Unconventional

by J J Hebert

  I rub her back. “Then will I be with you in the Kingdom of God?”

  Her smile doesn’t perish. “Forever,” she says.

  * * *

  The next night, Sunday, I sit down, curious, with the Bible that Leigh bought me for Valentine’s Day.

  What do you think you’re doing? Brad asks.

  That question makes me think of Chris Williamson from high school and how he used to carry a Bible, and I think of one time when I crossed paths with Chris in the hallway and asked him what he liked about the Bible the most, and Brad happened to walk up behind us as we climbed the stairs, and he asked, “What do you think you’re doing?” I turned around and he continued with: “You’re not gonna turn into one of those Jesus Freaks, are you? Christianity is unoriginal crap . . .”

  I picture Chris and the look of hurt I saw on his boyish face, and this time, now, unlike before, I tell Brad to shut up. Just shut up. For some reason unknown to me, he actually listens.

  Leigh told me the best way to start believing in Jesus, to indisputably believe in him, would be to read the Gospels, which she said are the Books of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. She also said that it would be a good idea to read the Gospels because we should strive to be like Jesus, and the Gospels are full of his actions.

  This Bible provides in depth analysis of virtually every verse of every chapter in the form of footnotes. Because of this, naturally, the tome is over two thousand pages in length. It’s heavy, about three or four pounds, I think, and it’s spread over my lap as I’m sitting up in my bed, the bedside lamp casting a yellow glow over the pages.

  I start somewhat reluctantly at the beginning of Matthew, learn about Jesus’ birth, the angel that came to Mary’s husband, Joseph, beforehand and said that the child inside her was from the Holy Spirit—which I learn, through footnotes, is an aspect of God. Then the angel prophesied that Mary’s son, whom she was to name Jesus, would save his people from their sins.

  I flip through the pages, intrigued.

  I come to when Jesus was baptized by John, and as soon as Jesus came out of the water after being submerged, the heavens were opened and God descended like a dove down to them. And a voice from heaven declared Jesus his beloved son.

  Then I arrive at Matthew chapter four, where Satan the Devil takes Jesus to an exceedingly high mountain and offers Jesus all the kingdoms of the world. Jesus doesn’t take Satan up on the offer, which amazes me because if I were presented with power like that, I’d probably cave and accept the proposal.

  Then I find myself, after tossing through a few more pages, at the Sermon on the Mount, where Jesus taught about the Law, about lust, anger, divorce, vows, retaliation, prayer, loving your enemies, giving to the needy, money, worry, and many other things. My favorite part of the Sermon is Matthew 6:25–34, which basically says that we shouldn’t be worrywarts, since God promises to provide us with what we need.

  I’m enthralled by Jesus at this point—his wisdom, his Voice of Power. Another one of my favorite passages, as I continue to read, is about criticizing our fellow human-beings and how if we judge others, we’ll end up being judged, too.

  I smile, spellbound by this book, the lyrical language, the unparalleled wisdom. Jesus spoke those words. I’m in awe of him.

  I read on, reach the miracles—how Jesus healed a person of leprosy, the AIDS of that time period; how he healed a paralyzed man, made it so that the man could walk again; and how he healed the blind and mute, and more.

  Then I jump ahead to Jesus’ parables, which I also find outstanding. Afterward, I read about when Jesus supernaturally turned five loaves of bread and two fish into enough food to feed about five thousand people.

  It has been five hours since I began reading this Bible and I can’t put it down. On every page, there is some aspect to be learned, to discover, to understand. Jesus walked on water. At one point, he even healed all those who touched him. Being a writer of fantasy, this book is especially delightful. I don’t dare to begin comparing The Forsaken World to the Bible in terms of quality, but the fantastical elements exist in both, like the transfiguration of Jesus on the mountain, for example; the prediction of his own death; the healings and miracles, obviously; and greatest of all, his ability to conquer death!

  It goes like this: Jesus was betrayed by Judas, one of his followers who Satan possessed (now that’s a story!), then Jesus was arrested by the authorities, because Judas turned him in. Eventually, they crucified Jesus on a cross, the most horrific type of death. Jesus was a substitute for us when he died on that cross. Three days later, he rose from the dead with a restored body!

  Stuff like this couldn’t have been invented. These accounts were written by different people in different time periods, and these writings survived many centuries to find their way into this Bible sitting on my lap. With an open mind and heart, I believe what I’ve read is genuine. Jesus, the Son of God, followed through with his death so that we could live forever, so that everyone on earth that believes in him can have everlasting life.

  I end my reading on the part of the Bible, in the Book of Matthew, when Jesus gives what is called, according to the footnotes, the Great Commission, where he says that he’s been given all power in heaven and in earth, and I think: Wow, Jesus is all-powerful. Puts the Man of Steel to shame.

  I close the Bible. I know there’s still much more I need to learn; I have only grazed the surface of this enormous book, the Word of God, as it has been proclaimed. I am mesmerized. Fascinated. Rapt. Captivated.

  However, in the back of my mind, I wonder if Brad was right all those years ago about Christianity being unoriginal. I shake my head, teeth clenching, think: No, Brad—Christianity isn’t unoriginal. Jesus himself was unconventional with his thinking, his preaching and ideas. That’s why the masses hated him. He didn’t fit in. He was an outcast. Like me. Like Chris from high school. Jesus dared to be unconventional in a world full of conventionality. He told the people of his time about the dangers of anger. He spoke about lust, how it can destroy a person. He touched on divorce, how one should never use that vehicle to satisfy his/her longing to marry another. He said that instead of retaliating when someone hurts us, we should do good to them, love them, and forgive.

  I can still remember the day I watched in the distance, from my locker, as Chris, while curled up in a ball on the hallway tiles, face showing anguish, tried to use that philosophy with Brad after being walloped in the stomach. Chris said, in a weak voice, “I forgive you,” then Brad laughed, punched him again, and said, “Forget forgiveness.”

  I hold the Bible tightly. What Brad said is what the world as a whole has been saying for centuries . . . even now. Jesus taught about loving your enemies. He even forgave those who crucified him. He actually forgave his killers! He urged people to love God and not money, to trust that God will give us what we need. But even greater, he lived a life of selflessness. Absolute, utter selflessness, even to death.

  Christianity isn’t some clone-ish religion. Instead, true Christ-followers strive to be like Jesus and make every effort to live out his unconventional teachings . . .

  Finally, I see Jesus as more than a ghost or a phantom; I picture him on that cross, arms outstretched, long dark hair, an olive complexion, bleeding from head to toe, wearing the crown of thorns, nails spiked through his palms, and he’s wailing in agony, shouldering the sins of the world. My sins included. I’ve lied, therefore I’m a liar. I’ve stolen (when I was younger, but it still counts), thus I’m a thief . . . and I wonder: How does all of that make me a good person, which everyone seems so keen on declaring themselves? With a nauseating feeling, I realize that it doesn’t make me good, and I feel sorry for my lies and for my thievery, and I wish I could take it all back, but I can’t, and there’s only one who can.

  I look into Jesus’ eyes, the Son of God, recognize the pain, the sadness he has for the world, and for me. I tell him that I’m sorry for my sins. So sorry. I want to cut him down from that cross, to bring him so
mewhere safe, to sit down and eat with him, ask him all the questions my heart desires, but I know he must follow through with this. The world needs him. I need him.

  The worst physical pain I’ve endured in my life came when I broke my leg in the sixth grade during a baseball game. Not quite on the same level as crucifixion, admittedly. I remember diving into home plate and hearing a snap, then wincing as pain stabbed through my leg. It was horrendous. Comparatively, though, my pain was nil next to Jesus’. I can’t fathom being in his place on that cross.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  I step through the door of the post office, clutching, with both hands, my novel, this chunk of papers, at my waist. At the counter, I ask the mail clerk for a box. He wants to know what size box I need. Double-handed, I hold up the block of papers to give him an idea. He nods, ducks below the counter, then reappears with an unassembled box. He puts it on the counter. No line behind me, so I set my manuscript on the counter and assemble the box here. The clerk watches as I neatly slip the pages into the box, then print Arthur’s address on the front.

  I hand over the package, the manuscript, my child, to the clerk. He sets it on his scale, gives shipping options—standard, priority, overnight. I choose overnight with signature confirmation. He slaps a special sticker on the box’s face, jots something onto a paper smaller than my palm, sets the box aside. I pay him.

  “Here’s your tracking,” he says, handing me the small paper.

  I glance at the slip, put it in my pocket. “Take extra care of that package, please.” I can’t step away, leave the box out of sight.

  He nods and smiles. “It’ll be safe with us,” he says, reassuring me, the apprehensive father. Clammy Danny Tanner fretting over little Michelle’s first day of school.

  I take two steps backward, grinning. The clerk scoops up the package, and as he walks out of sight, the box in hand, I think: Be safe, my child.

  * * *

  Leigh and I step into the stuccoed church, holding hands. We’re immediately greeted in the entrance by a man clutching literature, a brochure of sorts. He hands us each one, smiling, and says, “Welcome.” Leigh smiles in return, as do I, and we thank him for this—bulletin, it appears to be, now that I’m looking inside of it, walking past the greeter. Big bold letters that read WEEKLY BULLETIN on the inside flap give it away.

  Next, we walk down the center aisle. I close the bulletin, examining this place of worship. Pews fill both sides of us, about half of them loaded with worshipers. I’m not underdressed, to my surprise, in a pair of khakis and a collared shirt. I only spot a handful of men in suits. I find comfort in this discovery. Evidently, dressing up for God isn’t in anymore. Continuing down the aisle, my vision moves to the side walls, which are adorned with stained glass windows of various colors depicting: Jesus walking on water; Jesus with his hand on someone bowing in deference before him; the nativity scene; a dove with spread wings; and crosses, big and small.

  My focus drops down to Leigh’s backside. Not her buttocks. The center of her back.

  She turns to me, stopping at a pew four rows from the stage. “How are these?” She motions to the row.

  I nod and shrug. “This works.” We scoot into the pew and sit on the hard wood. I’m in the aisle seat and she’s to my right.

  I put my arm around her, smiling, and whisper in her ear, “Thank you.”

  She pulls away, grinning. “For what, crazy?” she whispers.

  I’m starting to feel syrupy. “You’ve played a big part in this. Without your influence, I wouldn’t have arrived at this conclusion.”

  “What conclusion?”

  “That this is where I’m supposed to be, a place of worship for Jesus, my unconventional savior.” Overflowing with belief.

  She doesn’t stop smiling; neither do I.

  “You’re welcome,” she says.

  The service starts a minute later. Pastor Anderson, as his name says in the bulletin, begins with a word of prayer, his voice magnified from a microphone clipped to his shirt. After the prayer, he tells us to open our hymnbooks to page one hundred two. The pianist begins. The congregation starts singing Amazing Grace as one, and I just stand here, listening, taking it all in like a teenage Kirk Cameron.

  I’ve heard this song before on TV, I believe. It never made as much sense as it does now. Oh, Jesus, I was once lost and now I’m found. Thank God Almighty for finding me, this wretch. An image comes to mind: I’m walking in the dark, aimless, alone, angry and fearful. Then, suddenly, a luminous hand reaches out for me, the softest touch I’ve ever felt. I don’t pull away, don’t reject the presence. Without warning, arms close around my body, an embrace of infinite warmth and love. Then a face appears—Jesus’ glowing countenance, smiling. I’ve been found. Unconventional Jesus has found me in this game of hide-and-seek.

  We close our books, smiling, everyone in attendance. I’ve never in all my years seen this many smiles. One would think they discovered coupons for free Botox. In truth, though, these people appear genuinely happy, unconcerned with any of the negativity of this world, shielded by Jesus’ love. Leigh looks like she could cry, eyes on me, the boyfriend who believes. This sight makes me want to get on my knees and weep. I love her. I love this moment, this precious, precious moment.

  Pastor Anderson prays again, asks us to be seated. We sit. His sermon is about joy. He explains that joy should be part of a Christian life, that the Bible commands us to be joyful. In fact, Pastor Anderson goes on to tell us that in Philippians, Paul, while imprisoned, was filled with joy. Initially, I find it odd that a person in prison could find joy, but then Pastor Anderson explains, gesturing to us spectators: “Paul was able to find joy because he believed that regardless of what happened to him, Jesus was in control and would be with him . . .”

  I think of a prison cell, bars containing a nondescript man. I don’t know exactly how it went for Paul, but I see a man sitting on the cell’s floor, not dejected but joyous—smiling as he’s given scraps to eat, smiling as he’s beaten by the guards, smiling as his life is threatened. I’m in awe of this man from my vision and his faith for Jesus. I wish that I could have faith of such magnitude.

  I ponder my life, the times I thought I had it so bad. My parents’ divorce, up to more currently: the rejections and performing janitorial work. Paul had all his freedoms taken away and could’ve easily sulked, but instead he found joy through Jesus. Of course, he had something to be joyous about, his faith. That’s something I didn’t have until recently.

  * * *

  I call Arthur to see if my novel made it to him safely; I misplaced the tracking number. He comforts me, says it made it to his house. I talk to him about maybe lowering his hourly rates for editing services because I haven’t been doing well financially—with the car repair especially. After a brief pause, he offers to edit the current draft at no cost. “Think of it as a gift from one friend to another,” he says. I get choked up, clear my throat, thank him repeatedly for his kind gesture.

  Then I inform him of the Luncheon. He expresses interest.

  “You should come with me,” I say.

  “Offer a time and a place and I’ll be there, my protégé.”

  * * *

  Leigh and I read our Bibles together on a blanket at the beach, in the café section of Barnes & Noble, at her apartment, at Dad’s house in my bedroom, at the park. We study together after riding our bikes, after dinners, before dinners, after long and meaningful conversations about God. We study over the phone. We grow closer, discussing the passages we read.

  One night, as we’re reading, I imagine Jesus on a white horse, hooves kicking up dirt, and Jesus is chasing after Brad—the bully who has molested my mind—with that spiky blond hair, those cruel grins. Jesus, my savior—my unconventional savior—corners Brad near a pit, then Jesus points to the great hole, and Brad, as though moved by an invisible force, suddenly finds himself spiraling down into the pit where he can no longer hurt me. . . .

  Leigh ends up giving
me a book of Christian theology. I read it when I’m alone, learn about the Holy Trinity—the Godhead: Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit. I dive head-first into Theology Proper, Christology, Christian Anthropology, Harmartiology, Angelology, Demonology, Eccesiology, Eschatology, and lots of other ology words.

  I like learning about God the Father, about Christ and his nature. I’m fascinated as I learn about the nature of humanity, about the effects of sin. I’m captivated as I learn about the angels, the mission of the church . . .

  The learning never ends.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Tomorrow is the Book and Author Luncheon at the Pine River Colony Club. I contact the coordinator of the event, Cindy Smith, via e-mail asking about the dress code because when I mentioned the Luncheon to Leigh the other day, she said she thought the dress code would be formal attire.

  I receive Cindy’s e-mailed response. Leigh was right; I’ll need to wear a blazer, which I guess is a kind of suit jacket. Of course, I don’t own one. Subhumans don’t usually attend events at which you need classy jackets. I call Mitch, the only person I know who probably does own a blazer. We meet up quickly at the post office an hour later (he has some mailings to do for his business), and he hands over a gray jacket, and even throws in matching slacks and a white dress shirt and tie.

  “I want you to look your best for Meranda,” he says.

  The clothing is lying over my arms. “This will be the best I’ve ever looked.” I grin.

  When I get home, I check my e-mail and spot another message from Cindy. She writes that my name sounds familiar, asks if I attended Langwood High School. I write back and tell her that I did indeed attend. She comes back with yet another message, this time explaining that she thinks she had me as a student. I keep the correspondence going—send her another e-mail telling her that I don’t recall having her as a teacher. We go back and forth, back and forth, until she figures out why I can’t remember her; she wasn’t married back in those days and went by the surname Wolfe instead of Smith. Cindy Wolfe—Mrs. Wolfe, that’s a name I remember. She was my tenth grade English teacher.