Nichols took it in stride. “Not today,” he said, and then winked.
“Hm,” said Kyle.
Nichols motioned for quiet and the crowd settled into their seats, wound up like springs.
“Don’t forget me!” a woman in the back shouted.
“Alice!” said Nichols as if seeing an old friend after many years. “Bad hip, right? Don’t worry, we’ll get to it.”
Kyle looked over his shoulder and saw Alice squeal, her hands over her mouth.
“This is incredible,” said Bob.
“Really incredible,” Kyle replied. He didn’t know what to expect when he arrived, but it certainly wasn’t anything as direct and intense as this.
“When Jesus came to earth the first time,” said Nichols, “he went about doing good. Well, why not now? And I’m not just talking about myself. I’m talking about all of us. You may define me any way you wish. Maybe I’m Jesus. Maybe I’m the reincarnation of Jesus. Maybe I’m only a channel of his power.
“It doesn’t matter. However I become Jesus for you, you have to be Jesus to others and the time to start is right now!”
“Oh praise the Lord!” a woman burst out. Kyle didn’t have to look to know it was Dee Baylor, but when he did look, he saw not only Dee but her two friends, Adrian and Blanche. His hands were clenching into fists now and his stomach was in a tight knot.
Bob must have noticed. He leaned over and said, “Take it easy.
Just pray.”
“We have to come against this and bind it!” Kyle hissed.
“Let’s get out of here alive first,” Bob replied, and Kyle could see the fear in his eyes.
Bonnie Adams reached out to him and he touched her, apparently giving her the jolt she desired. She flopped back in her chair, trembling.
Paul Daley and Al Vendetti were sitting together toward the back, both wearing their black suit jackets and clerical collars, and both spellbound, their mouths agape, their eyes intense. Paul Daley had his hand over his heart. Al Vendetti was tightly clutching the jeweled cross hanging from his neck. Behind them, Armond Harrison was actually smiling and nodding in glad approval— until he saw Kyle. Then he gave Kyle a warning with his eyes: Watch yourself, bub.
Kyle couldn’t alter the unkind facial expression he sent back. He was too upset, his heart pounding, his stomach churning, his hands shaking. “Antichrist,” he whispered. “The spirit of Antichrist!”
“We can provide for those in need,” said Nichols, producing several more loaves of bread out of thin air and tossing them to waiting hands. One flew Kyle’s direction and he caught it for inspection. “Listen, God cares about your homes, your businesses, your health. He can bring new life to this community if you’re willing to get on board. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if people wanted to visit Antioch because here, more than any place else in the world, they could feel loved, welcome, and healed?”
Norman Dillard and Matt Kiley were grinning now, and Norman gave Nichols a thumbs-up.
Kyle examined the little loaf of bread. It was like a small sourdough roll. Nothing strange or unusual about it. He passed it along to someone else, not wanting to keep it, much less eat it.
Suddenly Nichols looked grim and pointed. “Sir, pardon me, no cameras.”
Every eye turned toward a skinny, cowpokish fellow in jeans and work shirt standing in the back, a small camera to his eye.
“Nevin, really!” the widow scolded.
Nichols found a reason to look away as Nevin hurriedly snapped two pictures. Then Matt, Norman, and Michael grabbed him. He tried to get loose. They tried to grab his camera. It turned into a disturbing scuffle. The joy of the gathering chilled like a campfire doused with water.
“He’s not Brandon Nichols!” Nevin yelled, trying to keep an iron grip on the camera while Matt and Norman almost carried him by the arms to remove him. “He’s not!”
“Lean forward,” Kyle whispered to Bob.
“Huh?”
“Scratch your head or something.”
Bob saw the small camera in Kyle’s hand and scratched his head. Kyle got a few shots of the distracted Brandon Nichols through the crook of Bob’s arm. “Okay, that’s it.” He quickly slipped the camera back into his pocket.
The widow was trying to explain, “Shhh now, it’s all right. Nevin used to work for me before I fired him. I’m sure you understand.”
“Okay, okay,” Nevin hollered in the distance, shaking the three men off. He turned to leave, but pointed at Brandon Nichols and shouted the last word as he went, “He’s lying!”
Michael ran back to the garage and grabbed the staff he’d left leaning against a post. “Hear the Word of the Lord, my people! Let not the siren song of deceit wrestle the blessings of God from you! The enemy roams about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour! This man would rob you of your blessing!” He looked one more time as Nevin Sorrel disappeared over the brow of the hill, and gave a shrug. “He’s crazy.”
Brandon Nichols took charge again. “We’ve gained a valuable lesson, haven’t we? Things haven’t changed much since the first time I was here. There are still those who would judge and condemn and set themselves up as moral and spiritual lords over the rest of us.” His eyes connected with Kyle’s at that moment and then moved on. “But why let them? We can start again, start fresh right now. I’m willing to get you started. The rest is up to you. Are you going to try loving and accepting one another and enjoying your differences, or are you going to go on hating and killing for another two thousand years?”
Some applauded, others said Amen, some said Right On, and some were still bothered.
“Alice!” Nichols called. “Let’s get that hip taken care of so you can get on with your life!”
He ran around and touched her. She leaped to her feet with a scream and started jumping and kicking. Nichols kept things rolling, restoring some eyesight, removing a cancer, producing more loaves of bread, healing more arthritis, and even causing a bald spot to fill in.
Kyle recorded it until his tape ran out and even managed to snap a few more pictures with Bob’s help. He was over his initial shock by now, but feeling as comfortable as a soldier who suddenly finds himself in the very center of the enemy’s camp.
“Adrian!” Nichols shouted, and Adrian Folsom leaped to her feet while Dee and Blanche squealed. Nichols approached her, extending his hand toward her face as he pronounced, “You will have a special place in God’s plan for this town! Be listening, be watching, for you shall be a voice for God!” He touched her, and she collapsed into the cushioning arms of Dee and Blanche.
While Blanche fanned Adrian’s face, Dee leaned in, expecting the very next touch. Nichols moved on without meeting her eye.
Ooh! Kyle thought. That hurt.
At three o’clock, just an hour after the meeting began, Mrs. Macon signaled Brandon and then pointed to her fancy jeweled wristwatch. He raised his hands in a gesture of blessing. “Our time is gone.” People began to protest, but he didn’t waver. “That’s all for today. Spread the word to your friends and come again tomorrow, eleven o’clock in the morning.”
Kyle and Bob both knew the significance of that time: It was when their own morning services began.
Nichols ran over to the door through which he first emerged as the crowd rose and applauded him. Then, with a Nixon-like farewell wave, he ducked through the door.
“Good-bye, everyone!” said the widow. “Thank you for coming.”
A reporter shouted, “Can we have a moment with him?”
She shook her head. “He’s not here to do interviews. He’s here to minister.”
Sally Fordyce hurried across the garage toward the widow, her eyes full of tears, her hands clasped under her trembling lip. “Mrs. Macon! I’m here! I’ve come to see him! I’m . . .” Her words became unintelligible as she wept.
Michael took his staff in hand and started herding the crowd. “Thank you for your presence with us today. Walk with God as you return to your vehicles!
The Lord bless you and keep you! The Lord lift up his countenance upon you and give you peace! Watch your speed driving out.”
“Mrs. Macon! I’ve, I’ve got to see him!” Sally cried.
Suddenly, Nichols appeared in the doorway again and aimed a warm and welcoming gaze at Sally Fordyce. “Sally!” he called, smiling and beckoning to her.
She crumpled to her knees, shaking with emotion. He took her hand, raised her up, and they disappeared through the door.
Kyle and Bob looked at each other.
“Sally Fordyce!” Kyle said. “The one who saw the angel!”
“He has plans for her.” Bob shook his head.
“Oh God forbid!”
THE CROWD MOVED toward the pasture, almost every one of them wearing the same awestruck expression and talking about what they’d seen because they had to talk about it. Dorothy, who for years had had arthritis, was skipping, and showing off. Alice who once had a bad hip was prancing and square dancing with her husband. People were passing bits of bread around, sampling it and agreeing that it was the real thing. Matt and Norman manned the paddock gate again, nodding good-bye to everyone as they passed. They were beaming.
Now that they were in the pasture and away from the house, the television reporters took their microphones in hand and took full advantage of their cameras. They spoke excitedly, even frantically into the lenses. “We have seen incredible things today! A woman with a bad hip is now dancing! The legends of ancient times have become reality!” One reporter could hardly speak, his emotions choking his voice as he reported, “Brandon Nichols touched me, just in passing, and I felt a charge like electricity, and now, please look at my hand, can we get a close-up of this? The severed tendons are like new. . . .”
It wasn’t at all difficult to grab someone for an eyewitness interview. Dorothy went on camera, and so did Alice. A man turned around so the camera could see new hair growing where his bald spot used to be.
Kyle and Bob moved with the crowd, speechless from horror and amazement, but also because any comment they could make would be dangerous to make here. Kyle kept doing visual three-sixties, trying to track down the other ministers. He caught a glimpse of Paul Daley and Al Vendetti already into the pasture, talking feverishly and visibly shaken. Armond Harrison was still back at the ranch house, apparently having a little conference with the widow. Sally Fordyce was out of sight, immediately part of Nichols’s inner circle.
A reporter nabbed Paul and Al and shoved a microphone in their faces. As Kyle and Bob passed they could hear Paul stuttering a reply to a question. “W-we are in the presence of something immeasurable, unfath—unfatha—unfathomable . . . I’m sorry, I am really quite beside myself.”
They hurried by, not wanting to be interviewed.
“We’ve got trouble right here in River City,” Bob said finally, and very quietly.
“And some very serious preaching to do,” Kyle replied.
Tomorrow, he determined, he would be ready. He would go home right now, get out his Bible, get on his knees, and arm himself for battle. His congregation and the town of Antioch wouldn’t know what hit them.
If only he’d known how armed and ready his opponents were.
11
IDIDN’T ATTEND Antioch Pentecostal Mission on Sunday morning, but Kyle told me about it later, and I can imagine how it went. Attendance was good, the same kind of attendance you see at annual business meetings when there’s a hot dispute in progress or a scandal has surfaced or the pastor is about to resign. Anticipation was in the air, to put it mildly. Kyle was so eager to preach he almost told the worship team to skip the music, but he thought better of it.
I know Bud Lundgren, the big-bellied, flannel-shirted guitar player, would have been difficult to disappoint. Once Bud had his day laid out, he was like a bulldozer without a driver, pushing relentlessly ahead and impossible to turn around. As for Bud’s wife, Julie, playing her saxophone on Sunday morning was a matter of religious conviction, and not playing could amount to a desecration of the Sabbath. Linda, Kyle’s trim little wife, saw the wisdom in going through with the worship service and encouraged Kyle to keep it in. The congregation and Kyle could use the uplift, she said.
So at five minutes to eleven, Linda sat down at the piano and got the preservice music started, a quick medley of worship choruses and hymns. She swept through the chords and fills in a Pentecostal style Kyle always admired. Bud wump-thumped a rhythm on his old electric guitar, and Julie made sure there could be no question anywhere in the building what the melody of the song was. Kyle was primed for preaching. His spirit was stirred and his adrenaline flowing. He was humming the songs as he took his chair on the platform, but when the little band came to “Victory in Jesus,” he couldn’t hold back any longer and started singing aloud. Some in the congregation joined in, some fumbled with the hymn books trying to find the words, and some just sat there not singing because that wasn’t supposed to happen yet. Kyle didn’t care. He sang anyway, his eyes closed, his heart touching heaven.
The song service went well. Katie Kelmer, a vivacious lady with blonde hair stacked high atop her head, led the singing in her flamboyant, hand-raised style. Halfway through, Brother Norheim started “Bless the Lord, O My Soul” and everyone joined in. That was a good sign. He usually did that in the evening service, but this morning he must have been feeling an evening kind of anointing.
Dee Baylor, along with the Folsoms and Davises, skipped the service. Brandon Nichols would be performing again that morning and they didn’t want to miss it. In addition, they probably suspected what Kyle was going to say and didn’t want to hear it.
But I have a good idea who was there: the Forester and White families, brand-new in the faith and growing in the Lord; three generations of Sissons; four generations of Bradleys; the Hansons, Parkses, Kelmers, Hiddles, and Lundgrens. I know they stood with him that morning. He heard their Amens.
In my mind I can see and hear how Kyle’s sermon came across. I’ve heard Kyle preach, and when he’s on a roll he’s unstoppable. At times he can have a weakness for rabbit trails, and sometimes a particular illumination on the Scriptures will remain exciting to him but vague to his listeners, but overall, he gets from point A to point B, and persuasively. On this Sunday morning, by all accounts, he was on track, full of steam, and to the point. He’d heard and seen enough and it was time to get into the Word and settle the whole matter.
He launched his message from Matthew 24, repeating and ex- pounding on warnings that came from Jesus himself: “Take heed that no one deceive you. For many will come in my name, saying ‘I am the Christ,’ and will deceive many,” and “many false prophets will rise up and deceive many,” and “if anyone says to you, ‘Look, here is the Christ!’ or ‘There!’ do not believe it. For false christs and false prophets will rise and show great signs and wonders to deceive, if possible, even the elect. See, I have told you beforehand. Therefore if they say to you, ‘Look, he is in the desert!’ do not go out; or, ‘Look, he is in the inner rooms—’ ” At this point, Kyle felt it appropriate to add, “Or ‘Look, he’s up at the Macon ranch,’” and most of the folks nodded or even chuckled.
He was shouting with righteous energy by the time he read, “Do not believe it. For as the lightning comes from the east and flashes to the west, so also will the coming of the Son of Man be.” He made a pretty strong point: Jesus coming to a crummy little wheat town in Eastern Washington didn’t quite measure up to lightning coming from the east and flashing to the west. “Folks,” he said, “the Messiah came once, was born in Bethlehem and grew up in Nazareth, not Missoula, Montana! I believe a false christ has come to Antioch, and I intend to use the Scriptures to make my case. Some are enthralled by signs and wonders, by a clever selling job, but I say we test this so-called christ by the Scriptures. As it says in Isaiah, ‘To the law and the testimony! If they do not speak according to this word, it is because there is no light in them!’”
He got Amens to that. The people were wit
h him.
Kyle took stern issue with Brandon Nichols’s message, if there even was one. The “Jesus” up at the Macon ranch seemed happy to let people believe whatever they wanted about him or anything else. The Jesus of the Gospels claimed to be—and Kyle pounded this one in from several directions—the way, the truth, the life, and the only means of access to God. More than that, the Jesus of Colossians 2 was “the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation, the creator of all things visible and invisible, before all things, the beginning, the firstborn from the dead, in whom all the fulness of deity dwelled.” It was good stuff. Stern stuff. He pulled no punches. He got Amens and Praise the Lords and even some applause.
Then, for a big finish, he reminded everyone of the cross and the price Jesus paid for our salvation. Holding his arms out to reenact the crucifixion, he spoke of the Roman spikes that pinned Jesus to the cross and then put out a challenge. “My Jesus died for my sins and washed me clean by his blood, and all creation will know this by the nail prints in his hands! If this man is the Christ, where are the scars?” He looked in the general direction of the Macon ranch and hollered, “Show me the scars that bought my salvation! Your tricks and healings and mind reading are impressive, but I need to be saved from my sins! Can you do that? Show me the nail scars!”
Amens! Applause! Agreement!
By the time Kyle said his closing prayer, his people were steeled in their convictions and the issue was settled. Kyle felt great.
He felt so great that he put all the main points of his sermon, including Scripture references, into a letter and mailed it to Nancy Barrons to print in the Antioch Harvester. That’s how I first learned the content of his message. That’s how the whole town heard about it.
And that’s when the cow manure hit the combine blades.
ARE WE JEALOUS,Reverend Sherman?
I had not known Nancy Barrons to be quite so personal and direct in her editorials, but Kyle’s letter, which she did print on the Op-Ed page, must have aroused more anger than her cool professionalism could contain.
The Visitation Page 17
