A Book of American Martyrs

by Joyce Carol Oates

  Sign of the beast. Luther Dunphy.

  My instructor Reverend Lundquist was patient with me, and tried to praise me, but I did not seem to know how to “compose” a sermon except by recalling what other preachers had said. The sample sermons in our textbook How to Prepare Sermons by Williams Evans—(“Jesus Is Your Closest Friend,” “The Joy of the Resurrection,” “Satan’s Bid for Your Soul,” “Meet the Holy Spirit,” “False Gods in America,” “The True Meaning of Christmas,” “The Second Coming: Will You Be Prepared?”)—were very familiar, for everyone used them as models, and were not inspiring. When I could, I attended church services at the church attached to the school, but the preachers there lacked the fire and joy of Reverend Dennis, and as I was very tired much of the time, I would nod off to sleep in the midst of their preaching. It was utterly baffling to me, how a minister might “think up” a subject about which he could preach, without another minister to imitate.

  Sermons were meant to be on diverse subjects, and for special occasions—Christmas, Easter, weddings, baptisms, funerals. On the subject of baptism, for instance, I did not know what to say that had not already been said many times, and would be familiar to any congregation; I had no knowledge of this subject apart from what my instructors had told us, which were mostly quotations from the Gospels. (The favorite being John 3:5. Jesus answered, Truly, truly, I say unto you, Except a man be born of water and of the Spirit, he cannot enter into the kingdom of God.) But if I tried to repeat what others had said, the words were flat and unconvincing, taken out of my spiral notebook, and my “sermon” was very short.

  Even the subject of abortion, which was in the newspapers often since President Reagan had vowed to make abortion illegal again in the United States, and which roused such passion in others, did not seem to inspire me. When I tried to imitate the words of Reverend Dennis, who preached against abortion as it was a slaughter of innocents, my words did not sound convincing though I knew them to be absolutely true.

  It was told to us that the St. Paul Missionary Church like other evangelical churches through the United States was united in opposing what was called abortion on demand, as they were united in opposing socialism, communism, atheism, and homosexuality. There were legislators friendly to our cause in all the states, and many groups organized to take cases to the Supreme Court of the United States, to determine that abortion might be declared illegal once again, as it had been before 1973, and abortion clinics shut down. When I heard Reverend Dennis preach on this subject I felt my heart pound dangerously hard for the words slaughter of the innocents were terrible to contemplate; but still, when it was my turn to stand at a pulpit at the front of the room and “preach” on this subject in our class in Toledo, my voice quavered, and my knees, and I spoke so softly and so rapidly, Reverend Lundquist had to interrupt—“Luth-er! Slow down, son. Please.”

  My face reddened. I dared not glance up to see the other students exchange smirking glances.

  In this class my grade would be B- at the end of the term. I did not want to think that this was the lowest grade in the class of twelve students for it would make me envy and hate my classmates, and (kindly, white-haired) Reverend Lundquist (who spent much of the class hour reminiscing to us of his early days as a minister in the Methodist church, in Barnstead, Oklahoma), and this was upsetting to me as a Christian.

  The old man will never recommend you for a pastorship. Even if you earn your degree. You may as well give up, right now.

  Save on tuition, fool. Save on gas.

  Luth-er!

  In “The Minister’s Bible,” in reading Genesis, our instructor Reverend Dilts told us that the story of the Garden of Eden had taken place approximately ten thousand years ago; but one of the younger students questioned whether it was a greater time than that, like fifty thousand years—(so he seemed to have been told by some revered authority). Also, there were claims by “atheistic scientists” that human beings had not been created by God but were descended from apes and monkeys. Reverend Dilts told us heatedly that these were ridiculous ideas with no basis in Scripture.

  In my notebook I took down these facts—10,000 yrs./50,000 yrs. Carefully I underlined 10,000 yrs. for this was Reverend Dilts’s figure, that would likely be on our final exam.

  It seemed to be upsetting to others in the class, as to Reverend Dilts, that many Americans were coming to believe atheistic and socialist ideas as a result of public school teaching and science courses in the schools, more upsetting yet “sex education,” but I was too tired or distracted to feel strongly about these issues, and often woke startled from a light doze, embarrassed to think that Reverend Dilts might have noticed. (I am sure that Reverend Dilts did notice!) At such times I felt shame, and anxiety, that I was wasting my earnings on tuition at the school, and that Edna Mae would be crushed if I did not graduate with a diploma. My teeth chattered with a strange sort of cold, as if I was frightened, and once Reverend Dilts turned to me, with a quizzical look as if I had spoken aloud—“Luke? Excuse me—Luther? What do you think?”

  What did I think? I had not been following the discussion closely. It was a week when we were fearful of Edna Mae being pregnant—again—and a week when both the children had infected ears—and a week when a customer had complained to our employer that some stairway carpentry work done by another man and myself was not what he had asked for, that might have to be torn out and done again. All that I could think was that the discussion in class had to do with atheism in the public schools, and a ban on prayer that was the fault of the Supreme Court (?) in Washington, D.C., that was the result of socialist influence on the judges (?). It came to me to say, “It is the will of Satan.”

  These words leapt to my lips. I could not think of another syllable more.

  Reverend Dilts spoke slowly: “‘The will of Satan.’ Yes. I think you are right, Luther. Just in my lifetime, since the presidency of Franklin Delano Roosevelt, the legion of Satan is gathering strength in the United States.”

  A shiver ran through the class. It was possible, for I was light-headed from fatigue, to imagine the shadowy face of Satan at one of the windows of the classroom, grinning at the back of Reverend Dilts’s head, without the elderly man taking note.

  One of the younger, bright students in the class, whom I had come to hate for his brightness, and the obvious favoritism Reverend Dilts felt for him, asked, “Will we go to war one day, Reverend?”—and Reverend Dilts said, with satisfaction, “We are already at war with the atheist-enemy, son. It has only just begun and we will bury them.”

  War? What did they mean? I would have thought they meant war like in Vietnam, or in Korea . . . It would be some time before I realized that they meant a war within the United States, Christians against atheists for the soul of America.

  BUT I SAY UNTO YOU, That whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart.

  It is painful to confess that I did not remain faithful to my dear wife for more than three years; and that my betrayal of my marriage and my family came at a shameful time, when I was a student at the Toledo School of Ministry and (you would have thought) I had dedicated to myself to Jesus with all the more fervor, to prepare to serve Him for the remainder of my life.

  Even before that time, I will confess that I lusted after women in my heart. In all places, even in church. Even with Edna Mae and my children beside me and a warm child’s hand clasped in mine.

  Sometimes the women were strangers to me glimpsed in a store, on the street. Sometimes they were acquaintances, even wives of homeowners for whom I was working.

  Sometimes they were not women but girls. Driving along Front Street at Second Avenue, at the high school . . . Suddenly there was Felice Sipper at the curb waiting for the light, toeing the sidewalk in her way that drew my eye to her, helpless. She did not seem aware of me as I stared at her through the windshield of my car hazy with oak tree pollen.

  Of course, it was not Felice. I was twenty-ei
ght years old, it would not ever be Felice Sipper again.

  Those days in early spring (1987) when the air began to warm at midday and a terrible restlessness overcame me and I could not bear to remain in the overheated ministry school any longer but dared to cut my afternoon class—this term, the afternoon course was “Pastoring.” It was a short drive to the old, inner city of Toledo along the Maumee River where there were many taverns within a few blocks, and in none of these were likely to be individuals who knew me, or had ever heard of Luther Dunphy, or the St. Paul Missionary Church of Jesus. What happiness I felt in stepping inside one of these!—the relief and satisfaction of one who has come to the right place at last, that has been awaiting him.

  The particular smells of a tavern, even the smells of a filthy lavatory, urinals, puddled floors, bluish smoke of cigarettes and cigars—tears sprang to my eyes, these were so wonderful. On the mirror behind the bar, a light film of dust. High above the bar a television set perched at an angle and its screen bright with color as a child’s coloring book and even the advertisements were thrilling to me, as they were mysterious and forbidden.

  H’lo friend. What’ll you have?

  Anything on tap. Ale?

  At the bar I would sit on a stool with a worn cushion, that seemed to fit my buttocks. I would sit and lean forward onto my elbows and observe the flickering TV and see in the facing mirror the grinning Satan-face friendly to me and no judging.

  Live around here?

  Muskegee Falls.

  Where’s that?

  North of Springfield.

  What brings you to Toledo?

  The call of Jesus.

  Eh? Call of—?

  Jesus.

  In time it happened that the bartender and certain of the other patrons came to know who I was—a student at the min’stry school whom they called Rev’rend. This made me smile for it was flattering, though I knew they were joking, yet their joking carried with it an awareness of the seriousness of my mission and some respect for me, I think.

  Sometimes without intending it I would fall into a conversation with a woman. For always there was at least one woman in the bar, it did not matter which of the several bars for always in the bar there was a woman who might recognize me, and call me Rev’rend. She would buy me a drink, or I would buy her a drink. She would lay her hand lightly on my arm and if it was dusk, on overcast days as early as 6:00 P.M., she would ask if I would like to come home with her for a meal. And I would thank her and explain that I had to drive to Muskegee Falls very soon, to eat supper with my family.

  How far is that, to your home?

  Eighty miles.

  Eighty miles! Isn’t it already too late for supper, Rev’rend?

  But then, as time passed so quickly, it was no longer dusk but dark, and somehow it happened, I would find myself with the woman, in her house, or an upstairs half of a house, and a terrible weakness would overcome me in all my limbs, and a roaring in my ears, that I could not resist the woman offering me another beer, or ale; at last, touching me in a way to greatly arouse me, as I would touch her; inviting me into her bedroom, and into her bed that was unmade, and smelled of the woman’s body. And so it came about, not once but several times, more times than I wish to recall, in the spring of 1987 when the shame of my behavior was like an oily rag rubbing across a clean mirror-surface, to cloud it.

  Though I was married and rejoiced in my marriage, as in my beloved young children, and though I was determined that I would become a minister of the St. Paul Missionary Church, yet I was with whores often in the city of Toledo, when the weakness came upon me. With just a hurried call to Edna Mae with an excuse that my car had broken down, or had a tire needing to be repaired, I would stay overnight in one of these places; often, I would make the call from the woman’s phone as she stood behind me stroking my back with her warm hands. In my dear wife’s voice a fear of me, and in the background a child’s cry—Dad-dee? Where is Dad-dee?

  A woman will believe you, for a woman will want to believe you.

  This is the wisdom of Satan. Yet it is true wisdom, though it is of Satan.

  Soon, in the spring of 1987, though it was rare that Edna Mae and I were together in that way, Edna Mae found herself pregnant again. But in the agitation of those months, when often I stayed away overnight in Toledo, and missed work the next morning in Muskegee Falls, with no convincing excuse to my employer, and Edna Mae understood that I was not telling the truth to her, yet would not accuse me—she became stricken with cramps one day, when I was not with her, and lost the baby after three months of pregnancy.

  In the bedroom of our house this was. So terrible an experience, and so much blood lost, the mattress and box springs would have to be replaced. So awful, Edna Mae would not be well for some time.

  And such fear instilled in our young children, seeing their mother swathed in blood, and blood-clots on the bathroom floor, and their mother screaming in agony and despair and their father nowhere near as a husband and father should have been.

  The women in Toledo were cast from me in disgust, after I had made use of them. That they did give themselves to me so readily and yet expressed surprise and even hurt when I recoiled from them—this was surprising to me.

  On my knees I prayed in secret.

  I am ashamed, Jesus. I have used whores, and I have betrayed my dear wife and children.

  And Jesus would say, so quietly I could almost not hear—The women are not whores, Luther. They are your sisters in my name. But it is true you have used them, and you have betrayed your dear wife and children.

  AT THE MINISTRY SCHOOL they seemed to know, how Luther Dunphy had become a troubled man. For my grades in the second term were lower than in the first term, for often I did not hand in my assignments at all. Reading was ever harder for me, and caused darting pains behind my eyes. If I slipped away to a tavern at noon, and returned for my afternoon class, a smell of ale emanated from me, and my appearance might have been flushed and disheveled and all in the classroom knew what a sinner I was, what a failure. There was a satisfaction in this, in the eyes of the others. For even a Christian does not know himself blessed unless he knows how another is not-blessed.

  The dean called me to his office to say how disappointed he was, and how disappointed Reverend Dennis was, that I was doing so poorly in my classes, after “allowances” had been made for me to enroll as a special student.

  (Allowances? I was not aware of these, I was sure. The requirement of graduation from high school had been waived, but this was all that I had been informed.)

  In a vexed voice the dean asked if I would like to withdraw from my classes? He could return to me some of the tuition and fees, if so; for he knew how I and my wife had sacrificed to allow for my enrollment at the school.

  In an instant I was sober. I told him No! I would never give up.

  “I would sooner die, than give up my calling to spread the word of Jesus.”

  THE ST. PAUL MISSIONARY CHURCH of Jesus does not condone violence against individuals or property. The Church has always decried all acts in violation of state and federal law and is not associated in any way with radical organizations like Operation Rescue.

  The Toledo School of Ministry declines to release the academic transcripts of Luther Amos Dunphy to the media. It is a matter of public record that Mr. Dunphy graduated with a diploma in Ministry Science in May 1987.

  It is not corroborated by any official spokesman for the St. Paul Missionary Church or the Toledo School of Ministry that Luther Amos Dunphy joined the militant anti-abortion movements Army of God and Operation Rescue because he had been unable to secure a position as a minister. It is a matter of public record that Mr. Dunphy was a lay minister attached to the St. Paul Missionary Church of Muskegee Falls, Ohio, in the years 1988–1999.

  A lay minister is a member of the congregation who involves himself in the activities of the church, assisting the minister in numerous ways as needed—counseling, visiting the sick, teaching Bi
ble classes, helping with the upkeep of the church property. As Mr. Dunphy was a skilled roofer and carpenter, he is said to have provided such services for the church intermittently.

  A lay minister does not normally receive a salary.

  Reverend Dennis Kuhn, of the Muskegee Falls church, has cooperated fully with local and state law enforcement and Broome County prosecutors in their investigation into the shooting deaths allegedly committed by Mr. Dunphy at the Broome County Women’s Center on November 2, 1999. Reverend Kuhn has acknowledged that he is a member of the American Coalition of Life Activists and the Pro-Life Action League, which are anti-abortion organizations, but he is not a member of the Army of God and Operation Rescue.

  Reverend Kuhn has issued a statement to the media:

  “It was with grave concern and absolute shock that I learned that Luther Dunphy, a longtime member of our congregation, is the (alleged) shooter in the deaths of two individuals associated with the Broome County Women’s Center. Neither I nor anyone else in our congregation of whom I am aware had any knowledge of Luther Dunphy’s active involvement in Operation Rescue. Neither I nor anyone else in our congregation of whom I am aware had any knowledge of Luther Dunphy’s (alleged) intention to ‘assassinate’ the abortion providers. Though our church is staunchly pro-life—and opposed to abortion in any way, shape, or form, as a legally sanctioned slaughter of the innocents in the United States of the present time—we do not, and we have not ever, condoned violence against the practitioners of abortion and those associated with them. We do not condone violations of state and federal law and we do not excuse those who commit such violations despite our sympathy for their moral convictions.

  “It is a profound step from believing that abortion is state-sanctified murder to believing that an individual has the right to ‘assassinate’ an abortion murderer. The St. Paul Missionary Church of Jesus is adamantly opposed to such an act and is in no way associated with the practitioner of such an act.