The Frank Peretti Collection

by Frank E. Peretti

  I had seen people get booted out of the balcony before. I started to cross the aisle.

  A second usher stopped me, his hand on my chest. “Sir, please sit down. You’re disturbing the service.”

  I sat down. My sister was going nose to nose with an usher and about to be removed, and I sat down. Marian gaped at me. “What are we doing? Rene’s in trouble!”

  Rene was gathering her things. “Travis, I’m leaving!” She stood and waved to the people in the balcony. “Good-bye, everyone!

  Happy churching!”

  Marian and I got up.

  An usher held up his hand at chest level in front of us. “Please sit down—”

  Marian maintained a mature dignity and poise. “Stand aside,” she told him, “or I will scratch your eyes out.”

  He stood aside. Marian followed Rene and I followed Marian, cringing to think how grieved the Holy Spirit must be.

  We tried to keep up with Rene as she stormed down the sidewalk, heading for our car in parking area two. Knowing Rene, I was aware she’d been patient to the point of sainthood, but now her time had come. She’d seen it all, heard it all, digested it all, and she was ready to comment. “Why, oh why do you subject yourselves to this?”

  “Well, it’s a big church in a big city—” I started to say.

  “That is religious, God-tripping, cockamamie—” I won’t complete her full description of my excuse. “Have you lost your mind?

  That’s not a church, it’s a Christian factory!”

  “They have to control— ”

  She stopped and looked back at the building, pointing. “Do they even know who you are?”

  “Well, it’s—”

  “Do they? Does anyone at that church know who you are?”

  Marian answered, her own pain showing, “Not really!”

  “You say it’s your church home. Does it know when you’re home? Does it even care?”

  I tried to shrug it off. “You get used to it.”

  “NO!” She grabbed my arm, on the verge of tears. “Don’t get used to it, Travis! Don’t you ever get used to it! Don’t let them do this to you!”

  We went back to our little apartment, had soup and sandwiches, and talked until close to midnight. To summarize the whole evening, we were hit soundly over the head by an outsider who still had eyes to see. We broke down and wept, finally getting in touch with the pain we’d been trying to suppress for ten months. We concluded that the Cathedral did not attract people like Rene, and accepted the truth that the Cathedral could never hold much attraction for us either.

  We never went back.

  But more than a year later, we continued to receive a monthly calendar and letter from Pastor Dale Harris, telling us how much we were loved and how he appreciated our continuing participation and support.

  WE FOUND ANOTHER CHURCH, also well spoken of, and were astounded and relieved to find that there was nothing seriously wrong with us—we weren’t in the wrong; we were just in the wrong church. We met the pastor the first Sunday and he remembered our names the next Sunday. We could easily join conversations with people just like us and made friends immediately. We got to know the pastoral staff the way people get to know people, and we didn’t even need nametags!

  And we could serve! When the pastor announced they needed help carrying in folding chairs, we leaped at the chance and just about cried from the joy. Next we handed out bulletins at the door and welcomed people coming in. I got out my banjo and helped with the worship at our Wednesday night home group meeting.

  Three months later, I was leading a home group myself.

  So we grew in the Lord. We learned, we matured, and when we finally left Southern California, we had made friends for life.

  After the Cathedral, it was surprising how easy it was.

  I DON’T CONSIDER MYSELF SCARRED or wounded by the Cathedral of Life experience, but I admit I picked up a few quirks. I never believe anything just because a big-named Christian leader says it. I never do anything I don’t want to do just because a pastor, presuming to be the voice of God, tries to coerce me with guilt or threats. I no longer respond to visions God gives to others about what I should or should not do, think, or be.

  And since the Cathedral I have never, and will never again, turn to someone and say something the pastor tells me to say. Never.

  Twenty

  WHEN I TOLD THEM about my telephone encounter with The Cathedral of Life, Morgan and Kyle laughed, then apologized for laughing and offered to help me out with airfare to L.A. So with teeth gritted, I called the Cathedral one more time, got bounced all around the premises by secretaries and answering machines, and finally—miracles still happen!—got an appointment to see Associate Pastor Norm Corrigan on Tuesday, June 9, at ten in the morning, for one hour.

  Tuesday, June 9, at nine-thirty in the morning, I was there, dressed in suit and tie and ready to go nose to nose.

  The new building was spectacular. Stone, brick, and acres and acres of tinted glass. Fountains, walkways, trees, shrubs, and tons of beauty bark and lava rock. Inside, miles of rich carpet and fine woodwork. Sitting areas the size of major hotel lobbies. Fine furniture, high ceilings, and massive chandeliers. A huge brass plaque bearing the names of all those who gave ten thousand dollars or more to the building project.

  The receptionist in the front lobby sat inside a circular reception desk the size of a ten-person hot tub. She pulled out a map and traced a route for me to follow to the administrative offices. I thanked her, and holding the map before me, set out.

  I took a brief side trip to peek through one of the ten rear sanctuary doors. The sanctuary reminded me of some of the finer performing arts centers around the country. It was capacious, high-tech, and very, very nice.

  I moved on, guided by the map, walking down one hallway, then making a right turn into another, fascinated by the mixture of emotions and attitudes churning within me. On the one hand, I felt dazzled and excited. What a success story! On the other hand, I still had a chip on my shoulder: If anybody tried to play the bureaucrat or hassle me I wasn’t going to take it. Was anyone going to recognize me? My eyes darted about, looking for familiar faces or pictures on the wall to tell me who was still there. How about the usher who harassed my sister, Rene? Hopefully he’d let me read the list of don’ts for this building before asking me to leave. I wondered if Miles Newberry was still there, still teaching the Young Marrieds Sunday school class. It would be the Middle-Aged Marrieds by now. I envisioned the logo: the letters MAM resting in an empty nest.

  And what if I actually bumped into the pastor of this place? What would I do? What would I say?

  The answers that came to mind betrayed my attitude: You’ll never bump into him because he gets in and out of here through a secret tunnel. Even if you did see him, he’d be flanked by at least two associates and on his way somewhere important.

  I rebuked myself, asked the Lord’s forgiveness, and pressed on.

  I could see a wall of glass at the end of this hallway, with two glass double doors and an office space beyond. As I approached, I could make out the bold gold letters on the glass: “The Offices.”

  I went through the doors. Beyond the reception desk were six office cubicles and six secretaries, and beyond the cubicles was a hallway with lots of dark cherry doors on either side. I told the receptionist who I was and with whom I had an appointment, and she directed me to a long, overstuffed couch where I could wait.

  From where I sat, I could see down the hallway with the dark cherry doors and make out some of the brass nameplates. The names I could read I didn’t recognize. It had been almost twenty years. As for those big, double, paneled doors at the end of the hall with their own secretary sitting at a desk nearby, they could only belong to the man who was unavailable for telephone calls and would take three months to see if I made an appointment: Pastor Dale Harris.

  I held a black leather valise in my lap. It contained every scrap of information I possessed about Brandon
Nichols, alias Herb Johnson, alias . . . whoever he claimed to be when he had been here. If he had been here. That was still a strong hunch, but not a certainty. This whole visit could turn something up, or it could end up a waste of dwindling time and scarce cash.

  I still had fifteen minutes until my appointment—fifteen minutes and another hunch that might expedite my visit. There was a water fountain between the hallway and me. I rose casually from the couch, helped myself to some water, and then walked casually down that hall past all the closed cherry doors. Most of the names were new. Richard Drake. Ben Montesque. A few others.

  Ah, here was Norm Corrigan’s. I kept walking. Miles Newberry! He was still around!

  Then I stood before the desk of Pastor Harris’s pleasant, middle-aged secretary. She looked up.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Hi. I’m Travis Jordan from Antioch, Washington. I have an appointment with Norm Corrigan in fifteen minutes.”

  She indicated the couch I’d just come from. “If you’d like to take a seat, Pastor Corrigan will be right with you.”

  “Oh, I’ve already checked in.” I opened my valise. “I thought while I was waiting I might see if you could help me out.” I read the name plate on her desk. “Uh, Mrs.—or is it Ms.?”

  She smiled. “It’s Mrs.”

  “Mrs. Fontinelli, a man has come to our town who, in certain ways, is claiming to be Jesus Christ.” That raised her eyebrows and, I hoped, piqued her interest. “We’re trying to find out who he really is, and by certain hints he’s dropped we think he may have attended this church at one time. Have you been here at the Cathedral for very long?”

  “Ten years or so.”

  I handed her a photograph of Nichols/Johnson. “Have you ever seen this man?”

  This gal would never win at poker. Her reaction was so strong you could read it a mile away. “Um . . . my word.” She looked down at her desk and would not look up at me. This was one of those silent, awkward moments, but it gave me time to consider: If Pastor Harris’s secretary instantly recognized one face out of thousands and had such a strong reaction, that said a lot.

  “I take it you’ve encountered this man before?”

  “Yes.” She volunteered nothing beyond that.

  “Have you been Pastor Harris’s secretary for very long?”

  She seemed glad I asked her a question she could easily answer.

  “Oh, um, five years.”

  “And was it during that time that you encountered this man?”

  She tried to compose herself. “Um, who was it you were here to see?”

  “Norm Corrigan.”

  She tapped the photo lying on her desk. “Were you seeing him about this?”

  “I sure was.”

  She made a little o with her mouth and nodded to herself. Then she picked up her telephone. “Could you . . . excuse me? Please, have a seat on the couch?”

  “Sure thing.”

  I took back the photograph and walked slowly, hoping, even praying, I’d be able to overhear what she said into the telephone. All I could make out was “Tammy . . . talk to Norm . . . we need Miles . . .”

  I sat down on the couch and watched the little stir my photograph and questions caused. One of the six secretaries at this end—her name card said Tammy Orenfeldt—was stealing little sidelong glances at me as she and Mrs. Fontinelli spoke in hushed tones. “Yes,” I heard Tammy say, “for ten o’clock. All right, I’ll ask him.” Both secretaries hung up at the same time. Tammy punched in another number and said, “I need to interrupt you.” Mrs. Fontinelli made a quick call herself and then ducked into Miles Newberry’s office while Tammy hurried down the hall and ducked into Norm Corrigan’s.

  I knew Brandon Nichols was the kind of man who would not allow himself to be lost in the crowd. One way or another, he would make himself known, especially to the leadership—especially to the pastor he could describe so well and seemed so bitter against.

  Now a man who had to be Norm Corrigan came out of his office and crossed to Miles Newberry’s as Tammy came back to her desk acting like she wasn’t watching me. There was a three-person conference going on in Newberry’s office. I checked my watch. My appointment with Corrigan was coming up. I wondered what their line would be.

  The door opened. Norm Corrigan hurried back to his office, Mrs. Fontinelli hurried back to her desk, and Miles Newberry came strolling down the hall toward me. He was graying nicely and had put on a little more weight. He looked good for being twenty years older. I knew he wouldn’t notice whether I looked different.

  “Hi,” he said, extending his hand. “Miles Newberry. And you are . . . ?”

  I stood, shaking his hand. “Travis Jordan. I have an appointment with Norm Corrigan—” I looked at my watch. “Right now.”

  “Norm’s had something come up. May we talk?”

  It felt funny to be standing eye to eye with this man, having his undivided attention. Twenty years ago, he promised we’d do this. “Okay.”

  We went into his office and he closed the door. Rather than sit behind his desk, he sat in one chair facing me as I sat in another. It didn’t exactly make me feel more comfortable, but I appreciated the protocol.

  “Now, what can we do for you?” he asked.

  “I imagine you’ve heard from Mrs. Fontinelli,” I said. “I’m here trying to find out anything you can tell me about this man.” I gave him the same explanation I gave Mrs. Fontinelli and showed him the same photograph.

  He was not at all happy to see it. He scowled, drew a deep breath, sighed it out, then asked me, “What do you intend to do with this?”

  “I need to know who he is, who he really is, and how I can deal with him. I need to know his background and what would motivate him to get into this false christ routine. If you can tell me anything you know about him, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

  He ignored my question. “What makes you think he was here at this church?”

  “He talks like he was here, and he’s very bitter.” Oops. That sounded unkind, but then again, it was true.

  Miles Newberry chuckled—to shed my unintentional stab, I thought. “Well, this is a big church and we get all kinds. Not everyone who comes through here is going to be happy with us.”

  I wanted an answer to my first line of questions. “Do you know this man?”

  “Not personally, no.”

  I noticed his body language. We were in his office, but he was the one acting cornered. “But you know who he is?”

  I could sense reluctance in his answer. “Yes. We know who he is.”

  “So he did attend this church for a time?”

  “I already told you that.”

  “Actually, no. You didn’t.”

  “Well, he did.”

  “And when was that?”

  He looked at the ceiling. He took another breath. He was clearly not comfortable. “I would guess two or three years ago.”

  “Did he have a name?” He looked at me curiously. I explained, “He’s used two different names that I know of and I’m suspecting a third.”

  He whistled his amazement, but said nothing further.

  This guy was not a bubbling spring of information. “Is there a problem here? I feel like you don’t want to talk about this.”

  “You have to understand that we do a lot of counseling here and that we hold a lot of information in confidence.”

  “Even his name?”

  “Well . . . please don’t take offense, but we don’t know who you are. We don’t know what you’re going to do with the information.

  We have relationships and confidences we have to protect. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Perhaps I should tell you what this man is doing to our town.”

  I recapped Nichols/Johnson’s career, showing Miles Newberry some news articles from the local paper as well as from the bigger papers in Seattle and Spokane. “I can understand your wanting to protect whomever he may have hurt, but given the circumstances, I’m
not so sure you’d be wise to protect him.”

  Newberry studied the articles. “So now he’s healing people?”

  “I’ve seen him do it.”

  His pain was showing as he handed back the articles. “When he was here, he went by the name Justin Cantwell.” Then he conceded, “And he was trouble.” I waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t.

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “I can’t go into that.”

  “Justin Cantwell.” I wrote it down. “Any idea where he was from? Any background?”

  He sighed. “I need to talk to some people before I can give out any more information. Will you be around tomorrow?”

  This was a major frustration and I didn’t try to hide it. “I have to fly back tonight. It’s one of those round-trip discount things.”

  “Well, leave us a number and we’ll call you.”

  Now where had I heard that line before? “What about Pastor Harris? Does he know anything about Cantwell?”

  “I’ll have to ask him.”

  “Let’s ask him now.”

  “He’s unavailable right now.”

  “Is he here on the premises?”

  “He’s unavailable.”

  I tried to control the emotion in my voice. “He’s always unavailable. What about Norm Corrigan?”

  Miles Newberry shrugged. “He wouldn’t know anything about this.”

  “He’s new on staff?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But Mrs. Fontinelli’s run into this guy. The photograph really upset her.”

  He nodded. “She was here then.”

  “So it makes sense that Pastor Harris knew him.”

  He got tense. “Are you digging for something?”

  “Only because it’s buried. Please don’t take offense, but I have a very dangerous man deceiving my town according to an agenda, my friends and I spent a good deal of money getting me down here, and when you stonewall on behalf of Pastor Harris, I get uncomfortable. If you know about Cantwell and Mrs. Fontinelli knows about Cantwell, it’s inconceivable that this hasn’t somehow touched Pastor Harris. I’d like to talk with him.”