Jack bit down a reply. “I’m here,” he said.
“Is that what you’re wearing?” He looked Jack up and down. “Pastor John used to wear one of those robes.”
“I’m not your pastor,” Jack said. He was wearing Wranglers, boots, and a button-down blue oxford open at the neck. Frankly, he felt dressed up. “I’m just a guy come from the hardware store to say a few words.”
He held the front door open for a family that goggled at him when they recognized him. They passed on into the church, found a spot near the back. Someone—Bill and the deacons, he guessed—had put out extra chairs, and all the same the church was full.
Jack walked down the bedraggled red carpet toward the carpeted dais, where on the left Nora Calhoun was playing one of the old hymns on the organ. A lot of vibrato. On the right, one of the Bates sisters was playing piano; he wasn’t sure which one. They all looked alike—had their whole lives.
“Softly and Tenderly.” He hadn’t heard that song in years.
“Ye who are weary, come home.”
He noted unexpected but familiar faces. Father Frank sat with Tom on the aisle, third row back, and Jack nodded at them, took his father’s hand.
Jack himself took a seat on the front pew. A big wooden seat was on the dais in front of the choir, but Jack did not want to sit in the preacher’s chair, to feel all those eyes on him throughout the service. It was going to take a measure of bravery just to stand up. It didn’t need to be any harder.
He looked back over the order of service. It was simple. Bill would welcome the congregation and lead the singing. Someone would read the Bible lessons. Jack would preach, and afterward, the deacons would distribute bread and wine at the front of the church. They had not asked Jack to preside over the blessing of communion at the altar. This wasn’t communion, per se. It was just fresh-baked bread and good Hill Country wine laced with good intentions, holy in its own way.
They finished the song and took up “Blessed Assurance,” a hymn by Fanny Crosby. Mrs. Calhoun loved Fanny Crosby; she had told Jack when he was a boy that Fanny Crosby was a blind woman who wrote eight thousand hymns.
“Blessed Assurance” was one of his mom’s favorites. He could still remember her singing, “This is my story. This is my song.” They used to slow the words of the chorus almost to a halt, a caesura over each note, “This … is … my …,” before launching like a drunk careening downhill on a bicycle into “story, this is my song.”
Bill mounted to the pulpit. He spoke over the chords, expressed no surprise at the full house, simply invited all those present to turn in their hymnbooks to number 331. Everyone stood and began to sing.
Jack opened his book, although he scarcely needed it. He had sung through this hymnbook as a kid, still could sing most of these songs by heart. His mother had sung in the choir. Jack looked up at the choir now—four old women, one old man, a teenage boy. They were singing with big smiles on their faces—the expression he remembered on his mother’s face as she sang.
After “Blessed Assurance” they sang, “Oh, How I Love Jesus.” Jack checked that his notes were in his pocket. He had decided against preaching from his iPad—it seemed inappropriate, somehow—and anyway, he didn’t have anything close to a finished sermon.
This was not a place for PowerPoint.
What he had were some words, scribbled down during the week. Some had arrows linking them.
He felt sure he had never been less prepared to give a sermon.
A teenage girl read the Old Testament lesson and the Psalm. Tom himself climbed the steps to read the New Testament lesson. Then he said, “Would you stand, please, for the gospel reading.” Everyone lumbered to their feet. It was like thunder after the relative silence. Tom read the story from Matthew of how the wise men had sought Jesus, how they had asked King Herod where the newborn king was to be found, how they had arrived and found the baby Jesus and worshiped him and given him their precious gifts.
Then everyone sat.
Tom ambled back down the steps.
And Jack passed him, ascending one step at a time. They nodded at each other.
Then Jack stood at the pulpit, looking out over the roomful of people. He saw people who had been at the block party at Mrs. Calhoun’s. He saw some of the newsfolk in the very back and up in the balcony. He saw men and women who had grown up in this church, who would be buried in it.
He saw his onetime best friend, seated in the second row, his father in the third row, Mary behind him, Kathy three rows behind her.
He looked out at them all, and it grew silent, and he thought about how he used to proceed.
Begin with a prayer, he thought. Let’s at least do that.
But he hadn’t written a prayer, hadn’t stage-managed the connection to his sermon.
Nor had he engineered connections between the hymns and the reading and his sermon, all of which he used to obsess about in Seattle. The hymns Mrs. Calhoun had picked probably didn’t fit with the readings at all, except that they were songs about Jesus.
And this prayer—it wouldn’t be fluid, wouldn’t be eloquent. His prayers these days were less like conversation and more like a drowning man yelling for help.
It would have to do.
“Let us pray,” he said, and he closed his eyes, squeezed them shut.
“God,” he said, and he took a deep breath. He knew what his prayer had to be: “Give me words to say that will be worth hearing.”
He opened his eyes. Their heads were still bowed. They clearly expected more.
“Amen,” he added.
Slowly they looked up.
He looked down at his notes.
He took a deep breath.
“Today,” he said, “is the day we celebrate the Feast of the Epiphany. You heard in our gospel lesson about the wise men who came from the East, how they sought the new king who would be born, how they found him.”
He looked down at his notes again, found that he couldn’t look up from them. He needed to at least make some eye contact for a sermon about seeing. “Epiphany is about seeing things as they are, seeing things we have been longing to see, seeing things for real.
“Epiphany,” he said, forcing himself to look up from his page, “is about the truth.”
They looked on, parishioners and curiosity-seekers and members of the media, all of them wanting to hear something true.
Okay, he told himself. Okay.
“I haven’t told the truth for a long time,” he said quietly. “I haven’t even preached the truth for a long time. Not the whole truth. Not really.
“Some of you have known me my whole life. Some of you are here this morning just because it’s me standing here this Sunday. You’re all wondering what I’m here to say.
“Well, I’m here to tell the truth.” He looked down at his notes. He was a long way off of them now. He folded them up, stuck them in the pocket of his jeans, put both hands on the pulpit for support.
“I’m here to talk about how seeing what is right in front of us might be a good thing, even if it’s hard, even if we don’t understand where it might lead us.”
They were all watching, listening. Even some of the news-people had put down their pads.
Kathy Branstetter was nodding at him. Go on, her eyes were saying. I want to hear this.
“I came back to town a week ago,” he said. “And I’d been gone a good long time. A lot has changed.” He looked out at them, tried to make eye contact with those he knew from town. “Places where friends used to live are boarded up. The yards are grown up with weeds. Buildings I used to know downtown are closed, empty shells with no reason to still be standing.”
He took a deep breath. “The truth is, that’s how I feel here in front of you this morning. Like there’s no reason for me to still be standing. I messed up in a big way. I hurt the people who trusted me, the people who depended on me.”
He shook his head. “Right now, I feel like one of those vacant buildings, standing up but holl
ow inside. No reason to still be here.”
He looked out at them; some were watching intently, others were looking away but still listening. “I’m not telling you this because I want you to feel sorry for me,” he said. “I don’t want that. I’m telling you this because I hope that maybe my story can be of use to you in some way.” He shrugged. “I’ve lost everything in the last two months. My family, my job, my money, my reputation, my self-respect.” He looked around the congregation. “Maybe some of you know what it feels like to lose something and not know how you’re going to go on. I’m guessing most of you do.”
Some nodded—mainly older members of the church. And a few others.
Tom.
Mary.
Kathy.
“I thought that was how I would feel from now on,” he said. “Lost. Abandoned. Empty. But last week, I remember looking at something brand new, something filled with hope, something that was built with love.” He turned and looked at the organ, where Nora Calhoun was sitting, leaned forward, listening. “Some of you were at Mrs. Calhoun’s house where we pushed back together against the wreck and the loss and the ruin. Together, we did what one person could not have done alone. Together, we made someone’s life a little bit better, showed her that she was loved and appreciated, reminded ourselves that we were capable of so much more than the tiny selfish lives we’ve been living.”
Jack blinked back tears; he was not the only one. Mrs. Calhoun was sniffling and someone in the back of the church was sobbing openly.
He raised his hands. He had not come to make people weep, but to tell them the good news.
Somewhere in all of this was good news.
“A friend of mine told me this week that it is an awesome responsibility to stand in front of a church and try to speak for God.” He nodded at Frank, who sat looking steadfastly up at him. “He challenged me to remind you that in the midst of all our bad news, in the midst of the vacant lots and the boarded-up buildings, the ruined roofs and the ruined lives, there is good news.”
He nodded. “There is good news.”
“Look around you,” he said. “Look and see.” He held up his hands and some of them turned their necks like owls to take in the people on all sides of them, those above them in the balcony.
Jack nodded. “Good people are here. Love is here. And hope should be here.
“Look around,” he repeated. “See what is right in front of you. Don’t just see the boarded-up buildings, the boarded-up lives. See the possibilities.”
He was rounding third. Headed for home. He suddenly saw it all fall together—the Bible story, the lives of his listeners.
His life.
“Today is the Feast of the Epiphany,” he said, speaking softly but with growing strength. “It’s the day we remember how the story of Jesus intersects with those who came looking for him.” He paused, looked around the room. Every person was following with rapt attention. He moved to his conclusion.
“The story of Jesus, the Jesus who was revealed in the flesh to those wise men, the Jesus who is revealed to us, does not say that life is easy.” He shook his head. “In fact, it says the opposite. That hope can be broken. It can be battered. It can even be nailed to a cross and left for dead.”
He shook his head again. “But don’t believe it. Don’t you believe it for a second. The love of God, the irresistible grace of God, washes through this world like a river. It cannot be stopped. It cannot be contained.
“And hope can be battered, but it is never dead.
“That’s what I am telling myself this morning. It’s what I think I was supposed to tell you. And that,” he said, “is the truth.”
Silence.
Just silence.
But it was a silence full of something, something he had invited to be present, but something far bigger than himself or his words.
He looked out at Father Frank, remembered the blessing of the roof, and he raised his hands to the congregation.
“In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” he said.
“Amen,” they said.
He made his way slowly down to the front pew. Bill Hall and the other deacons made their way up in the silence to take the bread and wine, the chalices from the altar.
“We invite you,” Bill said, then stopped to clear his throat, “to take communion with us.” He looked out at the church, packed to overflowing, looked up to the balcony. “All of you are welcome at the table of Christ.”
Two lines formed in each aisle, on either side of Jack, who sat leaning forward, his eyes on the floor. He had no idea if his sermon had been an abject failure or a success, had no idea what either of those things even looked like anymore. It used to be he knew—the congregations would stand, they’d applaud, social media would explode after the service.
He knew it was the shortest sermon he’d ever preached, maybe the least eloquent, and he couldn’t care less.
He felt that something had happened at the end. Something real.
He hoped so.
In front of him, Bill Hall stood with the bread, tearing a tiny piece and placing it in the hands of each person in line. “This is the body of Christ,” he said to each of them. “Broken for you.”
In front of Jack and a little to his left stood a man he did not know with the chalice. Young. Maybe new in town since Jack left. He was offering the chalice to each person, and they dipped their bread or took a sip. To each person he said, “This is the blood of Christ, shed for you.”
In the other aisle, Mrs. Calhoun took bread from Archie Sandstrunk, sipped from the chalice that Corinne O’Neal offered her, ascended back to the organ where she started playing another hymn.
“I Surrender All.” It was almost like they were at First Baptist doing an altar call. Because the crowd came forward; they kept coming. Bill had to retreat to the altar for more bread, and the chalice-bearers had to replenish their supply as well.
At last the lines died down and those men on Jack’s left went up to the altar. Bill Hall moved directly in front of Jack, and Jack looked up to see what he was doing.
Bill was offering him bread, and he had tears in his eyes.
Jack stood up. He held out his hands.
“This is the body of Christ,” Bill said, tearing a substantial piece and putting it into his hands. “Broken for you.”
Bill wiped his face with the back of his hand and stepped away.
“Amen,” Jack managed to say. The bread was homemade. He had never tasted anything so good.
“This is the blood of Christ,” the young man said, stepping forward and offering Jack the chalice as if it were his most precious possession. “Shed for you.”
Jack took it from him. He drank. He handed it back just as carefully.
“Amen,” he said.
The three of them stood there for a moment. Everyone was standing, the music was playing, something was supposed to happen next.
Bill took a step toward the center, still holding his plate of bread. The organ became quiet, and he raised his voice. “We’ve come to the end of our service. Thank you for coming. Go with God.” He stood still, the air expectant. “The deacons will stand at the back door to greet you.” Then Bill looked at Jack and took a step toward him before he asked, “And, Brother Chisholm? Will you come back and say a few words again next Sunday?”
Jack looked at Bill.
Jack looked back to his father and Father Frank.
And then he nodded.
“Absolutely,” he said.
“Good,” Bill said. “Good.”
He took a step back to the center and spoke again as the people began to leave.
“Go with God,” he repeated. “Go with God.”
And so they did.
15.
The Mayfield City Hall is on the square across from the courthouse, which is old, limestone, neoclassical, domed, and has stairs you aren’t supposed to use to look out over the countryside.
You also aren’t suppose
d to make out with your girlfriend or drink Coors Light up there.
These were all things Jack learned in his youth.
The City Hall had no such sterling memories attached to it. It had, for forty years at least, been in the storefront of an old general store, columns flanking a big plate glass window, and inside, a reception area, the city offices, and in back, the three cells of the municipal jail.
Jack had not been in the City Hall for—well, he couldn’t remember the last time.
Carlene Petsch was the city secretary. Carlene had been called “Petshop” in their youth, if only rarely to her face. It made her cry, got people sent to the office. She had grown into a hard, hefty woman, the kind of hausfrau who could bake an apple pie and then beat you to death with her rolling pin. Jack felt his already considerable anxiety ramp itself up as he closed the front door behind him on the Monday morning following his sermon at Saint Paul’s.
“Hey,” he said, his voice calm. “Carlene.”
She looked up at him, waited for him to state the purpose of his presence. Jack supposed that she might have absorbed some of her boss’s animosity by osmosis.
Jack stuck his hands in his pockets, looked around the office. “Is, uh, James in?”
She looked back down at her desk at something considerably more important than him.
He wondered if it was the People with Katie Whatshername on the cover.
“The mayor is with someone,” she said finally.
She didn’t offer a seat, but he took one. He looked at the magazines on the side table—Hill Country Reporter, Texas Highways. He picked up a TIME, recognized it as the one that covered his scandal, put it back on the table.
He heard voices from the hallway, got to his feet.
A reporter and her cameraman preceded James into the reception area.
“Hey, Jack,” the reporter said when she saw him. “You get summoned too?”
“Hey,” he said back. “Summoned?”
“Speak of the Devil,” James said. “And he shall appear.”
“Thanks,” the reporter said to James. What was her name? Kathy? Cathy? Cathleen?
The Prodigal: A Ragamuffin Story Page 17
