“Friends, this is Pastor Kyle Sherman. Most of you know him as the man who wrote the letter to the Harvester.” That really turned heads and changed expressions in the crowd. “That’s why I’m glad he’s here. I’ve heard some pretty mean things said about him and I think we need to set things right. We’re all neighbors, remember? We have to stick together if we’re going to make this world work, isn’t that what I’ve said?”
He looked at Kyle and spoke kindly, warmly. “Pastor Sherman, I’m sorry for all the trouble you’ve endured. I think you wrote that letter with the best intentions and I take no offense.” He cast his gaze around the tent, meeting everyone’s eyes. “Did you all hear me? I take no offense. The time for that is over. It’s time to talk, to share, to get to know each other. Pastor Sherman wasn’t trying to harm me. He simply had some honest questions. I don’t despise his questions, and you shouldn’t either. If we walk together long enough, and talk with each other long enough, we’ll find we really can be neighbors with a lot in common. Isn’t that right, Pastor Sherman?”
Kyle could feel everyone in the tent looking at him. He had to say something. He drew a breath and started carefully. “I want us to be friends and neighbors,” he said finally. Nichols nodded deeply and affirmatively, as did his audience. “I guess I’m still having trouble with the introductions—you know, that very first part of getting to know someone when they tell you who they are. I—”
They weren’t going to like what he was about to say, but he had to say it. “I don’t think you’re being honest about who you are.”
A woman in the audience piped up, “Well if you’d just listen for a change—”
“Alice,” said Nichols. She halted. He smiled at Kyle. “You know me already. Most everyone in this room had a good idea who I was before they even got here.”
“I’m sorry, but you are not Jesus Christ, the Son of God.”
Many in the audience became visibly tense, but Nichols simply shrugged it off and gave a slight nod of concession. “To some, I am not. To some, I am. The same was true for the carpenter from Nazareth.”
“No,” Kyle objected. “I’m not talking about what others think.
I’m talking about who you really are. If these people are seeking Jesus of Nazareth, they need to find the real one.” He looked about, raising his voice so everyone would hear him. “The real Jesus bore your sins on a Roman cross two thousand years ago.
The real one suffered nails driven through his hands.” He looked directly at Brandon Nichols. “The real one set us free from the power of sin. Can you say that about yourself ?”
Nichols hesitated.
Kyle hit him with another question. “Where are the nail scars?
Everyone knows the real Jesus would have them.”
Nichols remained silent and motionless. The people remained silent. The place was so silent Kyle could hear the breeze gently brushing the tent canvas.
Nichols sighed and dropped his gaze, a troubled look on his face, not a word on his lips.
Kyle relaxed and let out a sigh himself. He looked around at all the faces looking back. “I’m not here to hurt or embarrass anyone, and I’m not here to force my beliefs on you. I just wanted to make a point, that’s all. If you’re looking for Jesus, you need to know the real one—”
“Pastor Sherman.”
Kyle—and everyone else in the room—looked at Brandon Nichols.
He was unbuttoning the cuffs of his long, white sleeves, the same troubled look on his face. “I . . .” He stopped, stole a glance heavenward, and sighed again as he looked at Kyle. “I didn’t want to press the issue. I didn’t want to force belief on anyone. That’s all we’ve done for two thousand years, and somehow . . . I just thought we might do things differently.”
He pulled his sleeves back and then extended his forearms at waist height, palms up. “Here they are.”
Several gasps rose from the audience. People in the front rows half-stood, leaning, craning their necks to see.
“Come, Pastor Sherman. Come and see them. Place your hand on them. Touch them, and believe.”
Kyle came closer. A woman from the front row began to whimper, falling at Nichols’s feet. Other people were moving into the aisle, getting in line to have a look. Dee Baylor was among them, and met Kyle’s eyes only long enough to give him a look of pity. A man in front touched Nichols’s arms and then nodded a confirmation to all those behind him, his eyes filling with tears.
Kyle came face to face with Brandon Nichols and looked down at the scars just above the wrists. They were elongated, ragged.
The scar tissue was a dull, off-white contrasting with his tanned skin. Kyle touched them. They were real.
“I was nailed through the forearms, not the hands,” Nichols explained softly, as if sharing something just between the two of them. “It’s the way they did crucifixions.”
Kyle stared at the scars, then into the soft brown eyes, his mind confused but his heart dead certain. His words came in a strained whisper. “You are not Jesus Christ!”
Nichols gazed down at the woman weeping, hugging his feet, and at the crowd of followers staring at him in awe. In a chilling, hushed voice he replied, “I am now.”
Twelve
KYLE NEVER CALLED to tell me about his confrontation with Brandon Nichols.
Thursday evening, Brandon Nichols did.
“I’m sorry it had to happen this way, but what else could I do, Travis? He was trying to humiliate me in front of all those people.”
I let my back come to rest against the kitchen wall and tried to recover from the news. “What did he do?”
“He turned around and left. I guess there was nothing more to say.”
“So how did you get them?”
“What, the scars?”
I was strained and impatient and my voice betrayed it. “Yes, Brandon, the scars. How did you get them?”
He answered curtly, “They’re nail scars, Travis. Do I have to spell it out for you?” He calmed and went on. “Anyway, I’m not mad at him. He actually did me a favor, the same as you did for Armond Harrison. Thanks to Kyle Sherman, I’m a victim, and that makes me the good guy.”
That pill was bitter and I could still taste it. “You and Armond must have had the same teacher.”
“And today I was Kyle’s teacher. Hopefully he’s a little wiser now, a little less sure of things. Just like you and me.”
“Hey, don’t lump me in with you.”
He snickered. “Travis, come on, now. We’re made of the same stuff. We’ve both been down the same road, and we have the same bruises. Kyle’s just starting out, and today he got the same wake-up call we did.”
“So what was your wake-up call?”
“Mm, not too different from yours. Remember that evening service at Christian Chapel? You kind of surprised yourself, didn’t you? You didn’t think you’d react the way you did. That’s how it was with me. I just woke up one morning and realized, Hey, I’m not so sure I buy into this. It’s nice to get a revelation like that, but it puts you on the outside in a hurry, doesn’t it?”
The last thing I wanted to do was agree with him, but reluctantly, even angrily, I did. “Yeah. It does.”
“At least Marian was on the outside with you. That part I envy.”
The image came to my mind instantly, still vivid and clear. It was the first time we met. She was distraught, frantic, and angry, but at the same time, the most beautiful blue-eyed, long-tressed girl I’d ever seen. “It’s a good thing she was there.”
“I’m sorry I never met her.”
“I guess I can’t be too sorry about that.”
“But it’s tragic. Don’t you see that?”
“See what?”
“I would have healed her.”
The phone went dead. Once again, Brandon Nichols had done it—found an old doubt and thrown it in my face; ripped the scab from an old wound and left me to bleed.
And remember.
VERN. The one friend I had fro
m earlier days in Seattle, a nice guy I grew up with. We were in youth group together back at the Allbright Gospel Tabernacle, and we were buddies in the
Lord. Both of us sang soprano in the youth choir until our voices changed—Vern moved to the tenor section first and I followed six months later. We got interested in girls about the same time and consulted regularly on the science of observing them from afar. He was better at shooting baskets and never missed an opportunity to remind me. I was better on the guitar and enjoyed proving it. My model airplanes looked better, but his flew better. When I prayed at the altar to get things right with God, he prayed with me, and I with him. He was a good friend.
I hadn’t seen much of Vern since my family moved from Seattle to that little island, but with nothing else happening in my life, I decided to track him down again. He was twenty-one, working for a local trucking firm, rooming with two other guys, and starting to make a life for himself. I was twenty, playing in a bluegrass band in a sleazy waterfront bar in Seattle, still living at home, and spinning my wheels. He was going to an exciting new church and couldn’t wait to get me interested. Despite my disillusionment, I was suffering from enough spiritual hunger to take him up on his invitation.
Christian Chapel in the south end of Seattle was exciting, all right. I used to think our little island church was dead and good old Allbright Gospel Tabernacle was on fire, but Allbright was old and stale compared to this place. When Vern first took me through the front door for a Friday night meeting, the sound of the worship washed over us like a tidal wave. The place was packed, and these people did nothing halfway. They were all standing, hands raised, swaying like trees in the wind as they sang the same joyous song over and over. The worship band was cooking, tambourines jingling. The song had no intelligible words, for each person in that congregation of hundreds was singing in tongues.
We found a place in a back pew. Vern set his Bible down and got right into the flow of things, raising his hands toward heaven and singing words to the song as the Spirit led him. I just stood there feeling overwhelmed and awkward—overwhelmed because it was overwhelming; awkward because all the guys had short, nicely trimmed hair and I was in my wayward, wandering musician mode with stubble on my face and hair down to my shoulders. They were wearing nice shirts and slacks, and I was wearing an old shirt and blue jeans. All the women were in dresses—long dresses. No pants anywhere. I began to dread the moment when the song would end and people would open their eyes and see me. They’d probably think I wasn’t saved.
The singing switched to English and stayed there for another twenty minutes or so. That helped. I knew a lot of the songs, so now I was on familiar ground and could sing with everybody else.
By the time the singing ended and we all sat down, I felt better. No one seemed to be staring at me or my hair. As a matter of fact, a few shorthaired guys with thick Thompson Chain-Reference Bibles and thin black ties went out of their way to shake my hand in greeting.
I could have gotten used to that church. Pentecostal worship was nothing new to me—this was more intense, but I could have upgraded and it would have been fun. The personal testimonies were encouraging. The Bible study led by the pastor was right on the money and quite challenging. The people seemed friendly enough.
Then the pastor decided to take some time to pray for the sick.
“I believe God wants to heal us tonight. If you have a sickness, an infirmity, anything at all, I want you to come forward and receive your healing in Jesus’ name!”
About fifty people went forward and gathered around the pastor in a big huddle, laying hands on each other as the pastor laid hands on the nearest of them. The pastor was invisible behind all those bodies, but I could hear him praying and shouting into his microphone, “Be healed! We come against this sickness and infirmity! Be healed!” as the congregation prayed along with him.
It was sweet and affirmative. There was nothing wrong with it.
I believed God could heal. I knew his Word promised it. I’d heard people testify in the past that they had been healed miraculously and I believed them. I grew up accustomed to expecting the miraculous.
But somehow, when Vern went forward with the others, it brought everything a little too close. While he stood up there with his hands on the shoulders of the others and their hands on his, his eyes closed, his face uplifted, expecting God to heal his poor eyesight, I felt embarrassed for him. While people all around me shouted in tongues and wailed their petitions and Amens along with the pastor, I sat there, silent and cringing.
When the huddle broke up and Vern came back without his thick glasses, he was jubilant, convinced he wouldn’t need them anymore. But I knew how it would turn out. Soon enough, probably before we drove home that night, he’d have to put those glasses on again.
I didn’t ride home with Vern, however.
The healing idea really caught on. After the service, folks remained for prayer around the front of the church, and it seemed everyone and anyone was trying his or her hand at healing. A girl no older than sixteen was praying for an older woman, her hands clasped to either side of the poor lady’s face and her arms shaking and quivering. It looked all too familiar, except she was adding a th-th-th-th with her tongue every time she drew a breath, and I hadn’t thought of that one. Two of the shorthaired, thin-tied guys were hollering at a disease in a friend of theirs, embracing him as if they might squeeze the disease out. Folks were kneeling at the pews, bent over the altar, and sitting on the floor, all having very loud arguments with diseases.
I’d been here before, and didn’t want to be here again. I watched from the sidelines, trying not to look sick and in need of prayer as I waited for Vern. He’d joined some friends who were sitting and kneeling around a young woman lying on the floor, and they were wailing, sing-songing, and shouting against a spirit of some kind. The girl on the floor did not look well, and the longer they carried on the worse she got.
There was something unsettling about this too. It scared me. I worked my way in closer, weaving around the kneeling and sitting clusters of praying people, hoping I could overhear something without being noticed.
“Spirit, come out of her this instant!” a young man with a crew cut shouted while holding the limp girl’s hand.
A young woman kneeling by the girl’s head kept kneading invisible bread dough as she did a sing-song kind of chant in tongues.
The girl on the floor looked pale and she was limp enough to be dead.
“We come against you, spirit of diabetes!” said a rotund young lady in a long, ruffled dress, waving her outstretched hand over the girl’s body.
I took a long and careful look at the girl on the floor. “Uh . . . is she? I mean . . .” was about as much as I got out.
“Spirit, you are defeated! Come out!” the young man kept hollering, and the woman kneading the bread dough had to have the loudest, shrillest voice I’ve ever heard. I couldn’t compete with the noise.
“Vern?” I said. His eyes were closed and he was praying feverishly.
Suddenly I heard one phrase come through the noise: “Diabetic coma!” I looked off to the side and saw a girl in a blue dress having a nose-to-nose discussion with an older man. She was upset; he was trying to calm her. I couldn’t hear any more of what they were saying, but I did hear that one phrase, and it was enough.
I felt guilty and troubled as I stepped over and weaved through the people in prayer, but I was intent on getting out of there. Maybe I was quenching the Spirit, walking in disobedience, hearkening to the flesh, and deceived by the enemy, but I ran out of the sanctuary and into the foyer, hoping to find a telephone. Around a corner and down a hall I found a door standing open with a church office inside and a telephone on the desk. I ran straight to it and grabbed up the receiver.
“Excuse me, can I help you?” It was an older, sharply dressed lady, and I could tell this longhaired, blue-jeaned stranger barging in offended her.
“I need to use the phone.”
; She reached to take it from my hand. “This is the church office and this telephone is for church business only!”
I wouldn’t give it to her. “There’s a girl in there in a diabetic coma. I have to call for help.”
She didn’t like me and she didn’t believe me. “What are you talking about?”
I’d already banged out 911. Someone answered right away.
“Hello, I’m at Christian Chapel and there’s a girl here—”
Footsteps running in the hall! The girl in the blue dress burst into the office and came straight at me. I thought she would claw the phone from my hands. “I need to use the phone! It’s an emergency!”
“I’ve got 911 on the line right now.”
“Tell them it’s a diabetic coma.”
“It’s a diabetic coma,” I said. “Christian Chapel . . .” I looked at the girl in the blue dress. “What’s the address?”
“Two-three-three-zero South Walnut,” said the Office Lady.
She was starting to believe.
I repeated the address into the phone.
“They’re going to kill her!” said the girl.
I got the word from the 911 operator and passed it on. “The paramedics are on the way.”
She looked toward the hall, anxious and angry. “They’d better let them in!”
With that, she raced into the hall again. I followed, with the Office Lady behind me. We could hear the praying still going strong in the sanctuary. From all appearances, no one in there had a clue what we were doing.
When the ambulance arrived with its siren wailing and lights flashing, the girl and I led the two paramedics right up the center aisle to the front of the church. Vern and his friends were still confronting the spirit of diabetes and were quite startled when the paramedics pushed their way in. “Excuse us, please. Thank you.”
Vern, bumped from his station by one of the paramedics, got to his feet and looked at me as if I’d betrayed the Lord himself. The young man in the crew cut tried to argue with them, “Sir, I’m telling you the truth, this is not a medical problem!” The rotund gal with the ruffled dress just kept on praying, kneeling as near as the aid crew would allow. As for the young woman with the shrill voice, she jumped to her feet, located the girl in the blue dress, and unleashed the full power of that voice at her. The rest of the people just kept on praying and wailing and praising, their eyes closed, their hands raised, oblivious to what was happening.
The Frank Peretti Collection: The Oath, the Visitation, and Monster Page 71
