Mountain Top

by Robert Whitlow

“I know what happened,” Peg said, pouring more dressing on her salad. “Sam has told him things about court cases.”

  Mike put down his fork. The idea that the judge may have received information about a legal dispute from a totally independent source like Sam Miller was unnerving. Peg continued, “I don’t know, of course, but it fits what we know about him. He could have had a dream or something.”

  “I tried to talk to Sam about it, but he wouldn’t open up. He has notebooks filled with information about dreams and visions he’s had. Some of them are symbolic and so vague it’s impossible to figure out. I went behind his back to Muriel about the judge, but—Sam cut me off.”

  “I could ask her.”

  “When are you going to see her again?” Mike asked in surprise.

  “I don’t know, but it wouldn’t hurt me to take on a new friend.”

  “I doubt Muriel Miller owns a tennis racket or a pair of running shoes.”

  “Are you telling me not to see her?”

  “Of course not. It just seems odd.”

  “No more than you taking Sam’s case.”

  “But—” Mike stopped. “Anyway, I ran into Braxton Hodges at Brooks and asked him to see what he can find out about some of the issues.”

  “His wife was at the country club this morning. She has a regular doubles game on Thursday.”

  “It’s Thursday?” Mike asked.

  “All day.”

  Mike let out a groan. “And I haven’t started my sermon. The Miller case has thrown off my whole routine.”

  “That’s not supposed to happen until after the baby is born.”

  “Well, I’m practicing. I wanted to relax tonight, but I’d better get to work after supper. I’m not even sure what I want to talk about.”

  “You’ll think of something.” Peg carried her empty soup and salad bowls to the sink. “That’s the most I’ve eaten all day. My food choices are already changing. You know how much I love apples? I had to force myself to eat one for lunch.”

  “I’ve had an unusual food craving, too,” Mike said. “It’s probably a sympathetic reaction.”

  “What did you want to eat?”

  “Liver mush. I talked about it with Braxton. If you really loved me, you’d fry a couple of patties to go with my grits in the morning.”

  Peg threw a wet dishrag at him. Mike caught it with his right hand.

  “That’s not a preference; it’s a perversion. But it gives me an idea for your sermon. Preach about the clean and unclean animals.”

  Mike shook his head. “No way. That might split the church. We have too many barbecue lovers who would revolt if I condemned them for eating pork.”

  Ten

  MIKE AWOKE EARLY ON SUNDAY MORNING AND SLIPPED OUT OF bed. Peg was sound asleep and didn’t stir. Putting on a pair of old shoes, he took Judge into the backyard and walked across the wet grass. There was a light fog in the air.

  Mike enjoyed early mornings, especially Sunday. He spent time praying while most members of his congregation were still in bed. The ritual helped him feel like the shepherd of his flock, watching over them from a hillside as he asked God to bless them.

  He sat on a small cast-iron and wood bench near the edge of the hardwood trees that bordered their lot. In a few weeks, the bench would be surrounded by flowers. Judge left his side and explored the smells in the nearby woods. Mike closed his eyes and ran through the main points of the sermon he’d written on Thursday night. The words had flowed rapidly through his fingers onto the computer screen. He couldn’t deny Sam Miller’s subtle influence on his thinking. Phrases the old man used stuck stubbornly in his mind until he was forced to extract and examine them.

  A robin flew to the ground near his feet and plunged its beak into the soil to capture a wiggling worm. The truth, like the worm, didn’t always come in a pretty package, but that didn’t make it any less vital for life.

  “YOU LOOK NICE,” MIKE SAID TO PEG AS THEY PULLED OUT OF the driveway. “Glowing might even be a more accurate word. The blue in your dress really sets off your eyes and hair.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I’d kiss your cheek, but that would mess up my lipstick and raise questions at church.”

  They saw few cars on the valley road until they neared the church.

  “Are you ready for the onslaught of people?” Mike asked. “If the number of phone calls I received is any indication, this pregnancy is being viewed as a church-wide event.”

  “I’ll smile sweetly and keep my mouth shut.”

  “I’m not trying to squelch you,” Mike began, “It’s just—”

  Peg reached over and patted his hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll be good.”

  THEY PULLED INTO THE CHURCH PARKING LOT. SUNDAY SCHOOL attendance lagged behind the growth in the main worship service. Persuading the congregation to get out of bed and come early to church, even with the temptation of good coffee and fresh donuts, was a challenge.

  “I’m going to Nathan Goode’s class this morning,” Peg announced when Mike turned off the car engine.

  “Why? What do you have in common with teenagers?”

  “Our child will be a teenager someday. If it’s as bad as some people say, I’d better start early.”

  “Take notes. Oh, and I forgot to tell you. Nathan has an alto part he really wants you to sing.”

  “A solo?”

  “I’m not sure. There’s also going to be a flute solo by a high school student.” Mike saw Peg receive three congratulatory hugs before she crossed the parking lot. As an expectant mother, her acceptance by the church was bound to go up. Mike retreated to his office where, for the next forty-five minutes, he alternately reviewed his notes and paced back and forth across the room practicing his delivery. As time drew near to go to the sanctuary, he stopped and looked out a window that gave a partial view of the parking lot. He spotted several first-time visitors, the best sign of a healthy church and a radical departure from the norm prior to Mike’s arrival at Little Creek. He slipped on his black robe and checked his appearance in the mirror.

  Mike and the choir crowded into an anteroom adjacent to the front of the sanctuary for a brief prayer. Peg was lovely in a burgundy choir robe trimmed in gold. The same robe made Nathan Goode look like a fugitive from Alice in Wonderland. For the minister and choir members, wearing robes was a nonnegotiable tradition. They all entered the sanctuary to the stately sound of an organ prelude. Mike stepped into the pulpit area.

  From the first time he sat in the high-backed chair behind the pulpit, it felt right. During the ensuing three years, he’d never tired of steering the service like the captain of a ship.

  It was close to a full house, more than three hundred and fifty people. Mike scanned the crowd until his gaze fastened on an older couple sitting on the far left side of the sanctuary in the second pew from the front. The man turned his head from side to side then looked up at the ceiling for several seconds as if closely inspecting the rafters. Mike looked up, too, but saw nothing except wood. The woman beside the man stared straight ahead with a slight smile on her wrinkled face.

  It was Sam and Muriel Miller.

  After the opening prayer and a congregational hymn, the flutist played her song. Mike tried to interpret his client’s expressions as the service progressed. The first time their eyes met, Sam smiled broadly. Mike nodded in greeting but remembered Muriel’s comment that she and Sam moved from church to church “as the Lord” led them. It was one thing to spend time with Sam Miller at the jail or in the privacy of his living room. Having him in the Little Creek congregation where he might say something bizarre to one of the members of the church made Mike’s stomach tighten in a knot.

  The choir performed a baroque anthem that sounded familiar. Peg sang a brief solo. Her clear, mellow voice moved perfectly from note to note. Mike listened with pride.

  Mike delivered a pastoral prayer that followed an outline familiar to the congregation. He requested divine help for the world, the nation, the state,
Barlow County, the church, and anyone who had been sick enough during the week to require a night in the hospital. When he said “Amen” and opened his eyes, he saw that Sam still had his head bowed.

  The announcements for the week were printed in the bulletin; however, Mike had learned not to trust the congregation’s ability to take note of them and dutifully read the list. He reached the end and paused to allow silent consideration of the money contributed the previous Sunday. To read aloud the numbers would be in bad taste.

  “The last announcement isn’t in the bulletin,” he said. “Peg and I are thrilled to announce that she is expecting our first child. She’s been to the doctor and everything looks fine.”

  There was a splattering of applause. Mike looked at Peg, who was beaming. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam Miller with his left hand raised in the air like a schoolchild wanting to attract the teacher’s attention. Mike quickly looked away as the clapping died down. An impromptu speech by Sam definitely wasn’t in the morning bulletin. “Thank you very much,” Mike said. “You can’t imagine how grateful Peg and I are for the love and support of this congregation.”

  During the offering, Mike avoided looking in Sam’s direction. As the offering plates left the sanctuary, Mike stood up and stepped forward to the pulpit. He kept his notes folded in his Bible and slipped them out to preach. His mouth suddenly dry, he took a quick sip of water from a glass he kept on a shelf in the pulpit.

  “Our scripture lesson this morning is a single verse from the words of Jesus in John 10:27. My sheep listen to my voice; I know them, and they follow me.

  Recently, these words have come to have a new meaning for me.”

  Mike paused and distinctly heard Sam say, “Yep.”

  Mike hurriedly continued, “We’re God’s sheep if we’ve submitted to Him as the shepherd of our souls, and personal communication with Jesus is the birthright of every Christian. This morning, I’m going to discuss ways to recognize the voice of God and how to respond to what He says.

  “Some of you may wonder how God can carry on multiple conversations at once. We become easily confused in a four-way conference call; however, God can talk with everyone on earth at the same time. It’s one of the great advantages of being omniscient and omnipresent. And the reason I’m in this pulpit is because I heard the voice of God calling me to leave my happy life as a lawyer and become a minister.”

  There were a few laughs from the congregation. Mike noticed that Bobby Lambert’s expression didn’t change.

  “As many of you know, I like to go mountain biking,” Mike said. “Often, my dog, Judge, goes with me. About six years ago, Judge and I took off one Saturday morning and went to the base of Jefferson’s Ridge so I could ride the abandoned logging roads. I took a small backpack containing snacks for me, dog treats for Judge, and extra water bottles for both of us. I also had a copy of the New Testament. We left the car at Hank’s Grocery and started up the road that begins behind the store. It switches back and forth as it climbs the ridge and is washed out in a lot of places. Judge is built for rugged terrain, but even with the bike in low gear, it’s a strenuous workout for me. It took almost an hour to reach Stratton Bald, the highest point on the ridge. It’s one of my favorite places in Barlow County because I can see all the way from Shelton to the Blue Ridge Mountains.”

  Mike, a faraway look in his eyes, could see the ridge in his mind’s eye and hoped the congregation was joining him.

  “I love mountain tops because they are places of perspective. The higher I go, the more connected I am to the vantage point of God. When Judge and I reached the highest point, we sat down to enjoy the sun and the light breeze that always blows across the crest of the ridge. I’d been thinking and praying about going into the ministry for over a year but couldn’t decide what to do. I’d asked people for advice and received so many opinions that it would take a pack of index cards to keep them straight. Opening my New Testament, I started reading in Galatians. The first verse got my attention.”

  Mike turned the pages of his Bible. “‘Paul, an apostle—sent not from men nor by man, but by Jesus Christ.’ My heart began beating a little faster, not from the ride on the bike, but in anticipation that something important was about to happen. I read verses 15 through 17: ‘But when God, who set me apart from birth and called me by his grace, was pleased to reveal his Son in me so that I might preach him among the Gentiles, I did not consult any man, nor did I go up to Jerusalem to see those who were apostles before I was, but I went immediately into Arabia and later returned to Damascus.’ ”

  Mike looked up at the congregation. “At that moment, those verses became the voice of Jesus to my life. I knew without a doubt that I should preach the gospel. I no longer needed the opinions of others, even people I respected. I knew what to do. I didn’t go to Arabia, but to seminary in Virginia, and ended up at the Little Creek Church, not Damascus. However, the application of those verses to me as the guidance of the Lord couldn’t have been clearer. The term ‘called to preach’ has been used so often that we accept stories like mine as orthodox Christianity. Ministers are expected to hear from God. It should be part of their spiritual résumé.”

  Mike stepped from behind the pulpit and made sure he had everyone’s attention before he continued. He raised his voice.

  “But what about you? Do you have the same right to receive guidance from the Lord as a person considering a career-altering switch into full-time ministry?

  Is there a distinction between God’s children that gives access to some but not to others? Can all the followers of Jesus have the hope of hearing His voice? Was my experience on the mountain top six years ago a once-in-a-lifetime event? After that, did God become mute and abandon me to my own devices? I think not.

  As one of God’s sheep, I want to continue to hear His voice, and I believe with all my heart that each of us has the same opportunity. Let me tell you why.”

  Mike launched into the main body of his sermon with enthusiasm. Time passed quickly as he gave the congregation examples of the ways in which God communicates, using several biblical stories to make his points. When he glanced at his watch, he realized that he’d run almost ten minutes over the normal time limit. He quickly jumped to his conclusion.

  “Don’t you think it would be worthwhile to calm down the frantic activity of our minds and listen? Perhaps we’ll revisit this topic in a future sermon. Amen.”

  Mike gave Nathan the sign to sing a single verse of the final hymn. After announcing the benediction, Mike took his place at the main front door in the narthex and shook hands with the people as they left. He braced for negative comments about the length of the message but, except for a few references that he was really fired up that morning, none came. Milton Chesterfield wasn’t present. Bobby Lambert approached.

  “Mr. Forrest said he talked with you after the hearing,” Bobby said.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. He appreciates your altruistic motives toward the downtrodden but cares more about your reputation in the community. Listen to him.”

  Bobby moved past Mike and out the door before he could respond. The crowd thinned; Peg joined him.

  “You were awesome this morning,” she whispered in his ear. “Your sermon was a lot better than the one I suggested.”

  Mike shook the last person’s hand, and they were left alone in the narthex. He realized he’d not seen Sam and Muriel Miller leave the sanctuary.

  “Did you talk to the Millers?” he asked Peg.

  “No, I came around the side of the church after leaving the choir room.”

  He stepped back into the sanctuary. Sam was still sitting in the pew with Muriel beside him.

  “Come on,” Mike said to Peg.

  They walked down the aisle and approached the couple from the side.

  “Good morning,” Mike said.

  “Yep, it is,” Sam said.

  “Is everything okay?” Mike asked.

  “It will be.”

  �
��The service is over,” Mike said.

  Sam tilted his head to the side. “Not for me. I’ve been sitting here doing what you told us to do—calm down and listen to Papa. You were so right. The cares of the world have dulled my senses. I need to be more like the boy Samuel. When you read those verses about the Lord speaking to him at Shiloh, it made tears come to my eyes. None of his words fell to the ground, but so many of mine have ended up in the dust.”

  Mike reached over and put his hand on Sam’s shoulder.

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself,” he said. “It was your influence that inspired the sermon.”

  Sam smiled. “That’s good, but it doesn’t change what I need to do. Like you on the mountain top, I can’t let man interfere with what Papa wants to do with me. You may have stopped preaching, but there are still words bouncing all around this room. If it’s okay, I’d like to stay a while and listen.”

  Mike paused for a moment but heard nothing except the sound of his own breathing.

  “Okay. Peg and I will wait for you at the door.”

  “How long do you think Sam will stay in there?” Peg asked as they walked back up the aisle.

  “I don’t have a clue. But I can’t complain. He’s the only person who took my message seriously enough to do something about it.”

  They waited in silence for several minutes in the narthex. Peg sat in a chair for a while, then stood and stretched.

  “Ever since I found out about the pregnancy, I’ve enjoyed sitting quietly in the chair in our bedroom and reading my Bible. I’m trying to listen to God.”

  “I know. I thought about you and Sam when I was preparing the sermon.”

  Mike stepped toward the sanctuary to check on the Millers. When he reached the open door, an invisible presence suddenly rested on him. It was much stronger than the pleasant sensation he experienced beside the creek. He leaned his hand against the wall.

  “Are you okay?” Peg asked.

  Mike stepped back, and the weight lifted. He stepped forward. The invisible weight returned. He retreated, and it left. He repeated the sequence a few times with the same result.