by Ray Garton
“Jesus Christ came to this earth to live a sinless and loving life . . . a life in which He, the Son of God, judged no one. Even He said, in the book of John, chapter 12, ‘And if any man hear my words, and believe not, I judge him not: for I came not to judge the world, but to save the world.’ Why? Because only his father — God! — can judge anyone. Jesus Himself admitted that. He gave no one reason to feel guilt or self-hatred — unless they chose to do so on their own — and it wasn’t easy, because He was just as human as you and I and I’m sure He wanted to break a few windows and destroy a few doors and maybe even kick the seats of a few pants. The only time He did anything remotely close to that was when moneychangers used his Father’s temple as a place of business — crooked, sleazy business — and that, as I’m sure you can understand, was just too much! And even then, He hurt no one; He just made his feelings known.”
He stopped, sighed, scratched the back of his neck, then continued:
“But He came to suffer a horrible death for the lovingness He offered so that we could have an example, so that we could have someone to turn to and to lean on when our lives on this earth became too tough. So that we would have someone who could say He knew what it was like and forgive us our mistakes.
“But you have taken that life and made it a mockery with your anger toward those with whom you don’t agree. To the people you should be showing love and acceptance you are only showing anger and hatred! To people you don’t even know or understand! And you should be ashamed of yourselves!”
He pulled out the handkerchief again and swept it over his entire face, trying to catch his breath and calm the trembling in his hands. And then something happened, something that, in his short time as a pastor, he had never experienced.
The congregation began to stand up and talk back . . .
That perspiration began to return as Pastor Freeman drove, thinking about that sermon, about what it had eventually become, about the chaos that had filled his church, about which he felt so guilty.
He was nearing the bookstore and his palms were sticky against the steering wheel as he grew increasingly anxious. What would he find? What would be happening when he arrived? And, most importantly, what in the world would he do?
He had no idea. He just knew that he had to try to do something.
The bookstore was on the corner of a very busy intersection and it was difficult to find a parking place, but when he drove by, he saw the crowd. There were sixty, maybe seventy people — perhaps even more — gathered on the sidewalk out front that was lined with small maples. He recognized those from his congregation and saw that people had come from many other churches in town. He sighed heavily as he looked for a parking place. He found one half a block away and had to walk back to the store. The voices grew louder the closer he got and they made him hurt inside; they were so angry, so hateful and condemning . . . and at the same time, so gleeful in their hostility, as if they were swishing it around in their mouths like a fine wine that needed savoring.
Most of them held handwritten signs that called James K. Denmore a pornographer, a Satanist, a follower of demons, among other things. The signs accused him of polluting young minds, of promoting violence and perversion . . . of offending God.
The signs made Pastor Freeman’s chest ache.
He was disappointed to see that there were no police officers on hand to maintain order. He knew what groups like this could do, what they could become — he’d gotten a small taste of it in church that day — and he’d hoped there would be someone around to make sure things didn’t get out of hand. The fact that there wasn’t made him a little afraid. He was suddenly seized by a horrible feeling of dread in his chest, a feeling of what this might become, and he stopped a moment on the sidewalk, closed his eyes for just a few seconds and prayed silently, Please take my hand here. Lord, I need your help.
He pressed on until a pair of eyes in the group met his and registered first surprise at his arrival, then darkened with hostile determination. It was a woman, Deanna Furst, a middle-aged widow with short beauty parlor curls, whose body was thickening with age and who wore the simplest of clothes and, always, sensible shoes. She held a sign that read:
QUOTE JAMES K. DENMORE:
PERVERTER OF CHILDREN
DISCIPLE OF SATAN
OFFENDER OF GOD
Pastor Freeman flinched when he read the sign and Deanna saw his reaction. She curled one end other mouth into a little smirk, enjoying his displeasure. She had been one of the louder and more vehemently dissenting voices during his sermon that morning, so he wasn’t at all surprised.
Then others began to notice him and the voices calmed somewhat as eyes turned to him and widened.
Fred Granger, who had obviously gone home and changed into what was, for him, a standard uniform: plaid shirt, khaki jacket and jeans. He drove a pick-up truck with a rifle always on the rack over the back window. A green canvas bag hung heavily from his shoulder and he carried a sign with shaky, hand-painted letters that read:
DENMORE IS EVIL
AND SATANIC
‘THOU SHALT NOT SUFFER
A WITCH TO LIVE!’
EXODUS 22:18
His face was twisted into the same mask of dark anger it had been ever since Pastor Freeman had met him. His wife stood behind him, a frail looking woman in a simple baggy housedress. Her head was bowed and she stared at the concrete, holding a baby in one arm and clutching the hand of the toddler boy; she was enormously pregnant.
Sam Bigelow, a tall, heavy man with a sad face, saw him and looked confused at first, then smiled, perhaps thinking that he had come to join them in their protest.
David and Karen Potter, an attractive, thirtyish couple, saw him, glanced at one another, then continued to stare at him with expressionless faces as he approached.
Madison Kent did a double-take when he saw the pastor and stared in disbelief as he drew closer. He held a sign that read:
JAMES K. DENMORE’S BOOKS
TEACH EVIL, CORRUPTION
AND SEXUAL PROMISCUITY
His face grew hard as Pastor Freeman approached.
There were others, too.
Marcus Benworth, a single black man who sang in the church choir. He held no sign but stared at Pastor Freeman as if he were coming up the sidewalk naked.
Sally Morrisey saw him, too, and her face showed a shadow of guilt — a young, single woman in her mid-twenties whose face conveyed friendship and warmth . . . except for that moment when she saw Pastor Freeman — and she lowered her eyes from his and turned away so he couldn’t see the sign she held, which read:
JAMES K. DENMORE’S BOOKS
DESTROY MORALS AND
GIVE SATAN FREE REIGN
Michael Denny, who had been dating Sally for a short while and was about her age, did not have a sign, but when he saw Pastor Freeman, his eyebrows rose as if he were asking himself, And exactly what would he be doing here today?
There were others from his congregation. They saw him and responded with their eyes, with their movements. No one reacted positively. No one welcomed him.
No one wanted him there.
There were many others as well, not only people from his congregation — all of whom he recognized, all of whom stared at him with disapproving eyes — but people from other churches who were in agreement with those who thought it right to protest the presence of James K. Denmore in this bookstore, people who also thought they were doing the general public a favor by running out of town on a rail, so to speak, a writer whom they felt was endangering so many readers.
Pastor Freeman found it impossible not to grind his teeth together as he walked straight into the crowd.
No one spoke to him. No one acknowledged his presence once he had joined them.
Pastor Freeman removed the small Bible from his pocket, opened it, took a deep breath, sent up another silent prayer, then lifted an arm slowly and said loudly, “Would you all please listen to me for just a moment!”
&nb
sp; A bitter murmur passed through the crowd.
“Please, for just a moment,” he said, turning around and passing his eyes over all of them, known and unknown, trying to sound pleasant.
When silence finally came — just a moment of silence — he took advantage of it and looked down briefly at his Bible to make sure the words in his head were right.
“‘And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother’s eye, but perceivest not the beam that is in thine own eye?’ Those are the words of Jesus from the book of Luke. Do you know what a mote is? It’s a tiny speck. Do you know what a beam is? It’s a log. The trunk of a tree! I have come here to ask you just one question: what gives you the right to come here and tell this man that he is wrong . . . that he is evil . . . when each and every one of you here are just as human and just as much a sinner as he? What gives you that right?”
There was a long moment of silence, then:
“He’s spreading his sinfulness!” Deanna Furst shouted.
“He’s selling it!” Karen Potter shouted. “He’s handing it out to people who don’t know any better!”
“Then it’s your job to tell them better!” Pastor Freeman shouted back. “It’s not your job to decide what they can read! That’s not why God put you here! That’s not what God wants you to do for Him!”
“How do you know?”
“I know because the entire Bible — from beginning to end — tells me so! And it tells you so, too, so you should feel ashamed, by your behavior here today. All of you should feel ashamed! Every single one of you!”
Voices rose then, angry voices accompanied by angry eyes. The voices shouted at him bitterly, angrily, as if he had insulted them personally, as if he had said foul things about members of their family.
“I’m terribly sorry if I sound angry. I certainly don’t mean to. Many of you don’t even know me. I’m Pastor — ”
“We know who you are, Pastor Freeman.” It was a deep, unfamiliar voice, rich and full, and the speaker stepped forward, shouldering his way through the crowd. “We’ve heard all about you.”
He was of average height, but still imposing, with a barrel chest and a large belly that filled out his dark suit. His greying hair was balding on top and he wore a pair of large-framed tortoise-shell glasses. A waddle of skin hung beneath his chin and jiggled as he moved. He clutched a Bible at his side and he did not look pleased. His eyes were stern and his mouth was a straight line across his fleshy face.
“I’m Reverend Perry Wickes from the Celebration of Christ Church across town, Pastor Freeman,” he said, “and I must say I’m very disappointed in you. I could understand some church members not wanting to participate in a protest like this. In fact, I always expect a few to stay away. But you? A pastor? The leader of your congregation? I don’t understand it, and I think you’ve failed your church.” He paused, his eyes glaring, jowls trembling with anger. “And your God.”
“I’m sorry to hear that you think that of me, Reverend. But for me to support this, I would have to go against my beliefs. Against what I believe my God wants me to do.”
Reverend Wickes pointed a stiff, meaty index finger at Pastor Freeman and bellowed, “Then you are not a man of God! You are a friend of darkness!”
In spite of himself, Pastor Freeman nearly laughed out loud at the melodramatic accusation, but before he had a chance, there was a stir in the crowd as three people rounded the corner of the bookstore and came down the sidewalk.
The first was a very large muscular man who did not look terribly friendly. The second, a beautiful woman in her thirties who was holding the hand of a man Pastor Freeman recognized immediately from the pictures on his book jackets: James K. Denmore. He looked very youthful — though he was thirty-eight — and very vulnerable, with a pale, childlike face and wide, curious eyes. He was tall and slender with long, thick brown hair and a mustache. He certainly did not appear to be the evil monster Pastor Freeman’s congregation had made him out to be.
As Denmore and his companions approached, the crowd turned to them and held their signs high as they began to shout at him.
“Pornographer!”
“How would you like your child to read what you write?”
“Your books are satanic!”
“Immoral!”
“Perverted!”
Denmore seemed to take the shouting in stride, though his brows curled downward above his eyes; he had obviously encountered it before. The woman beside him did the same. But the large man — probably a bodyguard, Pastor Freeman decided — quickened his pace and moved forward.
That was when a large white van with the call letters of a local television station painted on the side came to a stop, double-parking in front of the bookstore.
“Oh, no,” Pastor Freeman breathed, rolling his eyes.
The shouting grew worse as the burly man moved forward quickly, holding out an arm to clear a path for Denmore and his companion. Pastor Freeman could not believe the things he was hearing from members of his congregation — from any of the people around him, for that matter. He prayed silently and quickly for the strength to resist the burning anger rising in his chest, but he couldn’t do it. He stepped forward, held up both arms and shouted, “Stop! Stop this! This is wrong! This is — ”
Reverend Wickes stepped forward quickly and slapped a hand onto Pastor Freeman’s chest, pushing him backward as he growled through clenched teeth, “Stay out of this. You’re no part of this. You have no business here.”
“I have a lot of business here, and I’ll thank you to take your hand off me.”
“Some of your people told me about your little show in the pulpit this morning and I think it’s shameful. But they think it’s bad enough to start a campaign to have you ousted from the church — and after only two months as their pastor. No, Pastor Freeman,” he chuckled coldly, “you have no business here!”
As the shouting continued, their eyes locked for a long moment. Then Pastor Freeman said, “I don’t live my life according to your opinion, or according to popular opinion. I live it according to God’s opinion. You do what you feel is best for your congregation — ” He pushed Reverend Wicke’s hand from his chest. “ — and I’ll do what I feel is best for mine.”
Pastor Freeman turned away from him, unconcerned about what his reaction might be, and turned back to the crowd, which was still shouting epithets at the approaching writer.
Denmore walked into the crowd with his head held high, trying, unsuccessfully, to smile, his hand still holding the hand of the beautiful woman with him.
“Stop this!” Pastor Freeman shouted. “You have no right to judge this man! Even Christ Himself said He could not judge others! Only God has the right to judge us!”
Denmore froze as he walked into the path that his bodyguard had opened in the crowd and turned to Pastor Freeman with a look of surprise on his face. He smiled, and his smile was a warm and pleasant one.
“Thank you very much,” he said to Pastor Freeman. “I really appreciate that. Who are you?”
Pastor Freeman — rather surprised himself — returned the smile and reached out his hand to shake as he said, “I’m Pastor Gil Freeman.”
Denmore raised his hand to shake then stopped halfway, shocked. “Pastor? You’re a pastor?”
Pastor Freeman nodded.
“And you’re defending me?”
The crowd fell silent, waiting for Pastor Freeman’s response.
As they shook hands, Pastor Freeman thought fast, praying for the right thing to say. “I don’t agree with what you write. But you’re a human being just as I am, and my beliefs make me no better than you . . . and I don’t think you should have to undergo the treatment you’re getting today. I hope you’ll forgive these people for their behavior.”
Denmore’s smile broadened into a grin and he said, with great enthusiasm, “Thank you. Thank you very much! You’re a good person, Pastor, a very good person, and it’s very nice to meet you.” He grinned at Pastor Denmor
e a moment longer, then turned and headed into the bookstore again.
The crowd broke into a loud burst of accusations and denouncements aimed not only at the writer but at Pastor Freeman as well.
As Denmore and his friends left, he found himself surrounded by hateful faces, burning eyes, mouths with lips pulled back over teeth that snapped up and down as bitter words were shouted; knuckles were white as they held their signs, pumping them up and down again and again. Pastor Freeman realized with a tingle of fright that many of those snapping, sneering faces were directed not at Denmore . . . but at him.
Suddenly, Reverend Wickes appeared before him and his large, fleshy face consumed Pastor Freeman’s field of vision, pearls of sweat clinging to the red-splotched, trembling cheeks.
“Well?” he barked. “Do you still want to stay here? Where you’re not wanted? Where you don’t belong?”
“I’m not going anywhere, Reverend.”
Half his mouth curled into an unpleasant smile. “Maybe not right now. But we’ll see come Judgment Day.”
A heavy, bearded man stepped out of the bookstore then wearing slacks and a sport coat, and raised a hand, shouting firmly, “Please, could you listen a moment, please!” When things calmed down a bit, he said, “My name is Mr. Bailey, I’m the manager of this bookstore, and I’d like to ask you — no, no . . . I’m telling you that if you do not calm down and clear this doorway immediately I’m calling the police and having you all arrested. Is that understood? Arrested!”
Nothing. They were silent. Only their eyes spoke wordless anger and hatred. Slowly, they began to back away.