The Frank Peretti Collection

by Frank E. Peretti

  “It isn’t rock-’n’-roll. It’s contemporary worship.”

  She rolled her eyes in disgust. “Well I don’t believe that! I saw the electric guitar!”

  “That’s a bass.”

  “We could hear you clear upstairs.”

  Pastor Marvin ventured, “At least they were singing.” It was very bold of him.

  She stared a few daggers at him and then conceded, “Well, I might be able to put up with the guitar, but the banjo!” Then she rolled her eyes again, sending a loud and clear message of disdain that I took personally.

  Pastor Marvin offered, “Why can’t Marian play the piano?”

  “We don’t have one down there,” I answered. “The only piano this church has is in the sanctuary.”

  “Then maybe you should just join the adults upstairs,” said Sister Marvin.

  I thought of all those kids finally coming around, finally getting excited because something new was happening, something just for them. I thought of them having to listen to Sister Marvin play the organ and sit through one of Pastor Marvin’s sermons. “That’s not going to happen.”

  Bull’s-eye. I hit her primer and the powder exploded. “Excuse me?”

  I was angry enough—and just plain right enough—to face her down. “That’s not going to happen.” I turned to the pastor and said, “Our youth group has grown from a dozen to over forty and I expect it to grow even more if we can just be left alone to do what we’re doing. If that’s agreeable with you, then I’d like your approval.”

  “We don’t approve,” Sister Marvin answered. “Not at all!”

  I leaned over Pastor Marvin’s desk, looking him right in the eye and effectively blocking out the participation of his wife. “I would like your approval, sir.”

  He looked at her, and I could read her signals in his face. “Well, you’re doing a good job, but you need to be careful, Travis.” He glanced at his wife. No doubt he would have to say more if he wanted dinner tonight. “We’ll have to talk about it. We’ll work something out.”

  The banjo stayed, as did the guitar and the electric bass. Pastor Marvin declined to confront us, and the youth group grew to over sixty on a Wednesday night. Sister Marvin derived no joy from that fact. Sister Rogenbeck wouldn’t look at me even if I was standing right in front of her. Bill Braun, the board member, demanded I turn in every gas receipt directly to him, and then he grilled me for any and all details.

  TWO GIRLS, Cindy and Clarice, along with shy Brian and Robbie the bass player, had formed a nice quartet and volunteered to sing a special number for the Sunday evening service. Because they were there, about twelve of their friends were there as well, so we had sixteen teenagers willingly turning out for church on Sunday night. I was sure Sister Marvin would be pleased.

  When their turn came, Cindy, Clarice, Brian, and Robbie took their places in the front of the sanctuary, nervous but excited. The two boys started an introduction on their guitars, and— Amos Rogenbeck, Sister Rogenbeck’s husband, growled at them from his reserved, exclusive, usable-only-by-a-Rogenbeck place in the pew, “Young people, I’ll thank you not to stand in front of the altar!”

  The musical introduction stopped cold. The kids didn’t know what to do. They looked at each other. They looked at me. I got up from my seat on the platform and showed the kids a better place to stand, over in front of the piano.

  Shy Brian whispered, “What’d we do wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I whispered back. “Just sing for Jesus.”

  I’d heard them sing before and they were great. This night, thanks to Amos Rogenbeck, their song fell apart and they sat down humiliated. The incident was not wasted on their friends. After the service, I scrambled to talk to as many kids as I could before they all left bitter and disillusioned. Some got away, and I knew it would take weeks to repair the damage.

  But Brother Rogenbeck didn’t get away. That would have happened over my dead body. I pulled him aside for a discreet, private confrontation. “Brother Rogenbeck, you embarrassed and hurt those kids tonight—”

  “They should show respect for the altar!”

  “They meant no harm by it. They were nervous, they just wanted to sing for the Lord and minister—”

  “Young brats don’t have any respect! You should be teaching them that!”

  I grabbed his arm and got right in his face. “Now you listen to me! These kids mean the world to me and they just want to glorify Jesus. If you embarrass them again—are you listening to me?—I’m going to embarrass you. We’re having a private meeting now, but next time it’ll be in front of everyone, you understand?”

  “You need to show respect!”

  I would have had a more fruitful conversation with a grapefruit.

  WE WERE PUSHING SIXTY in attendance, almost filling the fellowship hall. The worship music was great. Cindy, Clarice, Brian, and

  Robbie finally got a chance to sing their number and do it right.

  The kids spoke right up during our sharing time, telling the others what the Lord had done in their lives over the past week. We had some new kids attending. Everything was going great—until the night we discovered a mouse behind the door.

  The fellowship hall had rest rooms and a stairway at one end, a kitchen at the other, and doors to the Sunday school rooms on the sides. As I stood up to speak, I thought I heard a noise from the room directly behind me and glanced at it. That door, like all the others, was closed. I went on teaching, telling illustrative stories, cracking jokes, getting laughs.

  And then I heard the noise again. A squeak. Some rustling.

  Two girls sitting in the front row started chittering to each other, pointing toward the door and apparently seeing movement under it. Pretty soon, five in the front row were looking. Finally, one of them squealed, “There’s a mouse in there!”

  Announce the presence of a mouse to thirty teenage girls sitting on the floor and thirty teenage guys who would love to catch it, and you will have a roomful of kids who aren’t interested in the triumphal entry. I went to the door.

  “Don’t open it!” a girl shrieked.

  “All right!” said the guys.

  I jerked the door open and everybody screamed.

  It was Sister Marvin, sitting just inside the door with a notepad in her lap. There was no other way into that room except through the fellowship hall, so she had to have been sitting there for over an hour. Her face was so red I thought she’d pop a capillary.

  “Oh,” I said, “I’m sorry. We thought you were a mouse.”

  And then I closed the door again.

  It took a little while to get the kids calmed down. Some gave no thought to the pastor’s wife lurking behind the door taking notes.

  Some thought it was perfectly, classically funny and couldn’t stop laughing. I just went on with the Bible study and finished up the meeting. The kids went home, and Lucy, Marian, and I cleaned up.

  I don’t know exactly when Sister Marvin finally came out of that room, but it was after we were gone. I left the hall light on so she could see her way out.

  AFTER SIX MONTHS, the board voted to raise my salary to a hundred dollars a month. Brother Bill Braun was adamantly against it, but the other board members voted against him, and that sealed Brother Braun’s opinion of me.

  I confess I didn’t help matters. I failed to wear a tie one Sunday night, which got me into trouble with the Rogenbecks, Peeleys, and Schmidts. These formed a cadre of big givers in the church, a group you wouldn’t want disgruntled. Pastor Marvin offered to buy me a tie, but I took the hint and never came to church again without one.

  My hair got a little too long for their liking as well, but I let it grow longer just to stretch them a bit. They didn’t stretch.

  About eight months into the ministry, Marian was sitting in a pew, praying quietly while I prayed with some of the kids up front.

  Sister Peeley and Sister Schmidt sat down on either side of her and asked if she had any needs they could pray about.
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  “Well,” she said, “you can pray for those kids up there. Isaac is from a broken home, and Diane is coming out of a Satanist group.”

  “Anything else?” probed Sister Peeley.

  “I’m witnessing to a girl at work and I hope you’ll pray for her.

  Her name is Susan.”

  “But what about yourself?” they asked. “Is there anything we can pray for?”

  Marian already knew what they were after. Lucy had attended the women’s ministry meeting at which Sister Marvin shared her concerns about Marian. Marian seemed overly occupied with a career instead of her husband, she’d said. Marian seemed a little hesitant to let the Spirit flow in her life. And, Sister Marvin asked, has anyone ever heard Marian speak in tongues? The women compared notes and were a bit stunned to find that none of them had.

  Isn’t she from a Baptist background? someone asked. Lucy said it wasn’t right to be talking about Marian this way, but Sister Marvin replied, “We have a problem and we need to discuss it.”

  Now Sister Peeley and Sister Schmidt wanted Marian to remain while they laid hands on her. Marian and I already had an understanding. She scratched her nose, I got her signal and stepped in.

  “Pardon me,” I told all three. “Marian, I think Lucy needs some help praying for Diane.”

  Marian rose with her usual grace. “Please excuse me,” she said, and went to pray with Lucy and Diane.

  Sister Peeley and Sister Schmidt opted to pray between themselves, but they didn’t stay long.

  Marian was teasingly jubilant as we drove home. “Well, now I have a reputation too!” she announced, patting my hand. “Why should you be the one who gets all the attention?”

  MY MINISTRY POSITION at Northwest Pentecostal Mission lasted one year and five months, growing and dying at the same time. I got along grandly with the youth, and by the end of our stay we had about eighty coming out on Wednesday nights. The death of our ministry was something that built over time, grievance by grievance, misstep by misstep, and finished with a loud bang.

  At the 1978 Christmas banquet, I threw the scales so out of balance that no amount of devoted ministry would right them again.

  The church had rented a banquet room at a local hotel and decorated it to the hilt. The adults were decked out in their finest and sat at formally decorated tables for a candlelight dinner. Lucy, Marian, and I brought a youth choir made up of twenty-four kids, the girls in long dresses, the guys in white shirts and ties. Marian played a rented piano, Shy Brian and Robbie played guitar and bass, I directed, and those kids sang some terrific arrangements of traditional carols as well as some fun, upbeat songs. The evening was going great—up to a point.

  We’d just finished a comical rendition of “Children Go Where

  I Send Thee,” with costumed kids portraying Four for the four that stood at the door, Three for the Hebrew children, Two for Paul and Silas, and One for the little bitty baby born, born, born in Bethlehem, when Brother Rogenbeck decided it was time for a loud, growling admonition: “You’d better change your direction, young people! We’re not here to listen to this nonsense! We’re here to worship the Lord!”

  I was facing the choir with my back to the room, but I knew who it was. I had my hands up, ready to start the next song, but my arms wilted and I could feel my temperature rising. There were moans all over the room. I could see the hurt in the kids’ faces, the embarrassment and fear. Cindy and Clarice had been through this before and weren’t hurt but angry. As for Shy Brian and Robbie— “Why don’t you just shut up?” Brian cried.

  I turned. I could see Sister Marvin about to step in.

  “No!” I said, looking at her and then all the others. “No, he’s absolutely right. These kids have worked hard and done it prayerfully, and they don’t deserve this kind of treatment.”

  There were Amens and expressions of agreement from some corners of the room. The rest just stared at me, aghast. I caught a quick glimpse of Marian at the piano, expecting her to give me her usual cautionary expression. Not this time. She was on her feet, her eyes on fire, and on the very brink of saying something if I didn’t.

  “Brother Rogenbeck,” I said, “the last time you pulled a stunt like this I told you if you did it again, I’d correct you in front of everybody. Well, here we are.”

  He just glared back at me through his thick glasses, his jaw set and his face like stone.

  I stepped closer to him, demanding his attention—what there was of it. “Apparently, in all your seventy-some-odd years of life, no one ever taught you as simple a thing as common courtesy.

  Well, sir, I’m going to teach you, so you listen carefully. When these kids are up front doing anything for the congregation—and I don’t care what it is—you are to sit quietly and keep your mouth shut. That’s the courteous thing to do. You may think it’s holy and righteous to spout off and hurt my kids’ feelings, but you’re not being holy, you’re being a jerk.” I could see Sister Marvin seething out of the corner of my eye, but I also saw Pastor Marvin nodding in agreement. I felt vaguely aware that I was about to torpedo my ministry at this church, but by now, after so much of this stuff, one thought washed like a tidal wave over all the others: To heck with it! I took another step toward Brother Rogenbeck. “You keep quiet, Brother Rogenbeck—you hear me? Because the next time you open your mouth and hurt my kids, before God and this congregation, I promise I’ll personally knock you right on your Stay-Dries. Is that understood?”

  My kids applauded and cheered.

  There were gasps of horror all over the room—and a few cheers.

  But apparently three out of the four board members weren’t cheering. Wally Barker was the only one who thought I should stay.

  The banquet took place on a Friday night. Pastor Marvin and Wally Barker came by to give me my last paycheck on Saturday.

  The board had trouble deciding whether I should be paid for my participation at the banquet, but Wally finally prevailed and they agreed to prorate my December check for the first two weeks. I got fifty dollars. Pastor Marvin told me in several ways that he wasn’t unhappy with me, and then he asked me not to show up at the church again. It would only stir up the hornet’s nest, he said.

  I never went back.

  Lucy kept the youth group going, but finally married and moved away. The youth ministry dissolved, and the older folks got their church back just the way they liked it.

  I’ve never forgotten that year and five months, nor have I ever been able to settle in my mind how I could have done better. I could have been less feisty. I could have submitted more to the leadership over me. I could have kowtowed to Sisters Marvin, Rogenbeck, Peeley, and Schmidt. Maybe rebuking Brother Rogenbeck did set a bad example in front of the kids. I was young and headstrong back then, I admit.

  But still . . . there was so much good that happened during those days, so many things that I know will last. Some of those kids came from home situations that never would have gotten them saved, to put it mildly, but they’re still serving the Lord today. Somehow, Trevor Neilson got the kinks out of his mind and quit messing in his pants. His mother sent me a thank-you card.

  And there were good-bye and thank-you cards from the kids, too. . . .

  “HEY TRAVIS, you okay?”

  Kyle was driving us back from Missoula. I guess I’d gotten a little too quiet.

  “I’m—” I didn’t expect my throat to be so tight. I swallowed.

  “I’m okay. I was just thinking about things. Thinking about . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “My wife used to say something to me that you might benefit from hearing,” I said at last. “Kyle, you’re a man of God and this is your calling, so don’t worry. Just be faithful. Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might. God will do the rest.” Then I added, “And Kyle, don’t let anybody put out your fire, you hear me?”

  Kyle hadn’t been inside my mind or privy to my memories for the last hundred miles, so he looked a little quizzical. �
�Okay.

  Thanks for that.”

  The highway blurred in front of me. I rubbed the tears out of my eyes so I could see the mountains and the blue sky over Idaho.

  Eighteen

  AT OUR LADY of the Fields, Arnold Kowalski, his hat in his hands, moved slowly down the center aisle, passing through the squares of sunlight on the floor and looking up at the crucifix on the wall. He was the only one there, the only one who still believed. The pilgrims were gone, along with the reporters and their cameras. The fame had moved to the Macon ranch.

  But Arnold’s faith was here because the crucifix was here. The stranger at the ranch he didn’t know, but this image had been a part of his life for years. He’d dusted it, polished it, straightened it, respected it. It had touched his pain and taken it away. His faith was here.

  He looked around to be sure he was alone, then walked slowly toward the platform, his head bowed in humility and reverence, counting twelve steps between each genuflection. Every step hurt just a little. His joints were complaining again, but it wouldn’t be for long. He still believed. He was wearing a tie today. He’d combed his hair before leaving home and once more after removing his hat. He’d blessed himself with holy water before entering the sanctuary. He’d recited twelve Hail Marys and twelve Our Fathers.

  Father Vendetti had mentioned taking the ladder down and putting it away, but Arnold had put off doing it, knowing he would need it as soon as he had prayed enough to be worthy. He stepped on the first rung, feeling the pain, then climbed slowly, his eyes on the carved face crowned with thorns.

  When he had climbed to the same level as the wooden Christ, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the small crucifix that had hung on his bedroom wall for decades, a gift from his mother.

  With great care and reverence, he had drilled a small hole in the top and threaded a neck chain through it.

  “See?” he said, holding it before the wooden eyes. “I have you at home too.”

  He extended the crucifix until it touched the one on the wall.