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 Seven
If you’ve read the Bible for its deep meaning, not just nibbling at little proof
passages but swallowing the whole profound sense of it, you may understand what
I was facing that Friday morning. I’d read it pretty thoroughly starting as a young boy and running all the way
through seminary and into my ministry. I knew in my gut what it says, but like
most I buried the truth in favor of the softball approach that outlaws this
little thing and that while ignoring the heart of what it asks. Hey, we all
have lives to live.
But now, seeing the light or beginning to see the light, I was starting to feel
the heat. Being born anew put an end to going along to get along. No easy
paths. Honest to God, it was frightening. I could already picture what would
happen in the District Superintendent’s office. I wouldn’t be able to hold myself back.
The morning sun was at my back as I approached I-95. I knew the way to Charley’s Orlando office: South on 95, west on the Bee Line. My question was should I go
at all? I pulled my car onto the shoulder to think. Clearly my days in the
low-cost, white bread way of being a Christian were over, but that didn’t make it clear what I should do next. God proposes, man disposes. Moment to
moment was still up to me.
Here’s how I figured it that morning: A boy believes he’s grown too big for his old man to take him to the woodshed. The old man hasn’t seen that yet. So when the time comes for a woodshed session, what does the
boy do? If he goes to the woodshed with his father and then tells him, he risks
a bloody fight when the old man tries to physically force his will on him. If,
before they leave the house, he tells his old man, “no I ain’t going to the woodshed any more,” he risks being kicked out on the street. Neither choice is very appealing. Like
the boy, I had to make a decision. I rejected calling Charley and making some
lame excuse to reschedule. No, I would go to the woodshed and risk the bloody
fight. Maybe a bloody fight was just what I needed.
South on I-95, west on the Bee Line. Exit at Goldenrod. I suspected Carolyn’s mom would arrive early. I was right; Mrs. Chisholm’s car was already in the lot at Charley’s church. Nice big church -- cedar with soaring peaks and lots of glass, and
holding its ground in this day of shrinking membership. All the talk at the
time was over what will happen as the World War II generation dies off --
especially in Florida. By the time the smoke cleared from the fire I was about
to light, I had an answer to that. But it’s not an answer a church like Charley’s is likely to employ.
An outside door was marked “Church Offices.” Charley and Carolyn’s mother would be waiting in there. It came to me that Carolyn had come with her
mother. I saw her sitting in Charley’s office and thought, “why would she?” But she had a stake in this, no doubt. I chose the door to the empty sanctuary.
Thick cedar beams reached to a massive main beam running from the back to the
chancel area. A modern church in design but with outside walls featuring
old-fashioned stained glass window scenes of Jesus, Mary and all the familiar
characters of the story as recorded in the book.
I walked the aisle all alone, finally arriving before the altar. A large wooden
cross towered behind the altar. Above, a skylight let in the sun, throwing the
cross’ shadow across my face. Where do I go from here I asked myself. I knelt. I’d been listening for God’s voice; I knew I had been, but had I been asking specifically enough, “Where do I go from here?” How do I know for sure, beyond a doubt, that the path I’m choosing is God’s path and not my path?
I remembered my father telling me how Dietrich Bonheoffer, after whom they had
named me, struggled with that question. Fighting to keep the German church
alive under the thumb of Nazi domination, he had joined the plot to assassinate
Hitler. Other clergy insisted, “you can’t do that.” God’s word is clear: Murder is murder, even when it’s Hitler. But Bonheoffer felt God calling him, giving him permission to play the
role only he could play because of the special cover his collar gave him. But
he could never find the peace of being sure. A physical man with strong
shoulders and arms, he was haunted by uncertainty. He hated bullies. Hated
Hitler for using his strength to castrate the powerless. But was his just the
wish of one man’s powerful ego to crush the life out of another alpha male? To the day he died
he was never sure; to the day he was executed he questioned himself; to the day
the SS crushed the life out of him he asked God‘s forgiveness if he was wrong in believing he was doing God‘s will. But when the time came to move against Hitler, he acted. He did his
part. He listened for God’s voice -- to the best of his ability to know God’s voice from his own -- and he acted.
That Friday morning, kneeling with the shadow of the cross upon me, I asked God
to speak to me intentionally, not with an epiphany of spirit like on the beach,
but with a clear voice. With audible words. Tell me if all this is just pure
ego on my part. I waited quietly, my mind cleared of chatter, and I heard no
words. But when I lifted my head and stood, I knew in my heart what I would do.
God forgive me if I had it wrong.
It’s never without risk for a man or woman to stand against an institution. Ask the
Martins -- Martin Luther or Martin Luther King. Ask Jesus for that matter. It
can be downright dangerous and maybe that’s how it should be. We are served by prophets of change but not by prophets of
chaos. I prayed I’d turn out to be the former.
Charley had arranged the chairs in a circle. I entered without knocking and
everyone seemed a little startled. Apparently they were talking about me, which
only made sense. That’s why we had come. The superintendent was first to rise and greet me. As he
reached out his right hand I noticed a copy of the Book of Discipline in his
left. My father also rose and we exchanged a warm hug. I hadn’t seen him in over a month and I genuinely liked my father. More than that, I
admired him and wanted him to admire me.
My intuition about Carolyn was correct. She was seated next to her mother and
throughout the greetings with Charley and my father I knew she was watching me.
Charley pointed me to the one empty seat, but before sitting I walked to
Carolyn’s side and kissed her on the cheek.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” I said.
“Well … I … I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not,” I said. “It’s just that I hadn’t heard from you since last Sunday, which kind of surprised me.”
Her lips parted slightly like she was about to speak but then closed. Her eyes
looked a little glassy. I never assumed she would take anyone’s side but mine. Maybe I was wrong. Was anyone in the room to be trusted?
“I notice Dr. Roscoe isn’t here. Couldn’t make it? Or just not a fan of public …” I decided not to finish that sentence. I honestly didn’t want to be confrontational.
“He had an appointment,” Mrs. Chisholm said.
I laughed. “With the golf course! We all know he plays Friday mornings with the senior men
at the country club. Well, maybe Charley didn’t know. Hey, it’s no big deal. So let‘s get started Dr. Webster.”
“Dietrich,” my father said, “let’s not make this difficult. Charley has the prerogative here. Listen to what he
has to say.”
“Of course,” I said. “Didn’t mean to sound contentious, Dr. … Charley.”
Charley launched the session with a prayer, requesting “wisdom, patience and an unselfish heart.” These things mostly for me I guessed. I couldn’t get over Carolyn. She seemed so distant and different. Clearly, she was
uncomfortable, caught between her husband and her mother. She was sitting next
to her mother and the way she avoided looking me in the eye -- I could tell
that meant something.
Everyone kept their heads down in the usual way as Charley moved through some
more stock prayer phrases -- everyone but me. I watched the others and pictured
myself caught up in one of those operating room, out-of-body experiences you
hear of from near-death survivors, floating above it all in some in-between
nether region as the rest remain fixed in the finite world. I had no more asked
to enter that state of mind than the dying patient asks to stick one leg into
the spiritual future while dragging the other in the physical present. It just
happens. But when it does, you can’t give it back. You know what you know, which is more than the others -- the men
and women in white coats laboring over your physical form, who have yet to
glimpse the world beyond their limited imaginations.
Spiritual revelation is a tricky business. I was reluctant then and am now to
say who has it and who doesn‘t. Jesus said understanding rebirth in the spirit was like understanding the
wind. You hear it, and know it’s real without knowing from where it comes or where it goes. Maybe there’s a matter of degree to it. Some have sensed it without really seeing it --
through a glass darkly as Paul wrote -- regular people vaguely conscious of a
spiritual world but still able to ignore it and move easily though their
work-a-day lives. But once you’ve seen it and know it as I did then … well, you can’t go back; you’re stuck with what you know. You can pretend, but you can never be happy
pretending. You either will accept that you’ve changed and run with it or spend the rest of your life feeling profoundly
disappointed. My father was a little like that, and on this day I felt part of
him wishing I’d take the final risks he had backed away from, while the father in him wanted
to protect his son from the discipline the establishment can’t help but dish out.
Charley was finishing his prayer as I found myself eyeball to eyeball with my
Dad. I could hear him thinking: If you are going to thumb your nose and go for
it, you have to go hard; you have to go all the way, devil take the hindmost.
When Charley said “amen” I had to fight the urge to laugh out loud. I finally was getting the seat
squirming action I’d wanted last Sunday when I faced the congregation and said, “We had to Baker Act my son Sagan.” None of the players in our little circle wanted to meet my gaze.
“I hope we’ll be able to keep this short and to the point,” Charley said. “This isn’t a fact-finding mission. I’ve already done that and I’m satisfied I know what has been happening over there.”
“Really?” I said. “I had no idea an investigation was going on.”
I have to give Charley credit. He was trying to be on my side in this. I could
see it in his face and felt sorry for him. He wanted to be a good guy. That was
just him. “Not an investigation,” he said. “That’s too formal. An inquiry would be a better word.”
“But you didn’t ask me for input. Just so I’ll know, what facts did you come up with?”
“First, let me finish what I was saying, if you don’t mind.”
“I’m sorry; go ahead.”
“This is not a fact-finding mission; we all know the facts. Our purpose is
finding a remedy and I think that’s something we should all be happy about, including you Dietrich.”
“I just don’t know if that’s possible until I’ve heard these so-called facts.”
Charley breathed a big, impatient sigh and my father let out a small echo, but
never made a move to join the discussion. “Alright Dietrich. This last incident, the little pot party at the parsonage
where the young man was arrested by the police …”
“Arrested and released …”
“… only by the grace of God, not because he was innocent. Anyway, this last
incident is pretty much public knowledge …”
“Not everything about it.”
“Something you want to add?”
“No.”
“So, I’ll go on, or should I say go back. At the end of the school year in May and
extending into June, the young man …”
“His name is Sagan.”
