by Lee Strobel
“That’s your job, isn’t it?” The words came out with an unintended edge.
“The truth is I like you, Tom. I want to help.”
Resistance crept onto Tom’s face. “I’m not sure I’m ready to be proselytized,” was the way he put it.
“You’ve already done the hard part,” said Art. “The easy part is forgiveness.”
For a minute Tom said nothing. His eyes drifted toward the window, where daylight was seeping away, and then returned to Art. “Maybe there’ll come a time, I don’t know. Maybe I’ll even learn how to forgive myself. But for now, I’ve got to figure out what to do next.”
“I’ll be honest: this is outside my experience. It’s probably outside anybody’s experience. I should get some counsel—”
“Hold on, Art. Remember our deal? You would never reveal any of this to anyone. Ever, under any circumstances. I’m counting on that.”
“Absolutely, no problem. But I’m committed to helping you figure this out.”
“Believe me, you’ve already done a lot, just by listening.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to beat rush hour,” he said, rising to his feet and retrieving his trench coat from where he’d folded it on the couch. Art stood and they shook hands.
“Really, I appreciate your time and concern,” Tom said. “Phillip was right — you’re a stand–up guy. This means a lot to me — I feel relieved. I won’t forget this.”
“Let’s not make this a one–time thing,” Art said. “I want you to know I’m here for you.”
Tom turned toward the door, but Art tugged his shoulder and gestured toward the recorder. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
Tom thought for a moment. “If you’ve got a safe place for that thing, I’d rather leave it with you. I’d like to put it in my past. If that places you in an awkward position …”
Art didn’t hesitate — this was at least something he could actually do. “We’ve got a vault where we keep the weekend offering before it goes to the bank. I could put it in there for safekeeping.”
“That’s good for now. Yeah, keep it safe but keep it confidential. And if you ever feel like it’s putting you in any jeopardy, throw it in a dumpster.”
Before Tom could turn once again to leave, Art took a step toward his bookcase, slipped the Bible from the shelf, and tossed it to him. Tom bobbled it but then grabbed it tightly.
“At least,” Art said, “take this.”
IV
The crowd at that Friday evening’s Elders Prayer meeting was twice its usual size. Although Eric Snow had tried to squelch the news about the apparent healing of Hanna Kaarakka, word had passed from person to person that something extraordinary had happened to a little girl whose parents brought her for prayer.
And so they came, more than 150 of them, in wheelchairs and on crutches, tethered to guide dogs or leaning heavily on the arm of a loved one: the distraught mother toting her newborn with a cleft palate, the teenager facing a lifetime of diabetes, the frightened grandmother fighting breast cancer, the anxious father needing bypass surgery.
They filed into the dim, narrow chapel, sliding into the pews, their heads bowed in reverence and their spirits teased by anticipation. Many of them had been beaten down by bad news for so long that it was refreshing just to cling to the hope that something good might happen.
Having been coached by Eric Snow not to mention the incident with Hanna, and frankly still shaken by his experience with the child, Dick Urban was uncharacteristically nervous as he walked to the front. He gave his usual opening statement and offered a blanket prayer to cover the needs of most of those in attendance. Then he joined four of the other elders, vials of anointing oil in hand, as they assumed their stations around the periphery of the room.
As they awaited the first of the petitioners to approach them, the elders exchanged glances across the expanse of the chapel, as if to say, Well, here we go. Frankly, none of them knew what to expect anymore.
A frail–looking man in his fifties, using forearm crutches to support his unruly legs, worked his way over to where Dick was standing. He wore thick glasses and had strands of black hair combed over in a futile attempt to conceal an ever–expanding bald spot. At his side was a gray–haired woman clad in a thin, blue dress, her faced etched with sadness, her shoulders hunched in defeat.
The man was out of breath. “Post–polio,” was all he could manage to say.
Dick signaled for someone to bring over a folding chair, and the man gratefully lowered himself into it, stacking his crutches atop each other on the floor. Dick had seen this syndrome before, this mysterious and debilitating onset of exhaustion, pain, weakness, and muscle atrophy that can come decades after the initial viral infection of poliomyelitis ravaged the body’s nervous system.
“We’ve prayed and prayed; we’ve almost given up,” offered the woman in the most forlorn voice. “Our faith has sort of seeped away. After all Harold has been through — all the struggles since he got polio when he was nine — to have this happen now just seems so unfair.” She glanced down at her husband, now slumped in the gray metal chair. “We need help, that’s all I can say.”
Dick nodded and took a deep breath. “All that’s needed is faith the size of a mustard seed,” he said. It sounded like a cliché, to be sure — a biblical sentiment often tossed out to paper over pangs of doubt — but it didn’t come off that way when Dick said it. In fact, he wasn’t at all certain whether he was saying it for their benefit or his own.
He dipped two fingers into the vial of vegetable oil, and as Harold offered his face to him with his eyes tightly shut, Dick bent over and dabbed the clear substance on his forehead.
And then Dick prayed — not a rote prayer, not a formula prayer, not even a confident or “professional” prayer, but a prayer in which Dick all but lost himself. It was as if all of this man’s heartbreaks and disappointments and sadness somehow became intertwined and intermingled with Dick’s own spirit, and when he called out for God’s mercy he did it with every bit as much anguish as if the man’s pain were his own.
By the time he uttered, “Amen,” he wasn’t sure how long he had been speaking or exactly what he had asked God to do. Opening his eyes was like emerging from a trance.
What happened in the next few moments would ultimately become the topic of three separate articles in peer–reviewed medical journals and two doctoral dissertations — one in neurology from Johns Hopkins and the other in theology from the University of Aberdeen.
In the ensuing years, Harold Beamer would be subjected to everything from electrophysiological studies to spinal fluid analysis to neuroimaging. He would be poked and prodded, x–rayed and interrogated, and slid into more claustrophobia–inducing MRI chambers than he could possibly remember.
What would astonish the researchers the most would not be the spontaneous dissipation of his post–polio syndrome. Sure, that was extraordinary, but nevertheless it’s a rather nebulous and even transitory condition that’s hard to measure anyway.
No, what would astound — and confound — them was the way Harold Beamer instantaneously regained the full use of his legs, including the inexplicable return of the actual muscle tone and strength that had atrophied for years as he had languished with the effects of his polio.
The man could walk again.
From the moment he rubbed his legs to ward off the radiating heat and then stood confidently to his feet in front of his wide–eyed wife, sixth–grade math teacher and amateur chess champion Harold Beamer was healed — thoroughly, indisputably, mystifyingly healed.
“My God, my God — look!” he declared, his voice rising as he stomped his feet to test the rigidity of his newfound legs.
He jumped — and then giggled like a child. He squatted and rose again. He stood on one leg while swinging the other back and forth to test his knee. He walked five steps in one direction, pivoted, and then walked back, all the time gazing downward, his mouth unhinged in amazement that his legs were ac
tually — for the first time since his childhood — doing what his mind told them to do.
“Yes, thank God — look!” declared Dick Urban, his face blossoming into an enormous smile. “It’s … well, it’s a miracle.”
CHAPTER
NINE
I
“I’ve got protesters outside my window — fifteen or twenty of them, waving signs and chanting. Can’t make out what they’re yelling. One sign says, Keep Church and State Separate. Another says, No Gay Haters in Senate. I can’t quite read that other one. Oh, wait — it says, Reason, Not Faith. Huh. Well, Good Reverend, it looks like you’ve stirred up a bit of a hornet’s nest.”
It was Governor Edward Avanes on the speakerphone, calling from Springfield. Eric Snow was sitting behind the desk in his new office on Wilcox Street in downtown Diamond Point, with Debra Wyatt and Art Bullock in the room. He wasn’t quite sure how to respond.
“It’s the least I could do,” he said finally.
“Aw, this is nothing. Ever been burned in effigy? Now, that’ll get your attention! I got charred from Peoria to East St. Louis the last time we cut welfare.”
The governor chuckled at his own humor, then continued.
“Look — I expect some pushback for considering a pastor for the Senate. Might be unprecedented, at least in modern times. Remember when Richie Daley tried to appoint that pastor to the city council, but he had to back down because of all the gay–rights protesters? Well, that’s the price you pay when you’re a Chicago Democrat. Nobody expects a Republican appointee to be in favor of gay marriage anyway. And who cares what the atheists think — what are they, 5 percent of the population? Or is that the gays?”
Eric shrugged. “Depends on who’s counting,” he improvised.
“Anyway, I’m just calling to let you know that Barker is going to plead guilty within two weeks and he’ll get sentenced right on the spot. That way he has to resign immediately from the Senate. And that puts the ball in my court, so to speak.”
“I see,” said Snow, restraining his eagerness.
“Well, there’s no need to drag this out; everybody knows I’ve been mulling this for a while. So I’m planning to hold a news conference within five days of his guilty plea to announce my selection.”
Debra shot a cautious smile in Eric’s direction.
“That’s very decisive of you, Governor,” Eric said. “I suppose it would be presumptuous for me to ask for a preview.”
“To be honest, Eric, I haven’t decided yet. I’ve got the makings of a great senator in both you and McKelvie. He’s safer, of course — more legislative experience and I’ve known him forever. But he’s old school, already past his prime. I don’t just want someone to be a placeholder. I want to launch a career, someone who’s a game changer. That’s why I’m leaning your way, Eric. We just need to minimize your negatives.”
There was a lull before Eric spoke up again. “Well, Governor, just let me know what I can do.”
Avanes was quick and blunt: “You can resign from that church, for one thing. What are you waiting on?”
“My team and I are meeting in my office this morning to discuss that decision. Obviously, it would help if I knew the appointment was mine.”
“No guarantees — not yet. But I’ll tell you what: the sooner people start calling you a former pastor, the better. I want to see ‘Internet entrepreneur’ or ‘successful businessman’ or ‘RTA committee chairman’ next to your name. I want to see ‘philanthropist’ or ‘advisor to the President.’ Your biggest liability is that church; the more distance you put between you and it, the better your chances.”
“If I resign now, won’t the media assume it’s because I’ve already been tipped that I’ll be appointed?”
“Who cares?” snapped Avanes, the sound of him smacking his desk coming through loud and clear. “Your future’s not in that pulpit anyway. Why would you want to keep preaching to the choir? You should be spending your time shaping foreign policy and strengthening national security and cutting taxes, not counting crumpled dollar bills in the offering plate or figuring out whether the choir should sing Amazing Grace or Rock of Ages.”
Fortunately, the phone didn’t pick up Art’s snort across the room.
“I’d love to get news of your resignation by the end of the week,” the governor concluded. “Take some action, Eric. Be decisive. Be a leader. In the meantime, I’m going to go see if these folks outside need some matches for your effigy.” Over and out, click and dial tone.
Eric’s smile faded as he turned off the speaker phone. “Next time, tell us what you really think,” he quipped.
Eric leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head as he scanned the room. In some ways, he was already getting used to being away from the church. His new office, two miles from the church’s campus, was located in a nondescript four–story, red–brick building populated by lawyers, accountants, and insurance agents. The lobby directory purposefully bore no reference to him.
Snow’s office was straightforward and functional, painted in beige and trimmed with white wood veneer. Outside was a reception area where a young political science graduate of the University of Illinois — an atheist, per Halberstam’s suggestion — sat researching policy positions, working hard to look busier than the task required. In all, Snow rented five large rooms, just in case he would need them for his future campaign staff.
Wyatt and Bullock sat in mismatched wingback chairs, temporary furnishings from Snow’s basement until his newly purchased office furniture arrives.
As usual, Debra Wyatt looked the part of a successful lawyer, smartly dressed in a dark blue suit with a turquoise blouse, while Bullock’s faded blue jeans and brown sweater signaled a pastor on his day off.
She was the first to speak. “Let’s face it: we’re lucky Garry Strider wasn’t at the Elders Prayer meeting. In light of the Harold Beamer situation, this might be the right time for you to resign before we end up flooded with miracle–seekers.”
Bullock exploded, “The Harold Beamer situation?” Glaring at her, he continued, “Are you kidding me? A man afflicted with polio is miraculously healed in our church — and that’s an inconvenient situation? A little girl regains her hearing and eyesight, and we’re cowering because Garry Strider might actually tell the world about it? And now we’re afraid that people who desperately need God might flock to our church? What’s happening here?”
Eric sprang forward in her defense, leaning over his desk as he pointed a finger at his friend. “Art, listen — “
“I’ve listened enough,” he said, rising to take a defiant step toward Snow’s desk. “Eric, people wait their entire lives for the kind of miracles we’re seeing in our church — and now you’re going to walk away? These miracles aren’t coincidences; God is saying something to us. He’s reminding us that the entire church is a miracle. That people’s lives get pieced back together there. That people find hope and salvation there. And healing, if your faith is still big enough for that.”
Eric folded his arms across his chest. “Don’t preach at me, Art.”
“Someone has to! You’ve been spending all your time scheming to get this appointment. You’re not elbow–deep in people’s lives anymore. You’re not a pastor; you’re the Chief Executive Officer of God, Inc. You couldn’t care less about Hanna or Harold; you only care about your political future. You’ve forgotten that the church is the hope of the world. All of the legislation you could ever pass in Washington will never change people’s lives the way this church does.
“How many marriages were put back together in the church last year? How many alcoholics got off booze? How many unemployed found hope? How many chose adoption over abortion? How many homeless people did we feed? How many lives did we save in Africa? How many hurting people discovered the grace of the God who loves them? How many men and women around the world persevered because they’ve seen what’s happening in our church?
“The world is watching,” Art
warned. “This church has inspired people all over the planet — and if you walk away now, the message is going to be that God isn’t powerful enough to deal with the problems of the world. No, we need to help him out by packing up and going to Washington. And what’s the congregation going to think? Just when God rewards their faith with these miracles, their leader puts his faith in politics.
“Think about it — when news of these healings sweeps through the community, the church will be like a magnet to the hurting and the spiritually hungry. This is our chance to reach thousands and thousands of people. Eric, we dreamed of this sort of opportunity when we started Diamond Point. When did you give up on that dream?”
Debra, still seated, reached out to touch Art’s arm; he turned to face her.
“Come on, Art — take it easy! Don’t you see that this is Eric’s chance to reach into the corridors of power where the values of the nation are really shaped? He’s not turning his back on God; he’s walking through a new door of opportunity that God is opening for him. Remember how Jabez prayed in the Old Testament that God would expand his influence? That’s what God is doing for Eric. He’s giving him a seat at the table where the decisions are made that will transform our country.”
Eric stood and walked out from behind his desk, putting a hand on the shoulder of his long–time colleague. “Art, do you trust me?” His friend’s eyes were cast downward. “Art, do … you … trust … me? You’ve known me for a long time. Do you believe that I earnestly seek God’s will for my life? Look at me!” Now both hands grasped Art’s shoulders; their eyes locked.
Art’s voice rose low in his throat. “I trust God; I’m just not sure I can trust you anymore.” Pulling away, he stormed toward the door, grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair along the way.
He spun around, taking in the sight of Eric Snow, the friend he once knew, and Debra Wyatt, who he still couldn’t quite figure out.