“People have been trying to form a Department of Peace ever since the birth of
our country but it never came close. That congressman from Ohio -- the one
always running for president -- he’s got a bill on the floor right now. Can’t even get a vote.”
“Go figure,“ he laughed, “and we call ourselves a Christian country.”
“In God we trust.”
“Yea, sure … anyway, McCarthy says he’s glad to be a Canadian citizen now. I guess that’s his way of sayin’ he ain’t goin’ along for the ride.”
“I’m sure he thought it was the right thing to do. Beau and I may have the same
problem with the church: it’s too much a replica of secular culture when it should be a counter culture. But
now and then someone says we’ve waited long enough for the church to take a stand and some kind of breakaway
community forms. There always seems to be enough people hungry for something
radical that really moves them.”
“Is that really you padre, or do I hear McCarthy talking? Or on second thought, maybe it’s all about the boy.”
“Or maybe when God talks, all the planets fall in line. I’m not the sun you know, just another planet. … How about you John-John? Do you really want to be part of this community, or
are you just on the run?”
“Wherever you go padre, I’ll follow. If it wasn‘t for you, I’d probably disappear into the north woods or board a ship for the South Pacific.”
“Does Beau know he’s getting this Mr. Breedlove in John Johnson’s place?”
“He knows.”
“Everyone who knew you as John-John will need to be in on it. So we’ll start out bound by a conspiracy of silence … I like that: Something to mark us as different right away. We won‘t have to put our women in pioneer dresses.”
John-John tilted his head back and drained his beer, then glanced at the bottle
to confirm it was empty. “Tell me what you’re really thinking Dietrich,” he said. “I been goin’ over this … I mean, I understand having our little group up there and doin’ the farming, all of which I’m for -- really lookin’ forward to it -- but still I’m thinking, ‘what’s in it for the padre?’ With everything that’s happened since Mary’s memorial on the beach, I’m thinking something big is comin’ the padre’s way. I thought you believed that too. I mean, how does this Canada hideaway
fit in?”
It wasn’t an easy question. I could’ve cited God’s history of working with remnants, like in Israel after the exile, or Jesus
purifying God’s message for a handful of followers in his no-account corner of the Roman
Empire. I could have said that we’ll create an alternative model for living, that we’d prove that people don’t need to go on swallowing all the trash our culture feeds them, that we’d wake the people from their dreams of piling up more and more stuff, and once
they saw the possibilities, we‘d build from there. I could have explained how a tradition of rebellion runs all
through the Old Testament, that it’s the ancient message of all true prophets and almost always anti-establishment.
If you want something big, I could have said Ms. Collins was giving me a chance
to put our message on a world stage. I could have said all of that, but I
figured John-John would look it over with his knowing eye, shake his head and
say, “not many are ready for that; not many can see past the end of their own nose.” And he would be right. So, I just said, “Intuition, John-John. Intuition tells me it’s the way to go.”
“Without you,” he said, “I wouldn’t believe any of it is possible. But I saw what happened here on the beach. You
got a special magic. But more than anything, I’m glad we’ll be together. You may not know this, but I think of you as my best friend.”
“And I feel the same about you John-John.”
The old smile was back as he sprang from his chair. “Hold on padre,” he said, and came back with two bottles of beer. He handed me one, clinked his
against mine and said, “to our little utopia -- God’s little corner.”
“Let’s try to make it flower,” I said.”
“Amen,” he answered, then staring at his bottle, asked, “you know padre, I was just thinking of that polka song, In Heaven There is No
Beer, you know the one. Be honest padre, what’s it gonna to be like up there in Canada?”
I laughed out loud, thinking he was wondering about more than just beer. As far
as I knew, John-John hadn’t been sexually active of late, but he wasn’t eager to give up the possibility. “Don’t worry John-John. It won’t be a monastery and you won’t have to be a monk.”
That was John-John, always working the practical issues. Without him, and
Carolyn, I wouldn’t know how to come down from the clouds. If we went to Ontario within the next
month we’d arrive with winter bearing down. But we had no choice. It was now or never.
Where would we stay? I hadn’t discussed any of this with Beau. How many could we bring? Some of those who
gathered with us here might want to join a grand adventure -- like the prairie
schooner pioneers who crossed the nation in search of something more. That was
us: travelers to the land of more, a land conceived beyond the five senses, a
land for the courageous few, a land of spirit where Tao is the added dimension
and the air is thick with God’s presence. If that wasn’t where we were going, we shouldn’t go. My job was to make sure everyone shared that vision. The practical
considerations could be left to others.
Practical considerations -- the great betrayer. Jesus said seek the spirit
first and the practical will take care of itself. That’s too tough for most people. Make sure there’s food enough, clothing enough, shelter enough and then we’ll turn to the spiritual. But is there ever enough? Maybe enough for today, but
what about tomorrow? So the practical ones keep control, and why not, their way
seems so sensible, so practical.
But here we go, setting out to blow all that away and let the New Testament
church be our guide. When was the last time mainstream Christians took those
scriptures serious? That was “once upon a time,” a fairy tale. But we planned to make it real or learn the hard way why it’s not. We would be the new reformation, correcting all the way back to the
original: living the light, sharing in common, filling up on spirit while
believing our material needs will be met.
Yes, here we go, setting out on something big -- Columbus big, Lewis and Clark
big -- or so it seemed to me. Stepping into the unknown with no turning back,
expecting a payoff beyond words. What majesty must those easterners have felt
when they first saw the Rocky Mountains? Or Columbus when the new world rose
before him on the horizon? My spirit told me this was even bigger. If that’s ego then it’s ego, but I felt God was giving me a chance to travel back in time and cast my
eyes on the original plan of creation.
But enough talk of metaphysics and God’s wishes for the world. The time for drifting with ocean currents was past; now
the breezes were blowing. It’s time now to hoist some sail. The air is charged with anticipation. I see
myself standing steady on the bridge, sailors jumping to my command, running to
their stations, climbing the netting, bowing their backs to yank the heavy sail
ropes. We all thrill to the sight of canvas unfurling, filling to capacity in a
driving wind. A hearty roar erupts from a hundred voices. We are gaining speed,
plowing ahead through blue water, abandoning ourselves to our fate and purpose.
Back home I sat at my desk and made a list of all the people with whom I needed
to coordinate. First of all, Beau McCarthy and Krissy Collins, my chief
officers on this bold voyage, and Sagan. I would want to have a long talk with
him. And our kids. Would they object? Becky? What would I say to her? Then
there was Jerry, and my parents, and Jess Gabriel. He should get a shot at
telling our story. And what about Carolyn? Was she really all the way in? She
had already mentioned that Ms. Collins sounds “very excited” when she calls, “maybe too excited.”
McCarthy wanted a preliminary sketch from me. What would we do besides grow
tomatoes? Both he and I wanted this to be a community of excellence where
people could blossom into everything God intended for them. Mind, body and
spirit. What would we ask from people who would join our community? How could
we dismiss someone if they didn’t fit in? And how would my two missions fit together? They had to share a common
purpose. Could I lead the Ontario village if I was constantly on the road
traveling?
All the waters ahead were uncharted. I had a thought to run back into my
closet. But that would be hiding, not praying. We know how well running and
hiding worked for Jonah. It was too late. My sails were full. If anything, it
was time to hoist another sheet or two and really start cutting through the
waves. I imagined myself again on the deck of my ship. We are flying now,
running before the wind at top speed, our bow rising and falling, water
splashing up over the gunwales. The sailors are all laughing, faces filled with
pride, every one thrilled to be drawing out our ship’s full potential. Not a one looks afraid. Not one doubts their captain.
I picked up my pen and began to write:
The mind is made to create. The product of creativity is satisfaction.
The body is made for pleasure. The product of pleasure is happiness.
The spirit is made for joy. The product of joy is peace.
Together, the expressions of mind, body and spirit lead to freedom: freedom
from fear, guilt and shame. And the product of freedom is the life God meant
for us.
A roadmap to the full and free life in God’s own image for which we are designed. Am I arrogant to think it’s really that simple, or that we can claim such a prize? No. It’s arrogant to deny spiritual harmony as our natural condition while we whine
like frustrated schoolchildren, blaming sin, the devil, original sin, or some
other nightmare for our refusal to believe that goodness travels the universe,
through us and between us, each of us like a bulb in a string of Christmas
lights. If we burn out we can interrupt the flow. In our village each of us
will burn brightly. Each of us will express all that we’re meant to be in mind, body and spirit. And together, in our garden, we’ll restore the beauty of creation.
I began jotting down examples of what a day in the life of our community might
look like, what each villager might do to reach his or her maximum potential. I
was determined that each villager would write their own plan, but it to be
active, it couldn’t allow them to be reduced to an object. Each must be a creator, not strictly a
consumer. I heard a car door close and seconds later my doorbell rang. I kept
working, trying to craft a model villager’s week with activities divided under mind, body and spirit but found the
divisions wouldn’t hold. To write and perform a song, for instance, is an exercise of mind, body
and spirit. Yes, I thought, God made us as integrated beings; dividing body
from spirit is our own invention. My office door opened and Carolyn said, “Mr. Gabriel is here to see you.”
Carolyn had given him an iced tea, which he shifted to his left hand when I
extended my right in welcome. I said no to a glass and led Jess to chairs
outside on the deck. October was pressing close with temperatures beginning to
drop ever so slightly from summer peaks. High tide forced a pair of beach
walkers closer to the dunes as choppy gray surf covered most of the white sand.
It was an in-between time for the oceanfront, as it was for us, but in my eyes
every season on the shore is a time of beauty.
“You’ve got quite a little paradise here,” he said. “I don’t come down to the beach as often as I should.”
“Yes,” I said. “Living here on the water will make it harder to move on.”
“So you are going?”
I outlined my plans for him. He smiled and shook his head “no” at my invitation to join us in Canada. He would stay at his little newspaper,
he said, “until the day I write my own obit.” He’d already written an advance on Ms. Collins and her crew coming to film Sunday’s gathering on the beach. When it comes to publicity, her people never miss a
trick.
“I guess that will be your final meeting down there,” he said.
“I suppose it will be. I still have no idea exactly where we go from there. You
probably know Ms. Collins is setting up a national tour for us. Details still
to be determined, I guess. I’ve been focused on our community in Canada. Somehow, I have to make the two
things work together.”
“Sunday will be a big day for this town -- a network morning show coming here to
film. It was front page news when they closed Main Street last year to shoot
that NASCAR commercial. We’ll have three people covering the story. You can bet the Orlando paper, even the
TV stations, will be all over it.”
“I’m surprised we’re getting away with it. I told Krissy -- Ms. Collins -- the preachers here are
so up in arms against me they’ll never stand by while--”
“Which actually is why I’m here. You asked me to nose around on Mr. Johnson’s trouble -- why it got drudged back up. The police are being pretty hush-hush
about it, all the officers who’ll usually give me stuff off the record refused to say anything, so I went to
the chief. He wouldn’t open up either, but I could tell by his attitude it was more than business as
usual. Someone got his ear and …”
“Big Walt, I’m betting; the self-righteous son of a … sorry.”
“Maybe so, he carries a pretty big stick around here. All I know is your name
came up and the chief called your beach meetings a ‘circus.’ For some reason he felt humiliated by what happened with Deputy Jericho.”
“I don‘t get that.”
“He likely took some ribbing from the other chiefs and sheriffs around here. You
know the story got big time exposure. He wasn’t too happy with me either. All I know for sure is they’d already closed the case, then the chief had his investigator go over it one
more time. The windshields led him to a theory that Johnson was driving. The
forensics expert came down from Jacksonville and agreed with the local boys.
Later they found that whiskey bottle in the woods.”
None of this came as a surprise. That’s how the game is played in their world. Playing by the book means making the
book work for you. Justice is turned inside out, and ex-cons and bar owners
look more like good guys than police chiefs and preachers. So many years I
stood in the pulpit, making no waves, asking no one else to make waves, never
wondering how I could play along while pretending to speak for a guy who took
no guff and told the truth regardless of the price. Then I saw the light and
saw it only because in one shimmering instant I saw what God would have me be
in the life of one forgotten boy who needed someone to show him the power of
love. Had I in that moment chosen to look away, to choose the ordinary act over
the extraordinary, none of this would have happened, and one of the rare
chances the world gets would have passed by. Imagine Jesus looking away and
choosing to remain a carpenter, imagine the Buddha choosing to remain the
pampered son of rich parents. Imagine how much worse the world could be, bad as
it is now. Imagine your opportunity to catch a glimpse of truth in a shimmering
light. Please, don’t pass it by; don’t look away. Many live long and are forgotten, but God remembers heroes just as
we remember Jesus, whether or not we dare to be like him.
I walked the editor out to his car and thanked him for his information. As we
shook hands I saw John-John riding toward us, pedaling at a frantic pace on his
old bike. He braked hard in front of us, letting the bike drop to the ground as
he dismounted on the fly. His face was flushed a deep red and in his eyes I saw
something I had never before seen in the king of cool: fear. He started to
speak but stopped, looking fretfully from me to Gabriel and then down at the
ground. Gabriel said, “you’re right, I really don’t want to know,” and pulled his car door closed behind him.
“You gotta help me padre,” John-John said when Gabriel was gone. “They’re comin’ to get me.”
All content Copyright © Gary Broughman, 2008
