A New Novel by Gary Broughman
(Editor’s note: Each weekend we’ll publish one chapter of the new Christian novel Which One of You? here at Christian Heartbeat.)
Chapter Twenty
From Sunday to Sunday, the crowds gathering on the beach below Jerry’s deck grew larger and larger. Labor day weekend was now upon us. The kids had
already returned to school. From that first Sunday when we said goodbye to
Mary, everything about this ministry had been exceptional, but both Jerry and I
sensed that something even more extraordinary would descend upon us soon.
Whether for good or ill neither of us knew. He was uneasy. I was anxious. We
both smelled something in the air. Was it the predator’s sense of an opportunity close at hand? Or the realization of the prey that
danger is approaching?
Some small towns like ours are reluctant to eat their own. Not that they won’t, but it’s a last resort. The right people caught in wrong behavior -- like sons and
daughters of certain citizens -- are still taken home to mom and dad by the
police instead of to jail. Public employees know it’s mostly not in their best interest to rock the power structure’s boat. If there’s a problem with an influential person crossing a line -- like Jerry using the
public beach for a private purpose -- he would be told informally at first. In
this case he was. “The word,” he said, “is that someone’s making waves.”
Let me be clear. No one told Jerry we couldn’t do what we’d been doing. Apparently the police chief thought it was a pretty good thing
that some of the town’s habitual drunks and bar hoppers were “getting some religion.” The chief had sent two officers as observers. They did no more than stand to
the side, hats in hand, looking respectful. In fact it seemed to me they
enjoyed the experience.
But not everyone at our prior session had been friendly to the cause. You
couldn’t have missed these guys in their dress shirts and slacks among the tee shirts
and shorts. It was like they wanted their little posse to be seen, and I
imagine they did. I knew them all. Pastors of local churches. Their leader was the Reverend Walter Land -- “Big Walt” some called him because he’s a big man -- at least my height and twice my girth, and because a second
pastor Walter worked nearby. Big Walt was senior pastor at the largest church
in town and we had crossed swords in the past. He was the kind of clergyman who
took pleasure in questioning whether or not a person -- especially another
minister -- was “genuinely” saved.
“Are you truly in possession of the keys to the kingdom?” he would ask, and then lay out some criteria whereby he could determine your
status with God was deficient. He did that to me once at a ministerial
association meeting -- the last one I attended -- and I stirred his ire by
replying that in my experience people who question whether others are saved are
uncertain of their own standing with God. That quieted most of the room but not
Big Walt, who lit into me verbally, predicting an eternity in hell for me, “unless you get on your knees and repent!” My mother had taught me to never argue with fools, so I made for the door
laughing at his arrogance. I think I did toss the word “arrogant” over my shoulder at him, and it’s possible I added “bastard.”
If trouble was boiling, it had to be Walt and his comrades turning up the heat.
That was my educated guess. Jerry decided to take evasive action by asking me
not to go down on the beach to baptize. We had baptized a few people at each of
our gatherings and he figured that if I stayed up on his deck they couldn’t say we were doing anything wrong. “The people below have a right to stand on the public’s sand,” he said. The previous Sunday we had also celebrated communion, with me passing
among the people with bread and the grape juice we use for wine. Jerry asked me
to skip that too for Labor Day weekend, adding we should move up the service to
8 a.m. since holiday beach crowds tend to arrive earlier. That way, he said, we’ll be done before we cause “a problem” by taking away parking space on the beach. Of course, the time change had the
added benefit of not competing with his regular trade, but I didn’t mention that. After all, his main business was running a bar and restaurant,
not a revival show. I appreciated what he’d done for me and my family.
We got through it OK, keeping it short and low key. With the holiday weekend
and early hour, attendance was down. I suppose some of our regulars were still
sleeping off Saturday night. Those who came thanked me for not canceling. If
you’re a church-going person, you probably understand how the spirit depends on a
weekly booster shot. Once you’ve discovered there is something beyond your own selfish little world, or
dancing to the tune of our consumer culture, it can be intriguing, even
inspiring to know you can stand up like a free man or woman and name your own
tune. Not that you’re immune to the injuries of this world, but that weekly dose keeps your wounds
from becoming infected, helps you play the game and endure the daily grind with
hope, like the slave who bows his head submissively and says “yes master,” while inside his spirit sings its silent song, knowing plans are in place to
break loose and bolt to freedom. But along the way, he’s going to need some help, just like people today need help week after week to
keep the spirit alive in a world that cares not one whit for individual spirits
or, for that matter, individual human beings. So they come to church for a
booster shot of reassurance that God cares about them and, if they’re lucky, that their pastor does too. Jesus did, and I don’t think it’s bragging to say, so do I. Caring made his ministry grow, and mine too. But I’m not sure even Jesus could have drawn a crowd at such an early hour.
Carolyn was doing her best to get us settled in the new house. The first weeks
of school are the most chaotic -- supplies to be purchased, fees to be paid,
unanticipated changes. Sagan had gone out for football, which meant Scott did
too. That didn’t make his mother happy. Neither of them had ever played before but Sagan was
built for it. Scott was taking a beating, even though he was playing against
other freshmen. When his mother suggested he’d given it his best shot and could honorably quit, he barked, “no way!” We were all proud of him, even his mother.
And me? I was settling back into being a pastor. During the week I would
receive calls from my … people. I wasn’t sure what to call them. John-John said they were my followers or disciples,
but I didn’t want to go that far. Pastors have church members but I didn‘t have a church in the normal sense. Jesus had followers and disciples but I
didn’t want to confuse myself with Jesus, even though he also preached outdoors to
people outside the religious mainstream -- people mostly rejected by the good
religious folk.
As I write this and tell my story I know some people will see me as a
modern-day Jesus, or think that’s how I see myself. I’m not blind. Theologians are always looking for what they call a “type of Christ.” But I’ve made it clear I wasn’t made for martyrdom. I’m not the man Jesus was. I’m not even the man some people think I am. I want that understood. If I have
anything to brag about it’s that I know who I’m not. But even without a church building, church secretary and official
membership list, I get up every morning and do what I can. When people come to
me for help I try to give it, just like Jesus did when the Samaritan woman at
the well came to him with her pain. At that moment Jesus was more a pastor than
a prophet. And me? I was and I am just Dietrich Waymire: flawed, imperfect and
trying to do the best I can, as long as I can avoid crucifixion and live a long
and happy life -- if that is God’s will.
The second Sunday in September and it’s back to business as usual. At least that’s how the morning began, except for one difference: Some of our regulars had
stopped arriving early to throw down drinks before the gathering. I hadn’t asked anyone to stop drinking or even to cut back, but I liked what I saw. Who
knows, maybe I was reading more into it than was there. For all I knew they
could have been drinking at home, but I took the changed behavior at face value
-- people trying to take control of their lives. That is what I wanted for
them. At one time I thought we could change our world en masse and make it a
better place for everyone. I based my ministry on that dream. Now I know it was
a pipe dream. The best we’ll ever do is rescue one at a time. It’s up to each of us to wrest control of ourselves from the world’s hands. And it’s up to guys like me to help. One at a time. That’s what Jesus said about the lost sheep. That’s what made me stand up for Sagan. When the Roman jailer who freed Paul and
Silas asked what he could do to be saved, he wasn’t speaking for all of Rome but for himself alone. That’s how it works. One at a time. One person says, “no you can’t have me,” or someone else says, “no you can’t have him.” That’s the only way we can change the world. Any other way is doomed. The world is
too powerful. It corrupts and deludes and pretty soon we who dreamed of
changing it find we are compromised -- like the church for the most part, going
along to get along.
As for me and my world, if I ever change my mind again and start dreaming of
fixing the entire darn world, I’ll leave the ministry and run for president. But on that Sunday morning I was
happy with believing I’d helped a few over-indulgers cut back a little.
It’s funny how wisdom will come in the way least expected. Not from what is, but
what isn’t. Empty seats at a bar. Like the voice of Yahweh not large and loud but still
and small. Like the Tao, the way of Lao Tsu, an empty vessel but the source of
ten thousand things. Less is more, don’t fear white space on the page, empty seats at a bar revealing the secrets of
untangling the knot. I see empty seats and suddenly I’m conscious of my purpose, of who I am. Thank God. Quit thinking and let God.
Quit thinking and let God’s wisdom roll like living waters. Wisdom to fill the universe, “hidden deep but ever present,” the Tao says, “written on our hearts,” Jeremiah says … “no need to study God.” Quit searching and let it find you. Maybe it will appear in empty seats at a
bar.
Out on the deck John-John had the show ready to roll. I stepped outside and the
music began. I was teeming with a power of spirit that made the words I’d written feel like over-packing for a trip. I wanted to feed that power to all
the hungry souls looking to me with expectant faces. They believed in me,
expected that I would feed them, and I was afraid, knowing that I must, but
unsure that I could. Was this how Jesus felt when he went to the Jordan to be
fed by the Baptist but instead was told, “no, you must feed me.“ Are we ever ready when the fullness of our time arrives?
In the end they baptized each other, water and spirit. The truth is we all
baptize each other. Giving and receiving is all of one body. This wasn’t the sermon I had intended to preach, but I found myself pouring it out.
Without my people I had no meaning. Imagine a baseball pitcher without a
catcher, tossing those balls into nothingness. Without them I was nothing and I
was desperate for them to know everything God had granted me to know. I yearned
for them to learn in an instant how to catch and throw it back. It had taken
years for me to learn, but they had me for a teacher.
I had asked last Sunday that they dress light this week and for the ladies to
wear a swim suit under their shirts. John-John had tried to pass the word to
those who hadn’t heard. And now with a spirit on fire, with the word written on my heart
pouring off my lips like honey, I asked them to strip off as much of their
clothing as they could without getting us arrested. Until this moment I hadn’t noticed Big Walt and his friends had returned. I hadn’t noticed the police were also back as witnesses. I spotted them from the corner
of my eye because as the rest of my followers released themselves from their
clothes these observers did not. Their inactivity caught my attention.
I asked my congregation to turn toward the sun and as they did my gaze swept
the scene below. As usual we had attracted visitors who had come for a day at
the beach but were drawn into this unusual scene. As I began, some of them
joined, while others simply watched, mystified by this strange occurrence on a
beach they had visited many times without even seeing more than a Frisbee or
football being tossed.
“Now as you face into the sun,” I began, “if you’d like you may close your eyes. Remember those flames that appeared above the
disciples as the Holy Spirit filled them with God’s presence? I want you to imagine you are those flames. Not the disciples but
the flames. You’re burning with God’s spirit. You are God’s spirit. But every fire starts as a small flame, even as a campfire begins when
one twig catches fire. I want you to imagine yourself as that small flame. Make
yourself small if you’d like. Sit or kneel in the sand but feel the heat of the sun on your body. You
are burning, even though the flame has not yet grown.”
Throughout the sea of worshippers below I watched people wrapping themselves in
their arms and legs, balling up in the sand, heads between their knees. Others
stood but bowed their heads. Still others threw their heads back, eyes closed,
their torsos exposed to the blazing sun in the eastern sky. I noticed the bras
of several women were underwear and not swim suit halter tops. Fortunately, no
one was topless. We didn’t want trouble.
“Now,” I said, “you are confident your fire will not go out. It has spread to all the logs in
the campfire, the smaller logs are blazing and the big logs from the large
limbs and the tree trunk have caught fire. The flames are dancing high above
the fire pit. If you feel them dancing, let me see how they fly.”
