by Randy Alcorn
Clarence asked, “How many of the dozen references were made in editorials or columns, and how many were in letters to the editor?”
“Some were in letters, the others were in a column … ironically, written by someone who’s a member of this committee. Jake, I have to say that column on gay literature at the library was incredibly bigoted and demeaning. I’d hope you’d be more sensitive than this. That’s the kind of article that stirs up violence. We’ve got a hate crime commission trying to get on top of this thing, and then you write a hate piece like that. Who knows what some homophobe’s going to do? Maybe bomb a library?”
Jake started to respond, but Clarence beat him to it. “Bomb a library? Give me a break, Peter. And ’hate piece? Lay off the guilt trips, will you? You’re concerned about the column’s effects, but you don’t seem to care whether or not it was true. Was anything Jake said inaccurate? Remember, he didn’t go out looking to write that column. He was just a father going with his daughter to the county library and he gets this stuff shoved down his throat … and hers. What’s he supposed to do? Show me just one thing in that column that was hateful.”
Clarence didn’t pause long enough for anyone to take him up on the offer.
“And as for homosexual, he shouldn’t be forced to use gay any more than you should be forced to use sodomite.”
He was looking at Peter, Pamela, and Myra. Several gasps surfaced, but Clarence went right on.
“Well, look it up, for crying out loud. That used to be the standard term. Okay, I can buy using homosexual which sounds pretty neutral. But to tell our reporters or columnists they have to say gay is totally out of line. And as for the letters to the editor, what are you thinking, Peter? Are we going to start censoring the public now? We can coerce ourselves to be politically correct—we shouldn’t but we can—but we can’t control our readers.”
Clarence looked around the room, astounded at the silence. “Well, can we?”
“We all know there’s a selection process as to which letters are printed,” Myra said. “If people use offensive and bigoted language, we’re responsible to screen it. We have no obligation whatsoever to print someone’s letter. Either we change the words or we don’t print the letters, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Now that this subjects come up,” Jake interjected, “I had a friend who was interviewed by the Trib maybe three months ago. He used the term prolife a number of times in the interview, but in the article, prolife was changed to anti-abortion.”
“So?” Myra looked at him and shrugged her shoulders.
“So … that’s not what he said. It was a misquote. It was wrong. Untrue. False.” Jake kept coming up with synonyms because Myra’s expression told him she wasn’t getting the point.
“Jake, you know it’s Trib policy not to use prolife,” Jeremy said. “We always say anti-abortion. That’s nothing new.”
“We do, but we weren’t quoting ourselves. We were quoting someone else. I’m not sure I believe we’re having this discussion. What right do we have to put our words in someone else’s mouth? And if we’re concerned about other special interests groups, how come we don’t try to be sensitive to prolifers?”
After a long pause, Jenny Mendez said, “Maybe because they’re not oppressed. For that matter, they’ve been responsible for a lot of the oppressing.”
“Now there’s a bigoted statement if I’ve ever heard one. At least you’re admitting we’re being unfair. We’ve singled them out, haven’t we? We’re retaliating against them because we don’t like what they stand for. They haven’t been oppressed as much as some groups, so we’ll make up for it by oppressing them ourselves, is that it? Not blatantly, just in subtle ways, semantics and terminology. We have these standards of fairness and we apply them to everyone except groups we don’t like.”
His discussions with Leonard and Clarence and Sue and his thoughts of the last months welled up inside Jake. Then he remembered something Finney had said in the letter that never made it to the Trib.
“Didn’t I just hear someone say we should call a group what it calls itself? Fine. What do the prolifers call themselves? Prolifers. So why do we call them anti-abortionists? What do evangelical Christians call themselves? Evangelical Christians. So why are we always calling them right-wing fundamentalists and things like that? I just don’t get it. And for that matter, since this multiculturalism committee exists to foster fairness toward various groups, why are other groups represented while conservative Christians aren’t?”
“Clarence is a Christian, isn’t he?” Jess Foley asked. “And he’s conservative.”
Several guffaws suggested Jess had made an understatement.
“Sure,” Jake said. “But that’s not why you put him on the committee, is it? Isn’t he here because he’s black—I mean, African-American’? Whenever he’s represented a Christian position, at least since I’ve been on this committee, everybody gets angry and starts name calling. We’ve had, what, a half dozen sensitivity training sessions for reporters the last few years? I’ve been at three or four of them, but not once has anyone talked about being sensitive to religious people, people who believe in God, and church or prayer. Most of us are already much more sensitive to the other groups than to them. Why shouldn’t we learn how to be sensitive to them too?”
“Well, listening to you preach at us and reading your column recently, it’s pretty clear the right-wing fundamentalists now have two representatives on this committee.” It was Myra again, and she made no attempt to hide her disgust.
“Listen, Myra, I have no intention of representing fundamentalists or anybody else.” Jake’s heart was racing, but his voice remained calm. “I just want fairness and objectivity. I don’t want special treatment for anybody. Not for Christians, not for gays, not for whites, blacks, feminists, liberals, conservatives, or anybody else. I just want good journalism. And in most cases I think we do a good job. But on some issues the Trib is perilously close to becoming a newsletter that advocates certain causes. How about we go back to making the truth our only cause?”
“Jake,” Pamela said, “I’ve always respected you as a columnist.” Jake sensed the unspoken words were until now. “And I don’t mean anything personal by this. But several of us have been talking, and we’re all hearing the same concerns about your column. I don’t know what’s happened, but obviously something has. You’ve been violating a number of the principles this committee stands for. Your presence on the committee is ironic at best, and it hurts all our credibility. To be honest, it’s embarrassing to have a committee member who’s the most striking example of violating what the committee stands for. We’ve got a Tribune diversity and multicultural manual some of us put together.”
Pamela slid the inch-thick manual across the table to Jake.
“It was passed out to every Trib reporter and editor last year. Have you even read it? If you’re going to serve on this committee, you’d better! And for what it’s worth, I’m not the publisher or the managing editor, but if I were you I’d reevaluate your columns, unless you want to get moved to the religion page. I have no problem with faith or religion—I’m a religious person myself—but this intolerance has got to go. And, Jess, frankly I think before anyone is allowed to serve on this committee in the future, we need to see a signed statement that they’ve read this manual and agree with it in principle. Otherwise, what’s the point?”
“What’s the point of having diversity on the diversity committee, isn’t that what you’re saying?” Clarence shook his head in dismay. “I can’t believe you people. This is the most nondiverse committee I’ve ever seen. With one or two exceptions, nothing is diverse but our sexual practices and our skin color. What you want, Pamela, is a monolithically liberal committee that embraces certain beliefs and lifestyles that by definition Bible-believing Christians cannot embrace, since the Bible doesn’t embrace them. Oh, religion is okay with you, as long as it’s religion without moral standards. Faith is fine as long as it isn’t fa
ith in any truth that violates the current party line. What really frosts you isn’t religion or faith, it’s the idea that God could actually have some firm opinions on what’s right and wrong, and might be unwilling to change them just because we want them changed.
“Don’t you see the hypocrisy of this committee and what it’s trying to do? The censorship? The threat to the first amendment?”
Clarence looked across the group and sensed that, for the most part, they didn’t see any of this at all.
“Journalists have always fought to get Big Brother off our backs. And what’s this committee? Big Brother, pure and simple. We’re the censors with our neat little speech codes. We pounce on any expression of real diversity that steps on the toes of the special interest groups we represent.
“I want to get one thing straight here. When he came on this committee, Jake had a rep as a liberal, and that was great, right? But now maybe he’s changing some of his positions, or at least questioning the status quo. So he’s a traitor to your cause. Which proves you have a cause beyond just doing your job at the Trib. So now Pamela wants to make sure the diversity committee doesn’t have any ideological diversity by making people sign a statement of allegiance to a particular ideology. This isn’t a committee, people. It’s just a bunch of lobbyists crusading for political correctness!”
Six voices responded at once, at varying levels of volume and hostility. Jess stood up, waved his arms, and said, “Let’s take a break. No, let’s just break for the day, okay? I don’t want this turning into another barroom brawl! Let’s all just take a Valium. Next week we’ll start by discussing Pamela’s proposal on the diversity manual. Meanwhile, get back to work. We’ve got a newspaper to put out!”
The group dispersed even more quickly than usual. Jake and Clarence were left again, but this time Jess stayed behind a moment. He looked at them both, exasperated and disappointed, like Jake’s fourth-grade teacher looked when she caught him and Finney carving their initials on their desks. He was about to say something to them, then thought better of it. He shrugged his shoulders and walked out of the room.
Less experienced in this situation than Clarence, Jake just sat there, feeling a profound sense of not being at home. He didn’t doubt the truth of what he’d said, but his yearning to be accepted was stronger than he wanted to admit. He remembered how good it used to feel to be on the common wavelength, to be liked and respected by most of the people who had just marched out of the room.
Finney saw from a distance the great city, ascending so high that even with his greatly sharpened vision it was a strain to clearly see the top. The city appeared complete from a distance, but apparently was still under construction. Finney hadn’t been told the city was off limits—there was no need for rules here—but something written on his heart told him the time wasn’t yet right for him to go there. For now, he could only stare and wonder and imagine how a city that looked so huge and so beautiful so far away must look up close.
Finney had been busily occupied watching through the portal as Zyor labored to clear a path for Elyon’s message to reach Jake’s heart. In the moment of Elyon’s triumph his friend had raised Galeed, looking toward heaven where he knew his brethren watched and rejoiced with him, where Finney danced unrestrained. But the respite was only momentary, for the twisted angels of the dark world were outraged at his redemption and redoubled their attacks on Jake. Finney had been praying ceaselessly, yet he was not weary but energized.
Finney spoke to Elyon, as he often did, not just when interceding but as a man speaks to his friend.
“I understand as never before the Scriptures describing Christians as aliens and strangers and pilgrims on earth. That place was not my home. I spent my time living in a rented room, on borrowed time. My body was weak, my vision impaired, my mind under attack. I was tempted and worn down. But everything is different now. This is the world for which you made me, the place I feel completely at home. With less than this I could never again be satisfied. Thank you, Father, for bringing me home. I realize now the best reason for loving the old world was that sometimes, in its grandest moments, it seemed a little like this one.”
In Elyon’s realm, Finney knew he was yet an infant, nursing on the milk of wonder, gaining strength and coordination that he might embark as a toddler into a universe bigger and more beautiful than anything he’d ever imagined. Yet just as he had once felt a part of him had gone from earth to heaven when his mother died, and again when Jenny left him, Finney couldn’t help but feel a part of him had gone back from heaven to earth with Zyor. Indeed, a part of him had always remained there with his family, for whom he found himself praying so often.
In a sense, he envied Zyor’s proximity to his loved ones. But he knew this, not that, was his home, and they must come to him rather than he to them. He longed for the Great Reunion. He longed to hold them all again, to play with them as one could play only in the unrestrained pleasures of heaven, to journey and explore with them, to tell stories and sing Elyon’s praises together. Meanwhile, he must be content to peer down into their world whenever he was allowed, so that he could witness their lives and cheer them on in their pilgrimage.
Finney began to understand what Zyor had said, that heaven’s focus was, in a way he would never have expected, still on earth. Finney had moved from the playing field to the stands, where he was part of a great cloud of witnesses, whose role was to watch and root for and pray for those who would finish the game. As a relay runner, he’d grabbed hold of the baton passed to him and had passed it on to others. Those who went before him had been faithful. Those who came behind him, who now carried the baton, must prove faithful too. The baton must never be dropped.
“Seeing you gaze on the great city reminds me of something I once witnessed in the dark world.”
Finney, thinking he was alone, turned to see the voice’s source. As he turned he recalled the fear that could accompany surprise on earth. Here there was still surprise, but no fear. The voice belonged to Jaltor, one of Zyor’s closest companions, who had first returned Zyor’s salute on his return from the dark world. Though everyone in this place was welcome company, a close friend of his close friend was especially cherished.
“Jaltor! Hello. Please, tell me what you saw.”
“A man and his wife, I was her guardian, returned after many years as missionaries in Africa. It was before airplanes, back when the voyage was by ship, and took months. When they finally arrived back in America, there was great cheering from the shore, and for a few moments their hearts were lifted. But soon they realized the cheering was all for a Hollywood actor on board their ship. There was no one to meet them. The man was very disappointed and struggled with bitterness. He lamented, ’After all these years serving God, after all the sacrifices, there is no one to greet us? This is our homecoming?’ But his wife, my charge, squeezed his hand and reminded him this—’We shouldn’t expect a homecoming until we come home. This world is not our home. Our homecoming will be in a far better place.”’
“You must have been proud of her.”
“I was. I took her into the birthing room for her homecoming and was there with her five years later to greet her husband at his.” Jaltor sounded deeply satisfied, like a soldier who’d accomplished his mission. He pointed now to the great city that occupied Finney’s attention.
“Your home will be in that city. The Carpenter from Nazareth is the builder. You provided the construction materials.”
Not understanding completely, Finney said, “Tell me more.”
“Jesus told you, ’In my Father’s house are many rooms; I go to prepare a place for you, that where I am you may be also.’ Do you remember how you prepared a special room for Jenny and Angela and Little Finn?”
“Yes. But how did you know that?”
“I was there in each case.”
“You were?”
“A guardian must stay close to the one to whom he is assigned.”
“But Zyor was my guardian.”
“Yes, but I was Jenny’s guardian. I was with her while she still lived inside Susan, so I witnessed all your preparations for her, and for the others.”
“No! Really? I didn’t know, Jaltor. That’s wonderful.” Finney spontaneously hugged his giant friend, who returned his embrace in a warriors restrained sort of way.
“And that is the nature of heaven, is it not? That you are always learning something new and wonderful. Do you remember how you and Susan chose the wallpaper, the cradle, the crib, the baby swing? All the effort you put into it? Elyon’s Son prepares a room for every child that arrives in his world. Your home is now ready, for your life on earth is done.
“The great city will eventually be moved to the New Earth, but only after the King has reigned on earth a thousand years. It is all written in the Book.”
Jaltor turned his eyes toward the city and spoke in measured tones.
“I too have been praying for your friend Jake. The day you died Elyon sent me to talk with him in the hospital. He didn’t know who I was, but we talked of your death and his. Even as we speak, the Carpenter has been preparing a place for him. The work of Jesus on the cross bought him the place. His first baby steps of faithfulness are already being laid up as reward to furnish the place. Jake will join us here. Perhaps it will be soon.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Mornin’, Jake.”
It was Nellie, one of the clerks from administration. Nellie spent her mid-morning hours delivering mail to reporter’s boxes. When there was too much mail to fit in the boxes, she delivered it directly to the reporter’s desk. Seeing Nellie at your desk was either good news or bad. It meant your story or column had touched a nerve. Jake had been seeing a lot of Nellie lately.
