steve waited a moment before replying, remembering the sight of the Old Testament word scrawled in blood from that very morning.
“Mr. Archer, the vandalisms could be anybody, but you’ve chosen to accuse my church members.”
He figured Ben’s accusation was a roundabout way to included Joshua, knowing that he attended his church. Steve imagined Archer with an arrogant smirk on his face, puffing his cigar like a coal-burning freight train.
“Don’t get cute, Pastor. That’s what I’m saying, and be sure to pass that along to the mayor, since he’s one of your members.”
Steve tried to stay calm, but the plastic phone was about to crack from the pressure of his grip. “I wouldn’t worry, Mr. Archer. I’ll speak to my congregation at tonight’s service. Those vandals are young irresponsible kids, is my guess.”
“Kids? I don’t think so, but remember this, Preacher: I’ve put you on notice. I assure you, we’ll prosecute these malcontents when we find them, if the Muslims don’t lynch them first. If evidence points to your bunch of holy-rolling pew-jumpers, I’ll charge your church with every penalty I can find under ICC regulations, including civil or federal laws.”
“You said you had two things to discuss?”
“Right, so let’s get to our final piece of business.”
Ben’s haughty gusto for his new NGO authority came through loud and clear. Steve braced for another salvo.
“Pastor, during the military exercises, you’ll follow every directive of the International Criminal Court and the World Council of Churches. Pick up a copy of the United Nations resolutions from my office and keep them handy. My final piece of business is related, so listen close. You’ll supply our NGO committee with a list of all your church members.”
Steve already knew about the alliance of Christian and non-Christian clergy with the UN, but had avoided taking any action.
“Mr. Archer, listen close. I don’t agree with the WCC statements of faith. I will not bow to their directives or any UN resolution. The UN, ICC, and WCC have no authority superseding the US Constitution. You’re overstepping your boundaries, Mr. Archer. There will be no list presented.”
“Pastor, I couldn’t care less what you do or don’t believe. I want that list of members, with their home address and phone numbers in my office—today. FYI, Preacher, the United States signed off on the ICC treaty and is now under its ruling authority and directives. You Christians are classified as a ‘subversive group’ under the ICC agreement. That’s one step away from a terrorist.”
Steve felt his heart begin to race as his face grew hot. “Mr. Archer, I’ll inform my church tonight and put it to a vote.”
Ben growled, then shouted, “Now, you listen to me, you two-bit, sanctimonious, money-fleecing preacher, and listen well! This isn’t a voting matter. The choice isn’t yours or theirs. You’d better have those names on my desk by closing time today. If you fail to do so, I’ll make it a point to come and take that information on the spot. Your choice. You can make it easy or hard. Good day to you, sir.”
The line went dead, and Steve hung up, then sighed. God help us …
*
Ben slammed the telephone down and leaned back in his leather chair, blowing smoke rings toward the ceiling. “I got you now, Austin. I’m the big dog again.”
*
Recent chatter among a growing number of area pastors vindicated Steve’s concerns. Since the military exercise began, all of them had seen record declines in weekly attendance. Lack of attendance translated to lost revenues, in particular at midweek services.
Steve’s small church, The Rock, fared better than other extravagant mausoleums of worship. His church owned their property and operated with no debt.
This evening, the sanctuary had three sections filled with sturdy ornate pews, all handcrafted from thick cherry and oak. Those polished sentinels had held decades of worshipers in times of joy, sadness, war, and peace. Had baptized generations of young and buried the old.
The original foundation of hand-hewn stacked granite blocks stood firm atop solid bedrock. Wide-planked hardwood floors had remained level without sags or buckles.
Off stage, Steve wiped away sweat and tears as Mary Ann Duncan finished her last song, “Amazing
Grace,” a tearjerker favorite of everyone. Joshua and his family sat in the audience in front row seats near the aisle.
Time to stir up their comfort zones, Steve thought, and made his grand entrance sporting a new look: a long black robe. Before he approached the podium, he walked to and fro on the stage, as if a model on a runway. His emphasis on the robe would soon become clear.
He then thanked Mary Ann and took a moment to look out on the unusually large turnout. Two hundred-plus parishioners crammed every pew to max-seating capacity. The overflow sat in what few metal folding chairs remained or stood against the walls.
Steve felt the sweat trickle off his forehead and down his temples. His black robe already felt damp with perspiration. The large crowd radiated body heat like an Indian sweat lodge. He mumbled an inaudible prayer over the struggling air conditioners. Three out of six worked.
“Before I begin,” Steve said, “special appreciation goes out to all the men and women that have served and are still serving in our armed services. I also make a humble recognition to our wounded, their families, and those that have fallen in battle. Amen?”
In one harmonic crescendo, the entire audience stood and gave a robust round of applause complete with hoots and whistles, and a loud “AMEN!”
“I’ve prepared a special message tonight and I’ll try to finish before our last three working air conditioners fail. This Fourth of July message may, to a few, sound politically incorrect, but it honors unsung heroes—heroes who laid the foundation of our nation. They contributed to America’s independence at great cost. They did what I’m about to do tonight: they spoke the truth.”
His audience, a mix of regulars and new faces, appeared surprised. They hadn’t come for church, but anticipated a town hall meeting. They expected answers to explain the recent military occupation. Their new mayor was a church member; he would have answers to their questions.
Heads turned toward Joshua, their expressions beseeching, as if he should realize it was his cue to stand, but he didn’t move. He remained seated and silent.
Seeing the crowd’s reactions, Steve understood and sympathized with the people’s concerns. Their confused babble waned to faint whispers. He fluffed the lapels of his robe, held his arms out wide, and began.
“Preachers of the gospel during the Revolutionary War challenged, exhorted, and warned their communities. These same preachers—nicknamed the ‘Black Regiment’ or ‘Black Robes’—spoke their minds without fear of men or governments. They confronted head-on the tyranny of England’s King George. I’ve worn this black robe tonight as my humble tribute. I choose to honor their memory, commitment, bravery, and their unfaltering contributions to America’s independence—examples we would be wise to emulate in present-day America.
“Those men stirred their congregations to prepare and take action against the tyranny of a king. Tonight, I hope to stir you to action—to encourage you. I fear we are close to losing our constitutional liberties. Contemplate your response, stay steadfast in your resolve and commitment to preserve and defend that freedom for you, your children, and grandchildren.”
Steve raised his voice and jabbed a pointed finger at his audience to emphasize his next statement.
“What will be YOUR answer to liberty … and what will YOU do?”
Like a racehorse exiting a starting gate, Steve launched into his message with a vengeance, his voice thundering as he pounded the podium.
“We’re all guilty in America’s destruction. We’ve betrayed the blood sacrifice of generations before us, and those who fight this very hour in hostile lands around the globe. Complacency is destroying America. We’ve nurtured it—and, yes, allowed it! Unless you’re blind and brain-dead of late, tyranny is taking root in America. It’s at our door! If we slumber, we’ll awake enslaved, on our knees, to a subversive government.
Steve’s warm-up had the attention of every square inch of occupied space; the crowd looking shocked by his unusual beginning. Joshua, though, was smiling.
Steve continued with a much calmer and subdued voice. “We’ve all seen the recent incredible transformation of White River. The question to ask, are we under martial law by our government or a practice run preparing for the real deal? We have armed US and UN foreign military patrolling our streets, highways, and neighborhoods … citizens stopped and searched at fortified checkpoints. A new cashless system is in place requiring an OWN card or implant for all financial transactions. If it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, it must be a duck, contrary to political spin.”
Steve nodded. “You’re worried. That’s understandable. My telephone and the mayor’s ring nonstop. Callers are asking the same question: ‘What’s going on?’”
Heads and eyes turned in unison again toward Joshua. Steve looked at Joshua and nodded.
But before Joshua could say anything, Toothless Ted Hurley, a retired farmer, jumped up from his seat. The evening’s attendees knew Ted and often teased him of being older than dirt.
“Have we missed the Rapture?” Ted shouted.
Steve watched as that fearful question spread like a wave through the crowded pews. Every face looked vexed with worry; eyes darted to and fro in search of loved ones scattered among the crowd. The query alone, fearful to ponder, seemed to hold the crowd spellbound, as if it might be true.
Steve’s deep voice quieted the confused chatter: “No, Ted, millions of people haven’t disappeared. I’m here tonight, you’re here, and so is everyone else in our congregation. The Lord will come in his time, not men’s.”
Ted shook his head. “Well, just because we’re still here don’t mean squat. You preachers could be wrong. Y’all preach a lot of different versions.”
The crowd chuckled at the old man’s harmless bravado.
Ted sat down, mumbling, “You know I’m right, Preacher.”
Undaunted, Steve smiled and continued. “You should consider Ted’s question. Your decision, based on what you believe, is an eternal choice. If you’re still fence-setting and haven’t committed, you should read the book of Revelation. If ever there was a time for understanding, that time, my friends, is now.
“Arabs are looking for their messiah, their ‘mahdi,’ the so-called Twelfth Imam. Does it matter? As for me, I say no. God said a tribulation period is coming upon the whole world before Christ’s return, not the Twelfth Imam’s return. That’s good enough for me. I’m prepared; I’d suggest you do the same.
“Now, having said that … am I worried? No! Should I be fearful? Again, I say no, and neither should any of you be fearful of what’s happening in White River, or the world for that matter. Fix your minds and hearts on your personal relationship with your Creator.
“Will we go through persecutions? Yes, and so have others before us. In today’s secular-humanistic society, the prevailing belief is that Christian conservatives are the problem, which brings me to a critical point in my message this evening.”
He paused and fluffed his black robe again, ready to launch another salvo.
“Abraham Lincoln said, ‘America will never be destroyed from the outside. If we falter and lose our freedoms, it will be because we destroyed ourselves.’ A Japanese admiral, after he’d attacked Pearl Harbor, said that he feared they’d awakened a sleeping giant. He feared the tenacious will and resolve of an angry America that would fight back. Will you be that generation that once again fights for its freedom … or have progressives lulled you into perpetual indifference?
“I’ve used the word ‘tyranny.’ It’s an insidious word, a harsh word, I agree, so I’ll use ‘progressive’ instead—the new politically correct word, and its twin. A word cloaked in diabolical deception. It describes the same oppressiveness and unprecedented abuse of powers over the American people as tyranny does.”
Steve took a drink of water and adjusted his robe. The audience appeared captivated, hungry for more. Steve was determined to say what other pastors feared because of losing their 501(c)(3) tax status or facing an ACLU lawsuit.
His tempo and voice elevated again, and Steve launched into the meat of his message.
“America is a constitutional republic—of the people, for the people, and by the people, endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights. ‘In God We Trust’ is stamped on our currency. The Ten Commandments are chiseled in stone at the Supreme Court, yet America now spurns God and our Constitution at every turn. Judgment will come … if it’s not upon us already, and any who mock God are fools, be they nations or individuals.
“America’s humble beginnings rest on bedrock foundations of Judeo-Christian principles and beliefs. Today, we see throughout our society, in every hall of government, these same foundations ridiculed, defied, and crumbling down around us.
“Our Constitution is the envy of the world, and yet spurned by radical socialists and Marxists in public office. Like plagued wharf rats unrestrained, they spread their ideological malignancy from coast to coast. The insanity of political correctness has paralyzed America with fear and banished common sense from the public arena. Staunch advocates of this political madness have burrowed in deep like an Arkansas tick, from the White House to Main Street.
“A biased liberal media paints a bleak picture of Christianity and conservatism as intolerant, potential terrorists, and racists at heart.”
Despite the room air being thick and muggy, clothing sticky, the audience appeared to breathe as one. They seemed mesmerized by what Steve was declaring, waiting for more. Handheld fans fluttered like wings of bees.
As Steve went on, excited emotions propelled the audience to their feet at times, applauding, but neither eye nor ear strayed from Steve or his message. He’d condemned their tepid conscience, convicting them of their sloth and apathy at election time. Further, Steve’s message pronounced judgment on the audience members who hadn’t bothered to vote or, worse, voted because of party loyalty and not their conscience. Swayed by come deceptive political wanabe without regard to his or her character—all because of an R, I, or D on a ballot.