A New Eden

by Quent Cordair

  The woman at the pulpit raised her hands. The volume subsided. She waited until she had silence and full command of the audience’s attention. The organist continued playing softly in the background, keeping the atmosphere moving, breathing. Finally, the woman smiled. She spoke gently, almost in a whisper, into the microphone.

  “Do you love Jesus?”

  The audience erupted with affirmation and praise as before. The volume and enthusiasm, however, were not to the woman’s satisfaction. She waited until they quieted again and asked more emphatically, a little more loudly –

  “Do you love Jesus?”

  The response improved appreciably – but she knew she could get more.

  “How much do you love Jesus?”

  Paige wondered if she could get away with covering her ears to protect her hearing. The woman raised her hands to heaven in thanks. The drummer started a brushing, solemn rhythm on the snare. The guitars, violins and horns joined as the choir led in a new song:

  Here is a name I love to hear,

  I love to sing its worth;

  It sounds like music to my ear,

  The sweetest name on earth.

  Oh, how I love Jesus,

  Oh, how I love Jesus,

  Oh, how I love Jesus,

  Because he first loved me.

  It was a song Paige remembered from church as a child. The words spilled from the audience as if, in sweet relief, they had waded into a wide, cool river after a grueling journey across a parched desert –

  It tells me of a Savior's love,

  Who died to set me free;

  It tells me of his precious blood,

  The sinner's perfect plea –

  The woman standing next to Paige was singing fervently if not well. One of the younger girls of the family was trembling and crying as she sang. Her little brother was belting out his best approximation of the words, his brow knitted, his body swaying back and forth in time with the music, in close imitation of those around him.

  The chorus was sung twice more, and when the song concluded, after more individual praise and worship, the audience was directed to take their seats.

  According to Paige’s program, the woman at the pulpit was Sister Lucy Shelling, Worship Minister. Sister Shelling welcomed all present, particularly those of the Flock who had come from out of state and from abroad for Passion Week. She welcomed the millions watching from around the world, through their televisions and internet connections.

  Paige was wondering if the “millions” might be inflated – when out of the corner of her eye she noticed him: a tall, exceptionally handsome young man in a tailored suit, walking down the center aisle as unselfconsciously as if he owned the place. Sister Shelling’s eyes widened with confusion and growing concern as he drew nearer – but when he reached the third row from the front, he turned in, excusing himself past those seated near the aisle. He sat next to a well-dressed woman, whom Paige recognized as the owner and manager of the hotel. Sophia Hale had introduced herself the evening before, having found Paige dining in the bar; she wanted to check on her guest’s satisfaction and to assure her that the breach of privacy wouldn’t be repeated. Paige later found a bottle of excellent champagne on ice in her room, with a personal note, by way of compensation for her inconvenience.

  When the young man sat down next to Mrs. Hale, he leaned into her slightly, touching his shoulder to hers in affectionate greeting. Given the similarity in their features and their manner with each other, there could be little doubt the two were mother and son.

  Sister Shelling had watched the young man all the way into his seat with wrinkled brow, but she hadn’t missed a beat as she continued exclaiming how excited she had been that morning, watching the lines of RVs and cars flooding into the valley, how excited everyone was about the week to come, how she could feel the Lord’s hand on the Flock more strongly than ever, how she knew that God was going to bless the Flock through the coming week as He had never blessed them before. She made announcements concerning two minor changes in the coming days’ schedule and reminded all who had been bussed in from the campgrounds to remember their bus numbers through the week. If anyone had lost or misplaced tickets to any of the events, or was unsure of their dining options, or had any questions at all, they should visit Guest Services just off the auditorium’s main lobby, to the right of the mural of Jacob ascending the ladder to Heaven.

  Following the announcements, she gave her personal testimony of how God had been so good to her over the week, that Satan was still trying to get her down and to shake her faith, but she had just kept praying for God’s strength, knowing that He always comes through. Many in the audience, she admitted humbly, knew that her family was going through a challenging time, that her husband had been in and out of the hospital with cancer, but the situation had only drawn her family closer to God. Even though her husband was presently back in the hospital and the doctors’ prognosis was grim, she knew that God would be there for her family if they kept their faith in Him, that God’s love would carry them through anything Satan could throw their way.

  As her story progressed, the audience became increasingly vocal and responsive, offering amens and praise-Gods in support of her until, by the time she finished, with tears running down her cheeks and praise on her lips, the entire auditorium was praying and weeping and praising the Lord with her, while the organ swelled with heavenly chords.

  The organist, keenly attuned to the audience’s needs and moods, to the emotional ebb and flow of the room, assisted with controlling the pace and flow of the service. When she raised her volume, the audience energized with her. When she lowered the volume, they quieted. Sister Shelling regained her composure, wiping her eyes with the handkerchief she had brought to the pulpit.

  “We have so much to be thankful for during this week in which we celebrate Christ’s sacrifice for us, as we commemorate his resurrection and the Prophet’s promise. There’s just so much to praise God for today, not the least of which is the return home of our dear Sister Skye Emberly.” The audience erupted in applause that took Sister Shelling and the organist nearly a full minute to rein in.

  “As you all know, Sister Skye has been away doing the work of the Lord, in California. And it is great and important work indeed. Before long, Lord willing, the whole nation will know of her work, and God will be able to use her and the marvelous talents He’s given her as His voice to spread the news of His love and the Prophet’s story, not only in this country but around the world. But now, without further ado – ” she turned to acknowledge the choir – “Brothers and Sisters of the Flock, let’s show our appreciation for the Flock Choir and Sister Skye Emberly!”

  To enthusiastic applause, the house lights dimmed, leaving the lights up only on the choir. The organ and orchestra played a few introductory bars, then faded to silence as the choir began a hushed a cappella, slow and ephemeral, the deep basses and baritones supporting the floating tenors, altos, and sopranos, filling out a full, rich spectrum of voiced color, climbing and cascading –

  I once was lost, but now I’m found,

  Was blind, but now I see. . . .

  A young woman, dressed in the same simple robe of white with gold piping as the rest of the choir, stepped out from the first row to stand before a lone microphone. A single spot shone down on her as the lights on the choir dimmed. The audience’s anticipation was thick, palpable. The young woman’s face was shown in close-up on the video screens.

  Paige knew, from the moment she saw her, that she would never forget Skye Emberly.

  This girl was different, and captivatingly so. It was more than her sheer physical beauty, though her strikingly large eyes, tumbling locks and elegant features would have made her stand out in any crowd. While not tall, she held herself uprightly, naturally, in a regal resplendence. Yet it was more than her singular bearing and poise. She emanated. She shone. . . .

  The choir fell silent. The darkness in the auditorium became a vacuum vast and empty, ne
eding to be filled, longing to be healed. What came to push away the darkness and fill the emptiness was not a light – but a voice.

  Amazing grace, how sweet the sound,

  That saved a lamb like me.

  He heard my cry, my trembling tears,

  He came to rescue me. . . .

  In the spaces between the notes, a velvet, sacred silence reigned, with not a cough or whisper to disrupt. Ten thousand souls and hearts were caught up and suspended. Even the infants were pacified. The voice was that of a mother’s, singing her child to sleep, a soothing lullaby, the words almost more spoken than sung, the breath supporting the notes, unlabored and effortless. The lustrous warmth that emanated from the solitary, slender figure on stage made Paige long to start life over, to be a child again, to be rocked in this young woman’s arms, held safely and contentedly at her breast.

  By grace the shepherd’s guiding hand

  Returned me to the fold,

  To keep me safe from Satan’s snares

  And sheltered from the cold.

  The choir joined quietly, a harmonic, flowing river upon which Skye’s voice sailed –

  He brought us through the wilderness

  Into the promised land,

  Forgiving all our doubts and fears

  Our rock in shifting sand.

  The organ and orchestra joined the choir, the volume rising –

  When we’ve been there ten thousand years,

  Bright shining as the sun,

  We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise

  Than when we first begun.

  The key shifted. The choir modulated to a softer accompaniment again as Skye transitioned to a new melody and song.

  On a hill far away stood an old rugged cross,

  The emblem of suffering and shame;

  And I love that old cross, where the dearest and best

  For a world of lost sinners was slain.

  The spotlight on the cross above was brightening –

  In the old rugged cross, stained with blood so divine,

  A wondrous beauty I see;

  For ’twas on that old cross, Jesus suffered and died,

  To pardon and sanctify me.

  The choir picked up the chorus –

  So I’ll cherish the old rugged cross

  Till my trophies at last I lay down;

  I will cling to the old rugged cross,

  And exchange it someday for a crown.

  The songs were familiar to Paige, old hymns and variations thereon. When the key changed and lifted yet again, Skye’s new song was one Paige hadn’t heard before –

  How I longed for someone to look up to,

  A prince for the throne of my heart,

  His arms to enfold me, his eyes to adore me,

  His strength to protect me and nevermore part –

  She sang to the balconies, to the back rows, to those in the front she could see through the glare of the spotlight. Her eyes found, in the third row, the young man who had arrived late –

  In my loneliness I did oft wonder

  How my savior would know of my plight;

  In the darkness my heart was near breaking,

  Then he whispered my name in the night –

  The choir sang the chorus, of how the prince of hearts is the one who had given his all to save those who put their faith in him. The audience, their eyes lifted and hands upraised, rocked back and forth and to and fro in time to the music. The volume of the orchestra and choir lowered as the choir director turned and invited the audience to join in a repetition of the chorus. Paige noted that Sophia Hale joined in the singing, but that her son did not – though he was watching Skye intently, and Skye was still watching him. Paige noticed, too, that the attention of the fair-complected young man behind the pulpit was traveling between Skye and the object of Skye’s interest until, eventually, his focus settled on the stage floor in front of him. He wasn’t singing. One of his knees began bouncing.

  For Paige, Skye’s performance was nothing less than earth-stopping. The singing was celestial, divine, but it was more – it was something intensely personal, an openly warm, intimate communication such that anyone who heard her must feel as though she were singing for them and them alone. It was less a performance than a conversation – the sharing of a private, intimate moment between oneself and the mother one wanted, the friend one cherished, the daughter one loved. By the expressions on the faces of those around her, the Flock unabashedly adored Skye Emberly.

  When the song concluded, Skye stepped back into her place in the choir. Around the auditorium, all had come to their feet. The house lights had been brought back up. Hands were raised to heaven in supplication and thanks. Tears flowed down the cheeks of the woman next to Paige and down the cheeks of every member of the family in her row, including those of the little boy, who frequently looked up to check the faces of his siblings and parents.

  The fair-complected young man came to the pulpit. He waited for the audience to take their seats. Paige checked the program. Delivering the pre-sermon was Brother Simon Paulson, Assistant Youth Minister.

  “Brothers and Sisters in the Lord,” he began – the fullness and projection of his voice was surprising, given his slight frame – “by the evidence of the Lord’s spirit that has entered this place this morning, God is going to bless us mightily this week. Hallelujah!”

  The hallelujah in response was an enjoined battle cry. At first, he had appeared somewhat nervous, but after Skye Emberly, the audience was primed and ready to repeat anything, to do anything asked of them.

  “Brothers and Sisters of the Flock – ” he paused, waiting, letting the suspense build again – “Hallelujah!”

  “Hallelujah!” came the response, in perfect unison, ten thousand strong, with thousands of hands raised and waving. Simon Paulson had them in hand, and by the growing confidence in his smile and delivery, he knew it.

  “Brothers and Sisters of the Flock – ” He waited again, composed yet intense, a canister of volatile fuel, his fuse smoldering and sparking – “Together as we are, in our Lord Jesus, nothing can stop us, for we – are – Flock!”

  “We are Flock!”

  He threw his fist in the air, leading the chant –

  “We are Flock! We are Flock! . . .”

  The audience thrust their fists high with him. By the boom and vibration in the floor, many were stomping their feet as well. The hair on the back of Paige’s neck had risen as she worked to repress a vision swimming before her mind’s eye of black boots and long red banners – but surely that was unfair. Surely an unjustified comparison. Yet a small, irrepressible part of her was becoming as fearful as it had been in the mosque the day she thought that they had seen through her disguise, that she was about to be dragged out by her hair and –

  “Brothers and Sisters of the Flock, we are one in Jesus, and we have gathered together in this place, in the Lord’s house, on this day that starts our commemoration of our Lord’s suffering and sacrifice to save us from eternal damnation. We have gathered here today to worship God, to worship Him and to acknowledge His sovereignty over our hearts, over our minds, over our souls, over all of the earth, bathem. Our Lord – our Lord – is the Lord and Savior of all, the King of Kings, the Alpha and Omega, the Beginning and the End, and there is no one above Him – all glory to His name. Every king and every power on earth will bow down before Him – hallelujah!”

  “Hallelujah!”

  “Brothers and Sisters of the Flock, over the glorious and sacred week ahead, we commemorate not only the greatest sacrifice of all, the sacrifice of our Lord Jesus, but also the dedication and sacrifice of a man by the name of Obadiah Skairn – bathem.”

  “Bathem!” The responding applause and praise continued unabated.

  “That’s all that the Prophet was known by during his lifetime, simply as Brother Obadiah. He never heard anyone call him ‘Prophet.’ But Obadiah Skairn was a God-fearing man. He was a dedicated man – a man of faith, a
faithful man, a humble man who got down on his knees and asked the Lord’s forgiveness and mercy every single day of his life.

  “Now, most of us know the story of how, those many years ago, Brother Obadiah was led by God to leave his home and his family, to leave the safety and comfort of his community, of how God led him to travel across the desert and the mountains, alone, to a place he knew not where. He knew only that God was leading him, and that was all he needed to know. God sent an angel to guide him and to set his heart on fire with a vision of Christ’s sacrifice. And then one morning, in a place that seemed the middle of nowhere, God told Obadiah to stop.”

  The audience murmured, nodded, and hummed their appreciation, knowing the story well.

  “And so, Brother Obadiah stopped. And he looked around. He found himself in a valley that was little more than a barren wasteland.”

  The audience voiced their approval, urging him on.

  “It had been a desperate and difficult journey, Brothers and Sisters. The desert had nearly killed him with thirst. The desert had nearly killed him with heat. He was starving. When he came over the mountains and into this valley to stand on the Hill above, he imagined he still had quite a ways to go – California was yet a long way off. That’s where everyone else who was traveling west had gone. But the Lord said, ‘Obadiah Skairn, this is the place. This is where I want you to build my church, a church that is going to grow and grow. From this place, my glory will spread unto the ends of the earth.’