by Ray Garton
She sighed and shook her head. "Do you really feel like you have to do this?"
He nodded. "Please tell everyone that I'll be back soon." He leaned down and gave her a kiss, then headed for the exit. Voices called out "You leaving us, Pastor?" and "Where're you off to?" and "Aren't you hungry?"
As he slipped on his coat and put a small Bible in his coat pocket, he smiled, waved, and said, "I'll be back in just a little while. Enjoy yourselves."
Outside, he got into his car, started it up, and headed across town for the bookstore, praying silently that he was doing the right thing. And that he had done the right thing on the pulpit instead of just making the situation worse.
* * * *
"When God put the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil in the Garden of Eden, he didn't put it there for aesthetics. It was there to give Adam and Eve a choice. He told them that if they ate of the tree, death would come to them as surely as they breathed. Not right away, necessarily, but it would come eventually. He told them not to eat of it and left it up to them. He didn't have to. He could have made them utterly devoted to him if he'd wanted. Like robots. But would that have been the right thing? No. That would have made them nothing more than automatons forced to love and worship him. Their actions would have held no sincerity, no heartfelt love. And if you've ever loved—and I know each of you has—then you know that true love comes only out of free will. It cannot be forced. So he put that tree right there in the garden with them.
"It was their choice!" he shouted, startling many of the people in the pews. "God left it up to them. He did not force them to do or believe anything. And when they made the wrong choice, as disappointed as he was, he loved them no less. Their exile from the garden was the result of their own actions, but God stayed with them and watched over them. They were still, after all, his children.
"He does the same with us. He wants us to choose the direction our lives take. Those who are saved have chosen salvation of their own free will. Those who are lost have chosen to turn their backs on God for whatever reason. He doesn't force us to do anything."
Freeman took another sip of water. Beads of sweat were beginning to gather above his upper lip and he removed a handkerchief from his pocket to dab them away.
His voice was stern when he said, "Are we wiser than God? Do we know better than he? Did he put us here on this earth to decide what others should and should not do? What they should and should not read or look at or listen to?
"I've learned of the other protests this church was involved in before I came. I know you went to an exhibit of photographs by a controversial artist. I'm familiar with his work and, once again, I understand your disapproval. But I do not understand your anger!" he shouted, pounding his fist on the pulpit.
He had rehearsed it at home and was afraid he would not be able to pull it off convincingly, but by the time he reached that point in his sermon, he felt it. Even more people were jolted by his outburst this time.
"I'm not saying you should approve of these things, but your response should be one of sadness, not anger. That's how God responds to our bad choices, and always with continuing love and forgiveness. Instead, windows were broken. A door was destroyed. Arrests were made. Dear God, what kind of behavior is that? Not Christlike behavior, that's for sure."
He used the handkerchief to dab his forehead this time.
"I know about your visit to the Civic Auditorium on the night of a concert given by a particularly offensive rap group about which I'm sure I feel the same as you. But your behavior, I just—I don't understand how you can—was that the right thing to do? In front of all those TV cameras? In front of so many young people who, now more than ever, need examples of true Christian love?"
A loud mumble rose sharply from the congregation, another muffled voice of dissent that decided, after all, to remain silent.
"I know about your gatherings at one of the local clinics that performs abortions. At one of those gatherings, garbage was thrown at the women going into the clinic and they were called murderers. There were more arrests."
He took another sip of water and another deep breath before continuing.
"When your previous pastor died suddenly, Pastor Warrick, I was available and was called in immediately. I was told that this church was conservative. And the sign out front and the cross on the roof identify it as Christian. This behavior is neither, in my opinion. It is nothing less than hateful.
"Maybe you remember an incident in the Bible in which a group of scribes and Pharisees brought to Jesus a woman who had committed adultery. They asked him what they should do with her, and with all the righteous indignation they could muster, I'm sure, they reminded Jesus that the law instructed that she be stoned to death for her crime. And Jesus said, 'Yes, stone the whore to death.'"
Sharp gasps rose from the congregation like puffs of smoke.
"Is that what he said? No, of course not. He said, 'He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.' They thought about that and then they did exactly what they should have done: they high-tailed it out of there. Why? Because they knew there wasn't a man among them without sin."
He leaned forward over the pulpit and put his mouth close to the microphone. His next shout was the loudest so far: "What about you?" He slowly stood upright and ignored the grumbling from the pews, getting louder now. "Are you without sin? Are you sinless enough to accuse a young woman on her way to have an abortion—and going through what is probably the toughest, most painful time of her life—of murder? I know I'm not." He raised his right hand. "Maybe a show of hands? Any of you? Sinless?" He waited a moment, then: "No you are not! And I think you know it. But you not only hurled terrible accusations at these women, some of you threw garbage at them. One would think, judging by your behavior, that your own life records are spotless, that you are completely and utterly without sin. But you're not. And I'll tell you what else you aren't. You are not a follower of Christ. Your behavior has been a perversion of the teachings of Christ. A slap in the face of God. And if Jesus had been present at that clinic, or that concert, or that art gallery, he would have stood between you and those women, and that rap group, and that photography exhibit and shouted, 'Let those of you without sin cast the first piece of trash at her!' Or call her a murderer. Or vandalize that building. Let the one who's never done anything wrong in his or her life first step into God's shoes and pass holy judgment on a human soul. Because that is exactly what you're doing.
"The son of God came to this earth as a man to live a sinless, selfless, and loving life to give us an example to live by. In that life, he passed judgment on no one. In chapter twelve of the Book of John, Jesus says, 'And if any man hear my words, and believe not, I judge him not: for I came not to judge the world, but to save the world.' Why? Because only his father, only God can judge anyone. Jesus himself admitted that. He never gave anyone reason to feel guilt or self-hatred. In the case of the adulteress, the sin had been identified by the accusers, and after Jesus had embarrassed them into running away, he specifically told the woman that he did not condemn her, and he said, 'Go, and sin no more.' He was as human as you and I and I'm sure there were times he wanted to destroy a few doors and maybe kick the seats of a few pants. But the only time he did anything remotely close to that was when moneychangers used his father's temple to conduct their crooked, corrupt business, and that, as I'm sure you can understand, was just too much. And even then, he hurt no one. He just knocked over a few tables and yelled a lot."
Freeman scratched the back of his neck and sighed.
"His life and death were meant to give us an example, so that we could have someone to turn to and lean on when our lives get tough, so that we'd have someone who could say he knew what it was like and forgive us our mistakes. But you have stomped all over that life! With your anger toward those with whom you disagree. Those are the people to whom you should be showing the love and acceptance that you claim to have at the center of your life by falsely declari
ng yourselves Christians. And you should be ashamed of yourselves."
He pulled out the handkerchief and swept it over his entire face this time, trying to catch his breath and calm his trembling hands. And then something happened that, in his time as a pastor, he had never experienced before.
The congregation began to stand up and talk back.
* * * *
Freeman began to sweat in the car as he drove, thinking about his sermon and the chaos it had caused in the church, about which he felt so guilty. It was a sunny spring day, but not warm. Nearing the bookstore, his palms were sweaty against the steering wheel as he grew increasingly anxious. What would he find? How would they react? And most importantly, what would he do once he got there?
He had no idea. He only knew that he had to try to do something.
The bookstore was on the corner of a busy intersection and parking was difficult to find, but when he drove by, he saw the crowd inside through the large front window and the crowd outside. There were seventy or eighty people taking up a good chunk of the sidewalk lined with small maples. He recognized those from his congregation and saw that people had come from other churches in town, as well.
He found a parking space a block away and walked back to the store. Up ahead, he could hear chattering voices; a small group of the protesters began chanting, "Perversion! Blasphemy! Evil!"
Most of them held hand-written signs that called James K. Denmore a pornographer, a Satanist, a worshiper of demons, among other things. The signs accused him of polluting young minds, promoting violence and perversion, and offending God.
The signs made Freeman's chest ache.
He was disappointed to see that there were no police officers on hand to maintain order. He knew what groups like this could become—he had gotten a small taste of it in church that day—and had hoped there would be someone around to make sure things did not get out of hand. The absence of any security worried him. His chest felt tight with dread as he neared the bookstore, and he silently prayed, Take my hand here, Lord. I need your help.
He shouldered his way through the group until a pair of eyes met his and registered first surprise at his arrival, then darkened with hostile determination. It was Deanne Furst, a middle-aged widow with short reddish hair in tight, beauty-parlor curls, whose body was thickening with age. She wore the simplest of clothes and, always, sensible shoes. She held a sign that read:
JAMES K. DENMORE:
PERVERTER OF CHILDREN
DISCIPLE OF SATAN
OFFENDER OF GOD
Freeman flinched when he read the sign and Deanna saw his reaction. She curled one end of her mouth into a little smirk, enjoying his disapproval. She had been one of the loud and vehemently dissenting voices during his sermon that morning, so he was not surprised.
Then others began to notice him and the chatter dropped in volume as eyes turned to him, some widening with surprise.
Fred Granger had obviously gone home from church and changed into what was, for him, a standard uniform: plaid shirt, khaki jacket, jeans, and brown Oxford shoes. A green canvas bag hung heavily from his shoulder and he carried a sign with shaky, hand-painted letters that read:
DENMORE IS EVIL
AND SATANIC
"THOU SHALT NOT SUFFER
A WITCH TO LIVE!"
EXODUS 22:18
Freeman smiled at Granger, but the man's square face maintained the same stern expression it usually held. His wife Patty stood beside him, a frail looking woman in a simple baggy house dress. Her head was bowed and she stared at the concrete, holding a baby in one arm and clutching the hand of the toddler boy; she was enormously pregnant.
Sam Bigelow, a tall, heavy man with a sad face, saw him and looked confused at first, then smiled, perhaps thinking that he had come to join their protest.
David and Karen Potter, an attractive thirtyish couple, glanced at one another when they saw him, then continued to stare at him with expressionless faces as he drew closer.
Marvin Kent did a double-take, then stared in disbelief as Freeman approached. He held a sign that read:
JAMES K DENMORE'S BOOKS
TEACH EVIL, CORRUPTION
AND SEXUAL PROMISCUITY
Kent's face grew cold as Freeman approached.
Marcus Benworth, a single black man who sang in the church choir, held no sign but stared at Freeman as if he were coming up the sidewalk naked.
Sally Morrisey saw him, too, and a gray shadow of guilt passed briefly over her face. She was a young, single woman in her mid-thirties whose face always conveyed warmth and friendship—except for that moment when she saw Freeman and her face fell. She lowered her eyes and turned away to keep him from seeing her sign, which read:
JAMES K. DENMORE'S BOOKS
DESTROY MORALS AND
GIVE SATAN FREE REIGN
Michael Denny, who had been dating Sally for a short while, did not have a sign. When he saw Freeman, his eyebrows rose as if he were asking himself, And exactly what is he doing here?
Others from the congregation responded to his presence with their eyes, their body language. No one spoke. No one welcomed him. No one, with the possible exception of Sam Bigelow, wanted him there.
The unfamiliar faces from other churches were every bit as angry, their signs just as ugly.
Freeman clenched his teeth nervously as he went to the center of the crowd and removed the small bible from his pocket. He opened it, took a steadying breath, then lifted an arm and said loudly, "Would you all please listen to me for just a moment!"
The volume lowered further and some bitter murmurs passed through the crowd.
"Please, for just a moment," he said, turning around and passing his eyes over all of them, known and unknown, trying to sound pleasant. He looked down at his Bible a moment, then said, "'And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother's eye, but percievest not the beam that is in thine own eye?' Those are the words of Jesus Christ from the Book of Luke. Do you know what a mote is? It's a tiny speck. You all know what a beam is. A log. I've come here to ask you just one question: What gives you the right to come here and tell this man that he is evil when each and every one of you here is just as human and just as much a sinner as he is. What gives you the right?"
The crowd was silent as traffic rushed by.
Finally, Deanna Furst shouted, "He's spreading his sinfulness!"
"He's selling it!" Karen Potter shouted. "He's handing it out to people who don't know any better."
"How do you know they don't know better?" Freeman said. "And if they don't, why don't you show them by living your beliefs? A Christian is someone who uses Jesus Christ as a life model, not someone who bullies people whose work they don't like. This is not your job. It's not what Christ wanted of his followers, it's the very behavior he rejected."
"How do you know?"
He raised the Bible over his head. "Because he told us. He was very clear. If you'd read your Bibles once in a while instead of using them as weapons, you would know that. All of you should be ashamed of yourselves. All of you!"
Freeman was surrounded by angry eyes, and angry voices rose in response to him. They looked enraged, as if he had insulted their families.
"Look, I'm sorry if I sound angry," he said, trying to be heard above their shouting. "Please, listen! I'm sorry, many of you don't even know me. I'm Pastor Gil—"
"We know who you are, Pastor Freeman." It was a deep, unfamiliar voice, rich and full, and the speaker stepped forward, shouldering his way through the crowd. "We've heard all about you."
He was of average height, but still imposing, with a barrel chest and large belly that filled out his dark suit. His graying hair was balding on top and he wore a pair of large-framed tortoise-shell glasses. His eyes were stern and his mouth was a straight line across his broad, fleshy face. A waddle of skin hung beneath his chin and jiggled as he moved. He clutched a bible at his side and did not look pleased.
"I'm Reve
rend Perry Wickes from the Celebration of Christ Church across town, Pastor Freeman, and I must say, I'm very disappointed in you. I know you're new to this community and aren't familiar with the spiritual climate here, but...this? I could understand some church members not wanting to participate in a protest like this. I always expect a certain number of people to stay away. But you? A pastor? The leader of your congregation? I don't understand it, and I think you've failed your church." His eyes glared, jowls trembled. "And your God."
"I'm sorry you think that of me, Reverend. But for me to support this protest, I would have to go against my beliefs. Against what I believe God wants me to do. I have nothing against a peaceful protest. But this isn't a protest, and it certainly isn't the behavior of followers of Christ. It's a hostile attack on a single man. The God I worship would not want me to participate."
Reverend Wickes pointed a stiff, meaty finger at Freeman and bellowed, "Then you are not a man of God! You are a friend of darkness."
Freeman had to stifle a surprising laugh that bubbled up in response to the reverend's melodramatic accusation. Before he could respond, there was a stir in the crowd. He turned to see everyone looking up the sidewalk to three people who were approaching the bookstore.
The first was a large, muscular man in a dark suit, eyes hidden by black sunglasses. He did not look friendly. Behind him, a beautiful woman with red hair held the hand of a man Freeman recognized immediately from the pictures on his books: James K. Denmore. A man in his forties, he was slender and youthful even though his thick brown hair was rapidly turning white. He had a pale, childlike face and wide, curious eyes, and Freeman thought he looked vulnerable as he approached the angry crowd. He certainly did not appear to be the evil monster Freeman's congregation made him out to be. He even smiled at them.