A New Beginning

by Michael Phillips

  “Seems like it’s got something to do with it. If my pa hadn’t been so mean to me, I wouldn’t be mad at him in the first place.”

  “Perhaps. But you didn’t have to get angry. Nobody made you.”

  “So yer sayin’ I gotta stop?”

  “You’re the one that said you wanted to leave the rock at the side of the road. You have been holding the past against your father, but now you’re going to say that you’re not going to hold it against him anymore. It’s as simple as that.”

  “Who do I say all that to?”

  “If your father was alive, it might be good to say it to him. But since he isn’t, then you say it to God, who is really your Father even more than your other father.”

  “What do I say?”

  “Something like, ‘God, I forgive my father. I’m not going to hold anything against him anymore.’”

  “That’s all?”

  “After that you ought to ask God to forgive you.”

  “Forgive me. What fer? It was my pa who done the wrong.”

  “You let yourself be angry with him all these years, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, I reckon so.”

  “That anger is the wrong that you did, like I said before. You didn’t have to hold it against him, but you did. That was wrong of you. That was a sin both against your father and against God. That’s why you have to ask forgiveness for it. That’s your part of the wrong.”

  “Tarnation, Braxton, ye don’t give a body much room.”

  “You said you wanted to let go of the rock.”

  “Reckon I did.”

  “Owning up to your own share of what needs forgiving is part of how to do it. Getting rid of rocks of anger like you’re talking about and forgiving those who have hurt us usually has two halves to it. There aren’t too many problems that only have one side to them.”

  Mr. Henry sat a long while pondering everything Christopher had said. Finally Christopher put down his shovel, walked over, and sat down beside him at the edge of the trench they had dug.

  “Have you ever prayed before, Mr. Henry,” he asked, “—out loud, as if you were talking to God like he was sitting right there on the other side of you like I am here?”

  “Don’t reckon I have,” Mr. Henry answered.

  “Would you like me to help you do that now, so you can get rid of this rock you’ve been lugging around all this time?”

  “I reckon, but it seems a little fearsome.”

  “What—talking to God?”

  “No, thinking that he’s sitting right here with us.”

  “He may not be sitting here exactly like we are. But he is here, and we can talk to him just like you and I are talking. And he likes us to. He wants us to talk to him just like we’re his children. He won’t scold us for telling him we’re sorry for what we’ve done. It makes him happy when we do. He’s not an angry Father but a loving Father.”

  “I reckon I’ll try it then.”

  “All you have to do is say something like this—’God, I forgive my father for what he did to me. I’m not going to hold it against him anymore.’”

  Mr. Henry sat silent.

  “Would you like to say that?”

  “Uh . . . all right. Uh . . . God, I reckon I want t’ forgive my father fer what he done. I’ll try not t’ hold it against him no more.”

  “Good. Now say, ‘And I’m sorry for being angry at my father all this time. Please forgive me.’”

  “Uh, God, I’m asking you t’ forgive me fer being angry with my father.”

  “Help me to leave the rock of anger beside the road and go on without it and never pick it back up again.”

  “Help me t’ leave the rock where it is, and not t’ pick it up no more.”

  “Help me to be a good son to you from now on, and to call you my loving Father.”

  Again Mr. Henry hesitated. Christopher could tell this was the hardest thing of all for him to do—put the words loving and Father right next to each other. He waited patiently. At last Mr. Henry spoke again.

  “And help me t’ call you . . . to call you my loving Father,” he said.

  “Good, Mr. Henry. Your Father—God, that is—I am sure is very proud of you.”

  For the rest of that day and the next, Christopher said he had never enjoyed digging in hard ground so much!

  Christopher had no work Wednesday and spent the whole day visiting people. As he said, he paid his first visit to the Gold Nugget that afternoon. Thursday he worked at the freight company, helping Marcus Weber load an order that was going down to Colfax the next day. Friday and Saturday he visited around the town some more, and by week’s end neither of us had still heard a whisper from the direction of Mrs. Sinclair or any of the local gossips about where he had gone on Wednesday.

  Chapter 23

  What Comprises Faith?

  On Christopher’s second Sunday as pastor he again took the pulpit.

  “Last week I said that we would talk together about the three cornerstones of Christianity as I see it,” he said. “Today let us consider the second of the questions I posed: What comprises the walk of faith?

  “Is faith a so-called belief system, or is it what we do? Do we live faith with our brains and minds . . . or with sweat and muscles, with hands and feet?”

  Christopher paused and waited, but no one spoke up.

  “You will probably already know the answer I intend to give,” he said at length.

  “I believe in the intense practicality of the Christian walk of faith. Yes, I believe faith is lived out by hands and feet during the six days of our labor, not with our brains on the Sabbath day of our rest.

  “Nothing about the Christian walk of faith is abstract.

  “Hear the words from Jesus’ own mouth. If I can say it without seeming irreverent, how unpious they sound. They do not strike one as the words of a religious teacher, but rather a very down-to-earth and practical man. His instructions were very basic, and nearly all concerned themselves with how we are to live. Few of them have to do with the intellect.

  “Listen to what Jesus tells us to do—lend money when asked, visit those in prison, don’t envy, do good, show mercy, feed the hungry, treat others kindly, pray to your Father in heaven, speak graciously, take accountability for your actions, love your neighbor, do to others what you would like them to do to you.

  “Every one of these commands is something we could walk out of this church right now . . . and do.

  “Does a man or woman come to me with some notion concerning Christianity with no do attached to it? I will reply that it is not a ‘Christian’ thing at all—at least insofar as we presently understand it. To bring any thought or doctrine or principle under the umbrella of the Christian faith, we must find the do-ness of it, or else it is a dead idea that will wither and dry up and blow away in the wind.

  “We must not merely find the do-ness with our brains and then satisfy ourselves that we have discovered truth. The whole purpose of our childship under the Fatherhood of God is that we do what the Father’s children are supposed to do. That’s what children do—they do as their good Father tells them.

  “We have to find the practical element in every Christian idea principle . . . and then do it.

  “This is called nothing more nor less than obedience.

  “Obedience is the structural foundation of life within the Father’s family. Is God truly our Father? Does he truly love us? Is he truly good and utterly to be trusted?

  “What other response can there be, then, than to obey him?

  “Do I want to do what I myself want, not what someone else tells me to do? Such a creed is destined to bring me misery, unhappiness, and ruin. The only pathway to fulfillment lies in willing and joyful submission to the Father’s purposes, not those of our own childish fancies. Our destiny as human beings is to be his sons and daughters, not entities of our own independent making.

  “Obeying him is the doorway into that destiny.

  “Nor must we de
lay doing what God’s children are to do.

  “To say, ‘Maybe tomorrow I will think about what my Father has told me to do, but today I will disregard his instructions and do what I want instead’—what can this be called other than disobedience?

  “Thus, along with Christianity’s practicality, I believe that there is an urgency to our obedience. Every opportunity missed is one less step on our parts toward our Father’s embrace. I don’t know about you, but I want with all my heart to draw close to my Father’s love, not keep myself distant from it.

  “In spiritual things, friends, there is no such thing as tomorrow. Every moment is today.

  “Therefore, when your duty as a Christian, when your instructions as the Father’s son or daughter, becomes clear—whether it be with regard to a principle straight from Jesus’ mouth or whether it be something more personal that you feel him prompting you and you alone to do—waste not a second.

  “Where is the first opportunity to do that thing? Go, then, and do it without delay. Then, and then only, will life from within that truth spring up and blossom within you.”

  Christopher paused, this time not to ask for questions, but to catch his breath and focus his thoughts. The congregation waited quietly.

  “I said as I began these messages,” he went on in a minute, “that I would be sharing the principles by which I try to order my life. This that I have just spoken, then, forms the crux of the whole. As I indicated, I do not always practice these things as successfully as I pray someday to be capable of. But if my personal creed could be reduced to a single statement, it would be this: Spiritual truths become reality when lived.

  “These six words sum up the perspective of the man you have called to be your pastor. This is why I say, yet again—the Christian faith is practical, able to be obeyed, do-able, and down-to-earth . . . or it is nothing.

  “So what comprises faith?

  “Doing what our Father tells us. Living as he has ordained that his family lives. In other words . . . obedience to his commands, principles, and instructions.”

  Christopher paused, then added the following in conclusion.

  “Now I have called Christianity a ‘walk of faith,’” he said, “not a mere religion to whose tenets we mentally ascribe.

  “What do I mean by walk?

  “I mean several things. First of all, we walk with our feet, not our intellects. Faith is something we do, not primarily something we think. Walking also implies that we’re going someplace. A destination exists. We’re on the way somewhere. Furthermore, walking indicates a twofold process of growth. As you walk your legs get stronger and you get closer to your goal.

  “In other words, being a Christian is a process, a journey of growth.

  “The question naturally follows, what is it a Christian is walking toward? Are we walking toward heaven, toward the accumulation of spiritual knowledge, toward eternal rewards, toward material blessing?

  “I would answer—no, it is primarily toward none of these destinations that the walk of faith is supposed to be directed. The destination is something else altogether.

  “A Christian is growing and progressing toward becoming a person of a certain sort, a different kind of individual from the rest of the human species. This I will make my topic next week—what are we walking toward when we talk of walking with God?

  “Let us pray . . .”

  Again the service ended unexpectedly early.

  Chapter 24

  Who’s Watching Your Faith?

  There were services at church every Sunday evening too, but from the beginning Christopher said that he would not himself speak to the people twice a day.

  “I do not want to give anyone cause to tire of me,” he laughed as he told this to the congregation on the evening of his first Sunday as pastor. “I will give you plenty to think about every Sunday morning and will not burden you down with more than can be digested for a week. It is my opinion that most ministers do more harm by the sheer abundance of their words than they do good with the truth contained in those words. Obedience would be far more quickly entered into by their people if all the sermons of the world’s clergymen were immediately cut in half—including my own.”

  “Amen, Reverend!” called out Uncle Nick, and everyone laughed, Christopher along with them.

  “If my words begin to bore any one of you at any time,” he went on, “I beg you to tell me, and I will take my seat immediately!”

  He paused, smiling, while everyone settled back into a more serious mood.

  “In the meantime,” Christopher continued after a moment, “on Sunday evenings I intend to hear from you. We will sing, perhaps more than during the morning service, and we will share together how we are learning to trust God in our lives and how we are learning to call him Father. In other words, I will call upon you to share and speak and lead the evening services. If we are to have an active and growing ministry in this church, it will be because we are involved in it together as an entire community.”

  That first Sunday evening, we just sang and prayed and a few people shared informally right from their seats—mostly remembrances of Rev. Rutledge, as well as saying how happy they were that Christopher and I were staying in Miracle Springs to take his place.

  On Tuesday of the following week, Christopher asked Pa if he’d speak the next time.

  “Me—preach a sermon?” exclaimed Pa.

  “No,” replied Christopher. “The last thing I want from you, Drum, is a sermon. I just want you to share informally. Everyone in this community looks up to you and respects you.”

  “What do you want me to talk about?”

  “Whatever you like—what it means to you that you’re a Christian, how you try to live out your Christianity.”

  “I’d have to give it some thought, but I reckon I could do that,” said Pa.

  “Sure you can. Anyone who can get up and speak in front of the California legislature can speak to a few dozen of his friends.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “All the more reason. You’re older and wiser now.”

  “Yeah—says who?” laughed Pa.

  But Pa did what Christopher asked, and the next Sunday evening he told the folks of Miracle Springs about his first meeting with Avery Rutledge, how he’d been antagonistic to spiritual things to begin with, but how he and Rev. Rutledge had eventually become good friends and helped build the church together.

  “A lot of you weren’t here back then,” Pa said, “so I figured you might like to hear about that. It’s a lesson that’s always stuck with me all these years. Preachers come in all sizes and shapes, just like everyone else. Avery Rutledge, I reckon, was about as different a fellow as there could be from my son-in-law. At first I didn’t think I liked him all that well, as I told you—Avery, that is, son,” he added, glancing over with a smile toward Christopher. “But he was a man that lived his faith, and that made all the difference. A man who lives what he believes—that’s a powerful man, ’cause people take notice of that, and sometimes it can’t help changing them, like it did me.

  “That’s why I know Christopher’s exactly right with all he’s been telling us about us needing to do what we say we believe. Because if I hadn’t seen a man doing what he said he believed, I wouldn’t be standing up here in front of you tonight. It’s that doing that makes it come alive for whoever’s watching. So listen to what he says. And then pay attention to your do, ’cause you never know who’s watching your life like I was Avery’s. Why, somebody’s watching me right now . . . and somebody’s no doubt watching you too. Might be somebody we don’t even know. But there might be someone standing up speaking their mind in this very church five or ten years from now, telling about how they’re walking with God because of what they saw in your life just this last week, or maybe next.

  “I reckon that’s a pretty sobering thought. To be honest with you, it kinda scares me a little. I ain’t even sure I like it. But I don’t suppose it can be helped. I loo
ked at Avery and I saw something. Our old friend Alkali Jones was watching me, though I never knew it, and when he prayed with Christopher here to be one of the Lord’s men before he died, he told him so, and I tell you it downright flabbergasted me. So whether I like it or not, I can see that’s how it works.”

  He paused briefly. “When people are trying to be Christians,” he added, “other folks watch—that’s all there is to it. So we better pay attention to what we’re about.”

  Pa stopped again, and this time glanced around, suddenly aware, I think, that he was starting to sound a little like a preacher himself!

  “Well, I reckon I better heed what Christopher said last week,” said Pa, “and cut this here sermon in half!”

  Christopher stood, came up front laughing, shook Pa’s hand and thanked him, and Pa sat down next to Almeda.

  “Maybe Corrie and I should have gone to Virginia after all,” said Christopher. “It looks like you had a preacher in your midst and didn’t even know it!”

  The following Sunday evening, Christopher talked Mr. Henry into sharing with the church about their conversation on anger and leaving the rock beside the road. He didn’t want to at first, but eventually he agreed. And after that, whenever he could, Christopher had one of the other men—and sometimes women too—of the community to speak or share. After Pa’s and Mr. Henry’s example, most were willing to tell a little or a lot about what God was doing in their lives.

  Chapter 25

  A Letter

  An unexpected letter came a week or so later—about three weeks after our decision to stay in California.

  A really unexpected letter!

  It began,

  Dear Cornelia and Christopher,

  I am sure I am the last person on earth you will expect to hear from.

  We quickly turned to the second page to see who the letter was from, and he was right—I was surprised!