Gate (9781441240569)

by Stouten, Dann A.

  He didn’t say it, but I knew our conversation was over. I got out of the car and told him I missed him, and both of us got a little emotional. “Keep an eye on Ben,” he said. “He needs you now more than ever. And remember, if you want grace, you’ve got to give it.” Then he drove away.

  13

  communion

  Wisdom is a sacred communion.

  Victor Hugo

  I woke up late the next morning. So late, in fact, that when I went downstairs, I found that I had missed breakfast.

  “There is some Raisin Bran in the cupboard, and milk and fruit in the fridge,” Ahbee said as he went out the back door. “I’ve got some things to do with Rae today, but Josh will be waiting for you out front whenever you’re ready.”

  I ate a big bowl of cereal, some orange slices, and a banana, and after doing the dishes, I went out to find Josh.

  “Late night?” Josh asked with a grin.

  “Yeah, Al’s an old friend, and we had a lot of catching up to do.”

  “He’s here partly because of you.”

  “I don’t think so,” I replied. “He was always a good man. One of the most honest men I ever met.”

  “That’s true, but for a while in his life, he almost gave up on us. And he might have done just that if it hadn’t been for his mother’s prayers and for you.”

  “I’m sure it had more to do with her prayers than my words.”

  “Who said anything about words? It was your life that impressed him—what you did and why. Character is hard to come by, and he saw it in you. Come,” he said, motioning with his head. “Follow me. Let’s walk and talk.”

  The two of us walked along the shore for about a mile and then cut up along a path that chased a small stream. Josh was silent. Finally I couldn’t stand the silence any longer, so I asked him a question. I really did want to know the answer, but I also just wanted to hear the sound of his voice again. It was like hearing your mother whisper that she loved you as you sat rocking on her lap as a child, or hearing your dad say that he was proud of you. I couldn’t get enough of it, and so I asked.

  There is an emptiness in our souls without God.

  “Josh, there’s something that’s always bothered me. It’s about your prayer, the Lord’s Prayer. I pray it every night before I go to sleep and sometimes during the day when I’m frightened, or confused, or uncertain what to say. But tell me, why did you choose the words?”

  There was a long pause before he spoke. “When I said, ‘Our Father which art in heaven,’ it was simply a statement of fact. It’s where Ahbee is. We wish it weren’t so. We wish he were here with us, because when we aren’t with him, we feel the void of his absence. There is an emptiness in our souls without him. As someone once said, ‘We’re all born with a God-sized hole in our hearts,’ and I am no exception. When I chose to step into time, I also chose to become one of you in every way. That meant that even though spiritually the Father and I were still one, I could now know the pain of physically being separated from him.”

  Josh continued explaining. “It’s the first thing I noticed when I slipped on robes of human flesh: present with the body, absent from the Lord. Of course, someday that will be turned upside down. But for now, it’s one of the things every human has to deal with. You see, like Adam, we all long to walk with Ahbee in the garden in the cool of the day. There are questions we’d like to ask, words of encouragement we’d like to hear, a certain comfort that comes from knowing he’s close. Prayer is a poor substitute for his presence, but for now it’s the best we have, and I simply chose to acknowledge the pain of his absence every time I talked with him. I could have said, ‘I love you, I miss you, I’m incomplete without you,’ but I chose to state it matter-of-factly instead.

  “The other thing I wanted you to understand is that Ahbee is not just my Father, he’s our Father, and he always wants what is best for each of his children. I know that’s hard to understand sometimes. Particularly when he refuses to give you everything you want or when he imposes guidelines and limits on your life. But believe me, his law was not meant to restrict you but to protect you. It’s what fathers do.

  “The same could be said for ‘Hallowed be thy name.’ He is holy, separate, different than anything on earth. To put it simply, he is holy, and humanity is not. So as close as I might have been with people, I would still always be separate and different. Does that make sense to you?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “I think so. I can’t experience it, but maybe I can understand it.”

  “Exactly,” said Josh. “And when I said, ‘Thy kingdom come, thy will be done,’ I was expressing a hope of what might be, what should be, and what could be. You see, the coming and the doing were initiated by God, but it’s continued by you, and each time it happens the conspiracy collapses a little. I wanted you to know that no matter how much danger you might be in, if you’re doing his will and bringing about his kingdom, you are also safe in his arms. I also wanted the world to have a taste of what you’ve had these last few days—the absence of pain and evil, a sense of safety and purpose, and the confidence that only comes from being comfortable in your own skin.

  “In God’s kingdom there is no jealousy, no envy, and no coveting your neighbor’s wife, his life, or anything else he might have. There is unimaginable contentment whenever the kingdom comes. Everything and everyone realizes that they are loved by the Creator and that they were created with a purpose. That has always been the will of God, but humanity squandered the gift away for an apple in Eden.

  In God’s kingdom, everyone realizes that they are created for a purpose.

  “Think about it. A salmon doesn’t secretly wish to be a northern pike. An oak tree has no aspirations to become a maple. A beetle doesn’t break into a butterfly’s house in the middle of the night and try to steal its colorful wings. There is a sense of contentment in the animal kingdom that humanity can never know. The hippopotamus waddles down to the river each night to take his bath and says to himself, ‘What could be better than this?’ The shark glides through the waters of the deep and thinks, ‘What more could anyone ever ask for?’ The giraffe nibbles the sweet leaves at the very tops of the trees and says, ‘Surely, no one has a better life than I.’ Only humans lay awake at night plotting how they might take what belongs to someone else.

  “That’s why I taught you to pray for his kingdom and his will to be reestablished once again. When it happens, then there will be no need to pray for anything else. It will be like finding an enormous treasure buried right under your nose, like discovering a pearl of great price.”

  Then Josh said, “Let me ask you a question. Do you remember the Beatitudes?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “Blessed are the poor, the peacemakers, the persecuted, and the pure of heart, as well as the meek, the merciful, and those who mourn.”

  “But now,” said Josh, “did you ever stop to think that short of the kingdom coming, the only way any of them will ever be blessed is if the church does it? You see, I came to usher in the kingdom, but it was just a beginning. Unless those who come after me continue what I started, the kingdom will be nothing more than conversation until I come again.”

  Josh shook his head slowly, and after a long sigh, he continued talking. “People are forever asking, ‘What would Jesus do?’ instead of simply going out and doing it. I don’t want this to sound as harsh as it’s going to, but what the church needs is less talk and more action.”

  People are forever asking, “What would Jesus do?” instead of just doing it.

  Part of me wanted to ask, “What about all the food drives, and the clothes and medical supplies that are donated, and the mission trips?” But I knew all too well that what we do is a trifling compared to what we could do. He was right. We talk a better game than we play.

  As a little boy, my mother taught me to give a dime for every dollar I earned, and growing up, I thought that was what everybody did. I was shocked to hear that over 80 percent of the people who claim to fol
low Christ give significantly less than that. Once I was sitting in a committee meeting, and an elder of the church said that he wasn’t happy with the way things were going, so he’d decided to give only a dollar a week. A dollar!

  Statistically, 20 percent of the people give 80 percent of the money.

  What was even worse was that he’d get up at our quarterly congregational meetings and spout off about how we spent the money we collected. He was well respected in the community and he talked a good game of Christianity, so I’m sure most people thought he was a generous giver and had every right to voice his opinion. The problem was, I knew better, and it ate away at my soul.

  Finally, before one of our meetings, I caught up with him in the hallway and told him that if he complained, I was personally going to give back his fifty-two dollars and tell him to sit down. He turned red as a tomato, but he never said a word.

  After that, I always wished someone would start the church of the tither. If you don’t give, you can’t come. Of course, no one ever did. I guess it just sounds too un-Christian. Forgetting that he knows our every thought, I was surprised when Josh responded to mine. “It’s un-Christian to expect any less,” Josh said with a smile, and I knew he was right.

  Suddenly I realized that we had walked our way back to the cottage, and there in the driveway was Carol’s Volkswagen.

  “What’s up with that?” I asked.

  “You’re going home after supper,” Josh said, and a profound sadness welled up in my spirit.

  “So soon?” I asked. “But there’s still so much I want to ask you. I have so many questions.”

  Whether we know it or not, we’re all homesick for heaven.

  “No one ever gets all their questions answered,” he said. “That would take an eternity; in fact, that’s what eternity is all about. For now, you must learn to live with uncertainty. Life is about trusting that Ahbee has the answers even when you do not. Can you do that, Scout?”

  “I can try.”

  “That’s all we ask,” Josh replied. “That’s all we’ve ever asked. Now before we go inside, there’s one more thing I wanted to talk to you about,” Josh said. “And really, it’s the reason we wanted you to come.”

  We sat down on the back steps. For a moment neither of us said a word. Then, after a heavy sigh, Josh tilted his head slightly and said, “Sky, what I need to talk to you about is the Christian conspiracy.”

  “I wondered when we’d get around to that,” I said. “Whenever it came up, I’d hear little bits and pieces, and then you’d quickly change the subject. It’s about time somebody tells me what’s really going on with all this.”

  “You know more than you think,” he said, “and to be honest, at times you’ve been a part of it.”

  “How can I be a part of it when I don’t even know what it is?”

  “Simple,” Josh answered. “You’ve helped perpetuate the myth that Christianity is about a moment of conversion, a solitary act of commitment, a time when you give up your old life and give your heart to Ahbee.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “That’s part of it, but that’s like saying that running a marathon is about buying a pair of running shoes. That’s just the beginning. There’s years of training, sacrifice, and endurance, and then there’s the race itself to be run. And yes, those who finish well will be rewarded. Everyone who dedicates their life to making my kingdom come, on earth as it is in heaven, will get heaven thrown in.

  “But the idea that Christianity is only about getting to heaven is at the core of the conspiracy. The Fallen One wants you to believe that it’s about escaping from this world and getting to the next. But Christianity isn’t about escaping the world—it’s about changing it.

  Your job is not to bring people on earth to heaven; your job is to bring heaven to the people on earth.

  “He wants you to believe that this is a transaction, that it’s like putting a check in the box, that you can just give your heart to Ahbee one minute and then go back to business as usual the next. But when you truly give your heart to Ahbee, you’ll never be able to go back to business as usual again. Instead you’ll be about your Father’s business. Does that make sense to you? Are you getting this down? You need to get out ahead of the rest on this one, Scout. I’m counting on you to show them the way.”

  I looked down, a little ashamed to look Josh in the eye, and sensing my discomfort, he paused for a few moments as I tried to absorb the weight of his words. Then, as I lifted my eyes and looked into his, he smiled and continued. “As a Christian your job is not to bring people on earth to heaven. That is my job. That’s what the cross is all about. Your job is to bring heaven to the people on earth. To feed the hungry, to clothe the naked, to care for the sick and the crying and the dying. When you do that, people will start asking, ‘Why? What’s your motivation? What possible reason would you have for making that kind of a sacrifice for me?’ And when they start asking questions like that, then sharing your faith will be easy, then lives will be changed. It’s simple, really. Do that, and you’ll change the world. Don’t do that, and nothing will change. Like I said before, what you’ve done to the least of these, you’ve done to me.”

  When I silently nodded my head in agreement, Josh said, “Let’s go inside.”

  As we walked into the dining room, I realized that this would be our last supper, and more than that, I also realized that this was the meal I’d really come for. The table was set with crisp white linens, fine china, elegant crystal, beautiful flowers, and an odd assortment of flatware. I was about to ask Josh about the hodgepodge of forks and knives, but then suddenly the room began to fill up with people. One by one, every chair was taken. Everyone I’d shared a meal with that week came and took their place at the table: Mom, Herb and Gerry, Grandma Great Kate—everyone was there. The room rumbled with conversation and laughter, and Mom patted the empty chair next to her as if to say, “Come, sit here by me.” So I did. Just like I would have at home.

  Like everyone else I knew, I’d always had this hunger in my soul for something I could never satisfy. And what I’d come to realize was that this was it: the communion of the saints. What I was really homesick for all these years was heaven.

  It was for me that they nailed Jesus to that tree.

  Ahbee and Rae sat at the head of the table, and Josh took the empty seat between them. As he did, what had been impossible to understand before, now made perfect sense. The mystery of God was acted out in front of me, and for the first time in my life I began to really appreciate the oneness and the harmony of the three. It dawned on me that I’d never talked to all three at the same time, and suddenly I wondered why. Why do I pray to one and not three? When I say my nightly prayers or when I want something tangible, I pray to the Father. Other times, when I want inspiration or wisdom, I pray to be filled with the Holy Spirit. And when I need someone to listen and encourage me, it is Jesus every time. As I saw their uniqueness and oneness more clearly, I promised myself that my prayers would be different in the future—more personal, more listening and less talking.

  I was brought back to the moment when Michael came in from the kitchen with a large silver tray and placed it in front of Ahbee, Josh, and Rae. As a hush fell over the room, Josh took a large loaf of bread and broke it, while Rae poured us each a glass of sweet red wine. For a moment we all sat frozen in silence, and then Ahbee began to speak.

  “Eat,” he said. “And as you do, join with us in the pain and sacrifice of love.”

  The bread was bitter and dry, impossible to swallow. I looked across at the scars on Josh’s hands and tears slid down my cheeks. I could not escape the thought that it was for me that they nailed him to that tree. Finally, overcome with the agony of it, I whispered what was on my heart.

  “It isn’t fair,” I said. “It just isn’t fair.”

  “It isn’t fair,” said Ahbee. “It is love!”

  Then he raised his glass, smiled at me, and said, “Come. Come and taste the sweet taste
of forgiveness.”

  We emptied our glasses, and one by one, the people I had loved and lost said their good-byes. In the end, only Ahbee, Josh, Rae, and I remained.

  Josh walked up to me, cupped my face in his hands, and said, “Remember what I told you, Scout. You must learn to see the world as I do. And when you do, you’ll see that it’s full of broken, frightened, hungry, and uncertain people. Some of them need healing. Some of them need holding. Some of them are hungry. Some of them are heartbroken. And all of them need saving from something, even if it’s from themselves. What they need are not more words or theories but more love.

  “If you want to follow me, it will cost you. You must be willing to give up a part of who you are for their sake—a part of your time, your money, and most of all, a part of yourself. When you do that, then the blind will see, the deaf will hear, and the fallen will rise up and walk in the way of Ahbee once more.

  “When you see the world like I do, you’ll know that sometimes it’s people that need changing, and sometimes it’s conditions that need changing, and more often than not, it’s both. But wherever change comes, the kingdom comes as well.”

  With that he smiled, gave me a bear hug, and slowly walked away.

  Next Ahbee stepped forward and spoke. “I want you to have this,” he said, handing me the fork I’d used for dinner. As I looked more closely at his gift, I realized that it was part of my grandmother’s silver set.

  “Is this—” I began to ask.

  “It is,” Ahbee answered. “You brought it with you in your lunch in second grade at Woodcliff School, and you left it in the lunchroom. Do you remember?”

  “Yes, I remember. My mom was upset that I lost one of Grandma’s sterling silver forks.”

  “Well, now what was lost is found, and I want you to keep it as a reminder. Remember going to your grandma’s house when you were a boy?” Ahbee asked me.