God's Not Dead 2

by Travis Thrasher

So far she’s said exactly what I expected her to say.

  “As your attorney, Ms. Wesley, I’m advising you to do it anyway. To at least pretend you’re sorry—and throw yourself on the mercy of the court—”

  “That would be a lie,” she says, interrupting me.

  I just shrug. “So what? Everyone lies.”

  “Not everyone,” Grace says.

  I have to build up courage to give her a cynical, doubting stare. But after being cynical and doubting for so long, I think I can pull off a convincing performance.

  “Grace, are you looking to become a martyr?”

  “Of course not,” she says.

  I walk over to her without any emotion or goodwill or humor in my eyes. I’m trying to be a blank slate. “Then what is it you want, Grace? Tell me. Tell us what you want.”

  “I want . . . ,” she begins, trailing off, her voice uncertain. “I want to be able to tell the truth.”

  “The truth? Whose truth? What truth are you talking about?”

  Because as we lawyers all know, you can’t handle the truth!

  “Is there some truth that you know, that no one else knows?”

  I know the strategy at the plaintiff’s table behind me centers around a conversation about all of this.

  “No,” Grace says, more uncertain than she was even a minute ago.

  “But wait,” I say. “Oh, that’s right. The other night, didn’t you tell me that Jesus spoke to you personally?”

  Her whole body looks like someone punched her and she’s having to gasp for air. She shakes her head a bit, her eyes already asking me the question in her mind, the one coming out of her lips.

  “Why are you doing this?” Her words are so faint that almost nobody but me can hear.

  I clear my throat. “Ms. Wesley, I’m the one asking the questions. Did you or did you not tell me that Jesus spoke to you personally?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what did he say to you?”

  She’s quiet because she knows exactly what an answer like this will sound like.

  “Okay, fine. I’ll make it easier,” I say. “Didn’t you tell me Jesus asked you a question?”

  The face is a portrait of a wounded child. Tears hover at the corners of her eyes and she has to wipe them away. She keeps shaking her head in disbelief, her face still devoid of color.

  “Tom—that was personal. You weren’t supposed to—”

  “I don’t care. The other night, you told me Jesus asked you something.”

  In the middle of the courtroom, between the jury box and Kane’s table and the judge and Grace, I face her and speak as clearly and loudly as I can. “What was the question he asked you, Grace? Tell me. Tell everyone. I think we all deserve to know.”

  A clear streak spills down her cheek. A quick glance at the jury tells me they’re not feeling good about any of this either.

  Grace speaks, but her voice is faint. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “Answer the question,” I say.

  She’s starting to sink in her seat. “They won’t believe me.”

  “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you believe it. Tell us, Grace. Under penalty of perjury: What was the question that you believe God presented to you personally that night on campus?”

  The sound of piano chords seems to crescendo in the otherwise-silent room. Grace doesn’t say anything and doesn’t look at me and doesn’t appear to even be here anymore. So I walk up to her and make sure she sees me.

  “What was the question?” I ask.

  She’s in tears, afraid, weak. “He asked me: ‘Who do you say that I am?’”

  My skin and soul seem to burn but I keep going. I have to. “And what was your answer?”

  Once again, the pause.

  “Ms. Wesley, I think it’s obvious that—”

  “‘You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.’”

  Now the silence serves to echo her statement. I wait to say anything more. Grace has said enough.

  “Well, there you have it, members of the jury. Your Honor, I think we’ve all heard quite enough.”

  The confusion train has already left the station. Grace is stunned in her seat. Kane appears not to be tracking. The judge himself realizes something is happening here.

  “Mr. Endler . . . are you looking to change your client’s plea?” Judge Stennis asks.

  “No, Your Honor,” I say in full bombast as if he insulted my only child. “I say she’s innocent of all wrongdoing, but I’m asking the jury to find against her anyway.”

  Some gasps and muttering go off behind me. As expected.

  “Let’s face it: Ms. Wesley has the audacity to believe not only that there is a God but that she has a personal relationship with him. Which colors everything she says and does. It’s time we stop pretending a person like that can be trusted to serve in a public capacity. In the name of tolerance and diversity, we need to destroy her. Then we can all go to our graves content, knowing that we stomped out the last spark of faith that was ever exhibited in the public square. I say we make an example of her.”

  I’m no longer looking at Grace. I can’t. I’m simply facing the judge with the jurors to my right, watching like an observer to a train wreck.

  “That’s enough, Mr. Endler,” Judge Stennis tells me.

  He’s annoyed, but he also thinks I’ve made a witty one-off statement.

  But I’ve just gotten started. “Let’s set a new precedent that employment by our federal government mandates you first must denounce any belief system you have.”

  “Mr. Endler, that’s enough. You are out of order.”

  The volume and tone are turned all the way up. He’s no longer annoyed. I’m hearing anger.

  Keep going.

  “And if someone happens to slip through the cracks and hide their beliefs, we arrest them and fine them. And if they don’t pay, we seize their property—”

  The gavel pounds and Judge Stennis shouts my name.

  “And if they resist, well—let’s not kid ourselves. Enforcement is always at the end of a gun.”

  The hammering seems to be going off against my head. “Mr. Endler, you are out of order and hereby charged with contempt,” Stennis barks down at me.

  Grace faces me, looking the way she might while watching a scary scene in a horror film. Those eyes, usually so confident, are wide and drowning in worry bordering on panic. Stennis is a shadow of vengeance, leaning toward me with arms crossed and fists surely tightened.

  “I accept the charge, since I have nothing but contempt for these proceedings.”

  I also have a heart rate of about 250.

  “If we’re going to insist that a Christian’s right to believe is subordinate to all other rights, it isn’t a right at all. Somebody will always be offended.”

  The judge calls out my name again, and again.

  “Two thousand years of human history proves that. So I say we get it over with. Cite the law, charge the jury, and send them off for deliberation.”

  Stennis’s jaw seems locked, his eyes loaded. He’s shaking his head in complete disbelief. I wouldn’t be surprised if he got out of his seat and came down to start punching me. Yet he simply looks over at the jury.

  He’s agreeing with me.

  “In light of Mr. Endler’s outburst and complete disrespect of these proceedings, we will bypass the usual closing arguments—unless Mr. Kane finds the need to further address the jury?”

  I glance back at Kane, who stands and no longer looks smug and in control. Baffled would be more the word I would use to describe him. “No, Your Honor. We can add nothing more.”

  “Fine,” the judge says, still facing the jurors. “My instructions to you are simple: Uphold the law. Without unfairly prejudicing your decision or risking a mistrial on appeal, I believe I can safely say defendant’s counsel has dared you to convict his own client. The jury will now be dismissed for deliberation.”

  The gavel unleashes a cloud of conversation
and movement in the room, more than ever before. I’m back at my table, standing and collecting my notes. I’m trying to gain my composure and breathe and let the adrenaline stop pumping. I know Grace is still sitting in the witness chair, but I can’t look over at her. Not yet.

  A wide grin rushes up to my side. Kane stands there with his team behind him.

  “Remind me to send you a thank-you note,” he says, then walks out with the rest of the circus-goers.

  I finally look up and see Grace approaching me. I breathe in, ready to explain everything and apologize and tell her exactly why—

  Her rigid palm cracks against the side of my face. Grace doesn’t even wait to see my reaction or to hear anything I might say. She stalks toward the door as I hold my jaw.

  That hurt.

  Not just the slap. Sure, that stung. The lady’s got some fire in her. But it’s not that. It’s the whole thing. It’s all of it. This morning’s testimony along with the rest of it. I hate that Grace had to endure any of this. And I hate that I had to surprise her with this last Hail Mary.

  “I’m sorry, Grace,” I say out loud.

  Nobody’s around to hear me.

  I don’t really walk to the door of the courtroom. It’s more like I inch toward it. I’m not sure what I just did. Whether it was gutsy or just plain stupid. I do know, however, that I just torched whatever sort of thing I had started with this woman.

  I guess I’m used to the contempt. Maybe I just can’t help bringing it on myself.

  55

  THE COMMENT she hears after the stunning—staggering—meltdown that just happened in court gives Amy an idea. One of the reporters shares a thought. A simple cliché.

  “She hasn’t got a prayer.”

  Amy thinks about it for a moment and disagrees. She has more than a single prayer. She has multiple prayers.

  And sometimes prayer is just enough.

  Amy bypasses the thick crowd outside that appears to have doubled even from this morning. More signs and chants and reporters and camera crews. She thinks of what a mess all of this has become. And over what? Over someone mentioning the name of Jesus in the classroom.

  She walks over to the park across the street and finds a bench. Her phone has 70 percent of its battery left. That’s good. She’s going to need it.

  The first thing she sees is an e-mail from her friend Mina. She spoke to her just yesterday, telling her the latest about the case and asking her to pray. The subject for the e-mail is “Some Encouragement.”

  Amy begins to read the note.

  Hi, Amy. I’m thinking and praying for you this morning. I have tucked away some Bible verses that have helped me through this past year, so I thought I’d share them with you. I hope they’re comforting. Please let me know what happens today. Love you—Mina

  Below Mina’s words are several passages of Scripture. Amy carefully reads each.

  “Lord, help!” they cried in their trouble, and he saved them from their distress. He calmed the storm to a whisper and stilled the waves. What a blessing was that stillness as he brought them safely into harbor! (Psalm 107:28-30)

  Don’t worry about anything; instead, pray about everything. Tell God what you need, and thank him for all he has done. Then you will experience God’s peace, which exceeds anything we can understand. His peace will guard your hearts and minds as you live in Christ Jesus. (Philippians 4:6-7)

  As we pray to our God and Father about you, we think of your faithful work, your loving deeds, and the enduring hope you have because of our Lord Jesus Christ. (1 Thessalonians 1:3)

  “I tell you, you can pray for anything, and if you believe that you’ve received it, it will be yours.” (Mark 11:24)

  Each verse applies to Amy and to Grace and to the trial and to this very moment.

  God calming a storm with a whisper.

  So cry out to him.

  Peace can come right now if you pray and thank God for everything.

  So tell God what you need.

  Faithful work and loving deeds and hope in Christ are blessed.

  So pray for Grace, who has shown all of these things.

  Prayers will be answered if we just believe.

  So pray.

  Amy closes her eyes and does exactly that. Suddenly she’s no longer on this bench near a fountain on a beautiful April day. She’s back in the courtroom; and she’s next to Grace, wherever she might be; and she’s with the jurors in their room, deliberating; and she’s with Tom and Brooke and Brooke’s parents.

  She prays for all of them and asks God to shine down on them. She asks for his will to be done and for his name to be glorified.

  When she opens her eyes, she begins to reach out to others. Mina is the first one she texts.

  Thank you for the e-mail!! What a blessing. I need—we need—prayer right now. Pray for Grace and the case.

  Amy then begins to text others. Everyone she can think of who might pray. Even a handful of those who probably won’t but might be curious or inspired to see what this is all about. She calls and leaves a message for Reverend Jude at the church to pray. Another, and another.

  Then she remembers when a group surrounded her at the most unlikely of times and stopped what they were doing to pray. Not just any group but a musical group. A band that prayed for her.

  “Lord, let Amy know that you give her the strength to deal with the trials she’s facing . . . and that you’ll be with her every step of the way.”

  Prayers don’t have an expiration date or a shelf life. They’re not chronological or visible or quantifiable. But they are real, and they’re always heard.

  Perhaps the prayers from last year are still flying above, helping her to look up. Even if—or when—they fly away like birds for the winter, it’s nice to know they still remain alive and active. Maybe even in ways she could never dream about.

  So Amy texts Michael Tait, the Newsboys singer, asking him for prayer. For much-needed prayer. She starts to simply sum up what’s happened, but it ends up being several paragraphs worth of sharing Grace’s story.

  I am one who still remembers the prayers you guys offered up for me one night. They not only mean something to me, but they were heard. I believe God heard them and responded. So I’m asking that you guys lift up Grace if you can. Wherever you might be. Thanks!!

  Amy finally shuts off her phone’s screen, closes her eyes again, and asks God to move in the next few hours. Then she decides to move herself after hearing her stomach rumble and realizing she never had breakfast.

  A couple of hours later, Amy gets a text while working in Evelyn’s Espresso. She’s been here ever since grabbing a sandwich and an iced coffee.

  The text is from Brooke, who told her she’d alert her to anything happening at the courthouse.

  It looks like they’ve reached a verdict.

  Amy bolts up from her chair and puts her laptop in her bag. Before leaving she sends Brooke a quick text.

  I’ll be there in ten minutes.

  It should only take about five minutes to walk back to the courthouse, but with all the people she’ll have to navigate around, it might take longer to locate the teenager.

  With her heels tapping as fast as her fingers can type, Amy feels the buzzing of her phone in her hand.

  It’s Michael Tait.

  “Amy?” his voice shouts out.

  “Yes!”

  It sounds like he’s in a wind tunnel or maybe hanging on the side of an airplane.

  Mission: Impossible 10, starring the Newsboys.

  “Good—I have you. Hold on—I want you to hear something.”

  “Where are you?” she asks.

  “It’s eight o’clock over here. We’re in Ireland. At a show.”

  The crackling sound of a crowd can be heard in the background. Amy continues to walk and tries her best to hear what’s going on.

  Michael begins to talk again.

  He must literally be standing on stage right now.

  “My friends, right now I�
�ve got a friend named Amy on the line . . . and she’s in America, where there’s a woman on trial for her faith. A woman who’s risked everything for the love of Jesus. Lord, we know that to lose anything for you is an honor with an eternal reward. But if it’s within your will, can you restore this woman’s hope and make her faith an example to others?”

  The voice of the singer is all Amy can hear now. It seems like the applause and the cheers have been silenced.

  “Lord, show your power to a fallen world. We know that you have the power to do anything. And so we ask you, crying out as the body of Christ, ‘Let it be on earth as it is in heaven.’ Move the hearts of those people—that judge and jury—to let them know the beauty of your majesty. Let us all pray like your Son prayed. . . . Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.”

  Soon the crowd joins in. The muffled, loud, cutting-in-and-out sound of the Lord’s Prayer fills her phone.

  “Thy kingdom come; thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.”

  Amy is now sitting on a stone wall, listening and wiping the tears away from her eyes. She mouths the words of the prayer with them.

  They are real, and they’re always heard.

  And right now thousands of voices are praying them in unison.

  “Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the Kingdom, and the power, and the glory forever.”

  Then Michael ends with a shout of “Amen!” The crowd erupts again and music begins to play.

  Amy wipes her eyes and resumes walking, listening to the music. The call finally ends, probably because the singer needs to go ahead and perform.

  She doesn’t need to hear the lyrics of the song. She already knows them by heart and can hear them playing in her head.

  “It’s the smallest spark that can light the dark.”

  Songs can be prayers, like stories and photographs and films and paintings.

  And even blogs.

  Soon she sees the courthouse and walks toward it.

  “Please, Lord, light the dark.”

  56

  THIS WOULD BE a perfect time for my dad to show up again out of the blue. It’d be an ideal kick-’em-when-they’re-down sort of moment. But he’s nowhere to be found. I’m tempted to go all Paul Newman in The Verdict and find a bar to pound a few back before the jury reconvenes. Yet I just stay in my car, the door open, the parking lot mostly empty. I’m a few blocks down from the courthouse.