“They can’t do that!” said Amy Ryan.
“They’re doing it,” said Brent.
“But what about the Constitution?”
Brent shrugged. “What about it?”
Corrigan stepped in. “Brent’s aware of my point. The popular notion these days is that the Constitution is a ‘living document’ that can be reinterpreted by the courts as society continues to evolve morally.”
“Or decay morally,” said Frank Parmenter.
“Or spiritually,” said Mark. “Listen, people, this isn’t just some kind of legal battle. This is a spiritual battle, don’t forget that.”
“Yeah,” said Brent, showing a slight turn-around in his attitude. “What if it was a demon? Pretty soon it’s going to be against the law to cast one out.”
“But who says we have to do what the government says?” asked Tim Farmer. “What about the apostles? They didn’t obey the Jewish rulers when they were told not to preach about Jesus.”
Corrigan replied, “That’s an important point, and something you all need to consider seriously: you may choose to be civilly disobedient as the apostles were, and to obey the Law of God rather than the law of man . . .”
“Let’s do it!” said Frank Parmenter.
“But,” Corrigan was quick to add, “remember that the apostles went to prison, were beaten, tortured, and martyred for their stand. And as I’ve said before, Paul and Silas cast out a demon in Philippi and ended up in prison for it. Civil disobedience is not without a price.” Now the room was quiet. Corrigan continued, “And that price could also mean extreme damage to your credibility in this lawsuit. Your arguments on appeal will be harder to sustain. Now of course you must follow your conscience before God, and there is Scriptural precedent for civil disobedience—the Hebrew midwives who violated Pharaoh’s orders to kill the male Hebrew children, Rahab who hid the spies, the apostles who preached in the name of Jesus when ordered not to. But my advice to you is to work through the system first, the old Romans 13 approach. It will go better for you in the trial.”
“What if we lose?” asked Brent.
“Then . . .” Corrigan hesitated and considered his answer. “Then you’ll just have to do what you have to do.” He hurriedly added, “But please remember, the legal process takes time. You must be patient and not do anything rash that could hurt your chances of winning in court. Remember, the ACFA plans to go national with this case, as far as it can go, with national media attention and as much negative publicity as they can generate. They’re using the Day-care Act to get into the federal courts as well, so this case could easily have damaging precedents that could affect every other church, every other Christian school in the country. You’re not just making choices for yourselves tonight, but for your brothers and sisters everywhere. You’re the first domino. Remember that.”
“The first domino,” Brent said quietly, and then shook his head at the thought. “Looks like the persecution’s started, folks.”
Mark stepped in. “So what’s coming up next, Wayne?”
“The hardest part of all, I suppose. We’ll have to send interrogatories to the other side, take depositions from them, and build a defense. For those of you who don’t know what those words mean, an interrogatory is simply a list of questions, things we want to find out from them. We want to know what their grievances are and what they know, so we can counter whatever their argument is going to be. The depositions are similar. We will meet with the witnesses who will be testifying against us, and they will answer our questions under oath with a court reporter there to take down a verbatim record of what they say. The other side is going to do the same with our witnesses, and supposedly both sides will know what testimony and evidence are going to be presented so they can prepare their arguments for the courtroom.”
“So what can we do to help?” asked Jack Parmenter, and every face in the room agreed with the question.
“Well . . .” Corrigan looked at the ceiling for an answer. “Any lawyer is only as good as his information, and as I’ve already discussed with your pastor and with Tom Harris, I’m hard-pressed as far as the availability of my time to do all the homework. I . . .” He wasn’t sure if he should say his next thought. “Well, with some reservation let me just say this: obviously we’re up against some aggressive people, very organized, highly motivated, with contacts and assistance all over the country as near as their phone. They mean business, they mean to win, and their methods are not always above board . . .”
“They’re a bunch of crooks, in other words,” said Brent.
“Well . . .” Corrigan tossed up his hands. “I guess I won’t debate that opinion. What I’m trying to say is, you need an investigator; someone who can dig after the facts that our opponents are going to do their best to hide. I’ve dealt with the ACFA before, and they do not cooperate when it comes to supplying any information in answer to interrogatories. They’re sneaky, conniving, stealthy, and ruthless. Within Christian propriety, of course, you need someone who can be just as ruthless and find out what you need to know even if the ACFA is trying to hide it. That takes time, skill, and experience; you need someone who can help you with that.”
“So who do we call?” asked Jack Parmenter.
“I don’t know of anyone nearby who’ll do it for any price you can afford.”
Suddenly Ben Cole spoke up. “Well, maybe I can work on that. I’m out of a job right now; I have the time, for a while anyway.”
Amy Ryan leaned forward to see Ben around several other heads. “Ben, I didn’t know you were out of work. What happened?”
Ben shrugged. “It’s a long story.”
Bev looked at him for just a moment. “You gonna tell ’em?” Ben hesitated, so Bev jumped in. “You wanna talk about shady dealings goin’ on, I think Ben got caught stickin’ his nose where certain people didn’t want it. He was onto somethin’, I know.”
Ben was apologetic. “Well, that’s off the subject.”
But Bev didn’t drop it. Tall, lean, and athletic, she was no weakling and could be very persistent when it came to fighting for the truth. “It might be right on the subject. You know that suicide that happened a couple weeks ago?”
Some did, some didn’t. Few could see what it had to do with anything.
“Ben thinks it was a murder, but the cops are covering it up. I think he was getting too close to finding something out and that’s why they fired him.”
Ben held up his hands and smiled apologetically. “Hey, it’s a great story. I’ll tell it to everybody later.”
Mark said sincerely, “Ben, we’ll pray about all that tonight.”
Ben nodded. “Thanks. Anyway, all I wanted to say was that I’ll be happy to do what I can. I’ll do some of the hoofing; just tell me what to do.”
Mark thanked Wayne Corrigan and then stepped to the center of the room. “Let’s go to prayer. I think we’re going to have a real mountain of things to do, and all kinds of battles to fight on the natural level; we’ll be fighting against the schemes of men, against all the curveballs hiding in the law courts, against the financial challenge this is going to be. But none of the battle is going to succeed if we don’t fight first of all where the real battle is taking place, and that’s in the spiritual realm.”
“Pastor,” said Donna Hemphile, “may I just say something?”
“Go ahead.”
Donna Hemphile stood to her feet and addressed the group. “I feel a real spirit of defeat in the group tonight, and I just want all of us to know that we don’t have to accept any of this! God is our Victory, and He’s already won for us! All we have to do is move in and take that victory, just pick it like ripe fruit!”
“Right on,” someone said.
“Amen,” said Jack Parmenter.
Donna kept talking along those lines. An address from her to the congregation usually took longer than was necessary, but her words were always encouraging, so they all learned to bear with it.
Tal could feel the
Spirit of God speaking, and noticed Cathy Howard hearing the Lord’s gentle voice.
Cathy leaned over and whispered in Mark’s ear, “Honey, I feel a check. I don’t trust her.”
He squeezed her hand to acknowledge her words.
Donna kept going. “We have the right to speak what we want and see it happen. We need to search our own hearts for the strength that’s ours!”
Okay, that was enough. Mark quickly, very courteously got the floor back from Donna and continued, “Let’s call upon the Lord tonight, and ask Him to help us and guide us through this thing. Like Jonathan said, the Lord is not constrained to win by many or by few. If God is on our side, He’ll bring things around just the way He wants them. Let’s pray.”
The saints joined together in prayer, a genuine concert of praise and petition. They agreed from their hearts, and as a body they were one in purpose. They asked for the Lord’s special guidance for Wayne Corrigan as he worked on the case, and cried out to the Lord for the sake of the school. Jack Parmenter prayed for the kids still in the school, that their education and spiritual training would continue with strength and clarity; Mrs. Fields prayed for Tom, that the Lord would give him strength and reunite him with his children; Brent Ryan prayed for Lucy Brandon and the others who were suing them; Mark prayed for Ben and his job situation.
Tal could feel a good concert of prayer here—but he was also distracted by a bad presence in the group. Somewhere, somehow, Destroyer had planted an invisible, insidious infection, and Tal could feel it growing. Destroyer had done well; on the surface, the infection was almost impossible to notice; it was going to be hard to expose, and even if the Heavenly Host could reveal it, the hearts of the people themselves would have to change before the germ could be rooted out.
But in the usual way, unaware of the undercurrents, the saints continued to pray, and for now it was enough.
Ben prayed for help, any help, that the Lord could bring their way—someone who would know what to do, where to look, how to fight.
And Tal got his order from Heaven.
“Go!” he said.
Nathan passed the command to two messengers waiting just outside the house: “Go!”
The two messengers instantly exploded into brilliant figures of light and shot into the sky with a rushing of jeweled wings. They soared higher and higher, the town of Bacon’s Corner shrinking to a cluster of tiny lights below them, lost in the center of a vast, flat table of patchwork farmlands. Then they streaked toward the east, passing over green hills and forested mountains as if with one instantaneous leap, the winding rivers, rural roads, and gray interstates appearing ahead and vanishing behind in an eye’s twinkling.
And then they arrived at their destination, another cluster of lights, though much larger than Bacon’s Corner, in the middle of farmlands and countryside. They dove headlong for that cluster and it grew before them, becoming a distinguishable grid of streets, alleys, neighborhoods, a new mall, and a quaint college campus. Automobiles were still moving steadily up and down Main Street, dark little bugs with red lights on their tails and headlights peering into the pools of light they formed on the street ahead of them. The streetlights glowed in warm, welcoming amber. Up the hill above Main Street, porch lights glimmered on all the houses where families were tucked away for the evening with homework, after-dinner dishes, perhaps a football game on television.
The two messengers pulled out of their dive and shot up Main Street, etching two brilliant trails between the streetlights. Then they slowed to a hover above a small storefront office between the new bakery and a bicycle shop. They dropped through the roof and landed in the front office area.
The place was deserted; it was after-hours. They paused a moment to look around. This humble little home of the town’s newspaper hadn’t changed much since they were here the last time. The three old desks were still there, but now one of the two typewriters was replaced with a word processor, and the telephone system had been upgraded from one line to two.
The glass-enclosed office of the editor was still the same—still out of place in this cluttered, cramped building, and still a bit messy. On the wall above the desk was a small calendar indicating all the games in the upcoming season of the editor’s favorite football team, and on the desk, in a special corner undisturbed by any papers, galleys, photographs, or scribbled notes, were framed photographs of a lovely redheaded woman and what had to be her daughter, also lovely and also redheaded.
Just behind this enclosure was the teletype room. The messengers checked the recent news releases. They found just the right one, separated it neatly from the other wire copy, then carried it into the editor’s office and set it squarely in the center of his desk.
Then they waited. He was going to see it. They were there to make sure he did.
AT PRECISELY EIGHT o’clock, a key worked in the front lock, the door opened, the little bell at the top of the door ding-a-linged, and the editor came in, switching on the lights, raising the thermostat, hanging up his coat, and heading for the coffeemaker. He poured in the grounds, filled it with water, and plugged it in, then stepped into his office.
The two messengers were there, watching his every move. He wasn’t looking at his desk yet, but instead started fumbling with some scribbled notes on the bulletin board above the filing cabinets, muttering some unintelligible words of frustration against someone who didn’t do what they were supposed to do when they said they were going to do it. He dropped some of the bulletin board pins, so he had to pick them up; and then, having removed some of the items from the bulletin board, he found he finally had enough pins to hold each item up there without doubling up the items, and that pleased him.
Then he went to the phone on his desk and picked up the receiver. His eyes fell on the wire copy the messengers had placed there, but he didn’t take much notice of it.
The Lord spoke.
The messengers heard His voice clearly and wondered if the big, red-haired fellow had also. He wasn’t dialing the phone yet, but was holding the receiver next to his head and not moving. He stayed that way for just a moment.
He jerked his head a little—his way of shrugging that was smaller than a shrug—and then started to dial the phone.
The Lord spoke again.
He stopped in mid-dial and hung up the receiver. The messengers drew closer for a better look.
Yes, he was reading the news item. It was about the recent hearing in the city of Westhaven, and about the Christian school scandal that was rocking a tiny, obscure farming town called Bacon’s Corner.
The Lord spoke. The big man sat down at the desk and listened, holding the news item in his hand, reading it again slowly.
Finally, with a low, husky, morning-voice, he said, “Well, Lord . . . what do You want me to do?”
CHAPTER 16
NEAR THE EAST Coast, up in the green hills above a picturesque river, people from all over the world had found a special place to gather; with devotion, vision, and sweat they had worked to convert an old YMCA camp into a special campus, a center for learning, personal enrichment, and community. The Omega Center for Educational Studies was now in its fourteenth year of existence and growing steadily every year, supported and enhanced by teachers, professionals, scholars, artists, intellectuals, and spiritual pilgrims from all walks of life and many nations of the world. Their binding, motivating spirit: a vision and hope for world peace and community; oneness with the rhythms of nature and the eternal expansiveness of the universe; the accepting of the impulse to change; the challenging of the unknown.
Among its neighbors, the Omega Center was described in many terms of varying shades, from such labels as “a real vanguard in human potential” to such accusations as “a Satanic cult.” The people who worked, lived, and studied at the Center took it all in stride. They knew not everyone would understand their mission and purpose right away, but they clung to the dream that, given time, the unity of all mankind would manifest itself. They were dedicated to
seeing that happen.
It was early on a Friday morning. Cree, his wings spread and motionless like the wings of a gull, dropped over the tops of the bordering maples and glided just above the glass-smooth surface of Pauline’s Lake, silently passing the small summer cottages, diving rafts, floating docks, and beached canoes. He would come up behind the Center, hopefully avoiding any spirits that might be on watch near the main Administration Building.
He slowed, rose from the lake, and drifted to a silent, stalled landing on the swimming beach. The sand was wet with dew, and a mist rose from the lake. Rowboats lay on racks belly-up; the roped swimming area reflected the boat dock like a flawless mirror. To one side, back among some trees, was the equipment shack. He ducked through its walls and found a hiding-place among the canoe paddles, volleyballs, and tennis rackets.
Then he listened. There was no sound. The timing was right; the Center was almost deserted now. It was a short time between two educational retreats. The weekday group had finished, packed up, and left Thursday night; the weekend group was due this evening.
Most importantly, the prince over this place was away, feeling lax and confident during the lull, probably on some errand of mischief along with the bulk of his demonic hordes. The prayers of those faithful few saints in faraway Bacon’s Corner were having their effect; the prayer cover was slight, still decaying, but enough for now, provided Cree and his warriors timed things just right.
The heavenly troops were here to find one particular resident faculty member, a lady who lived in the faculty dorm.
Cree, in appearance a Native American, with powerful bronze arms and long, ebony hair down to his shoulders, had all the stealth and cunning of a skilled hunter. His sharp eyes peered through the window and out across the lake. He drew his sword and let just the tip shine through the window.
From trees nearby, from boats on the lake, from cottages and boathouses, from the thick woods across the lake, tiny points of light answered, the tips of hundreds of angelic blades.
Piercing the Darkness Page 18