The Visitation

by Frank Peretti

  We even did what we were told when sitting in the overflow room watching Pastor Harris on television. The image on the screen would tell us to stand, clap, greet one another, say something to somebody, repent of this or that, and say Amen if we agreed, and we did it. It was a little bizarre at first, responding and talking to a television image that didn’t see or hear us.

  It seemed odd to turn to a total stranger at Pastor Harris’s prompting and bare our souls—what we were feeling, what we were hearing from God, what we wanted to change in our lives, what temptations were still a snare to us. But we did it, and we got used to it.

  WE WERE NEW to the Young Marrieds Sunday school class: fifty couples wearing nametags and setting their own trend in polyester. During the brief coffee and fellowship time, we tried mingling. I stepped up to meet two young urban professionals, nose to nose in a theological discussion over Styrofoam cups of coffee.

  “Don’t you think the Pauline approach is epistemological, at least in part?” said one.

  “Well, only if you bring epistemology to bear on the order of the list,” said the other.

  “But I’m not talking about the specificity of the order.”

  “You can’t force the specificity.”

  “Oh no, not at all.”

  “I think Paul intended a general, well-orbed presentation. Otherwise the whole list becomes problematic. We’re distantiating election and free will.”

  “But there should be a distantiation, that’s what I’m saying!”

  Should I say hello? Would that be interrupting? Should I wait for them to notice me standing there? Should I stick my nametag on my forehead?

  They never noticed me standing there and never paused long enough for me to enter in. They just went on with their discussion, talking like Pastor Harris and oblivious to my presence.

  Perhaps I needed to learn the vocabulary. Perhaps I needed to comb my hair straight back and get a pair of white shoes and a white belt.

  Marian tried to join a conversation between three mothers.

  “Well, sometimes I spank her on her bare bottom,” said one, “but you’re talking heavy logistics!”

  The second shook her head shamingly. “But you have to deal with that spirit of rebellion! The correction has to be felt.”

  “I tried the Gerber peaches but they gave Jamie the runs,” said the third. “I’m going through more diapers. . . .”

  “Try the peas,” said the first. “Buddy loves the peas.”

  “But Jamie hates peas.”

  The second lady leaped on that one. “Ah-ah-ah! Rebellion! Deal with it!”

  Marian decided it wouldn’t be courteous to introduce herself. Kids were the subject here, not hydraulic valves and couplers. No one asked her who she was anyway.

  We met back at the refreshment counter and picked up a cookie for each of us.

  “Well,” said one gal to her friend, “I can’t tell you the details or I’ll speak it into existence.”

  “It depends on how you phrase it, I think.”

  We headed for our seats.

  “How often do you make love?” Miles Newberry asked another couple as we walked by—he could have been a doctor asking about their frequency of bowel movement.

  Conversations in that class were a little hard to get into.

  BUT YOUcould get into a program. The Cathedral of Life had programs, conceived and administered from the top down, and no program, event, or activity ever materialized without a logo. The morning service had a logo: the sun rising with little Y-shaped people praising the Lord in front of it. Wednesday night’s logo was a long, winding trail with a glowing mountain in the middle and on each end. The Young Marrieds class had a Y-shaped father and Y-shaped mother with little Y-shaped kids. Every class, every activity, every age group, had a logo.

  Our Young Marrieds class was a program with its own program, Young Marrieds Fellowship Night. Once a month, someone at the top would sort through the roster cards and assign each couple to a group of four couples. That group would then go out together and fellowship—go to dinner, play miniature golf, whatever the group coordinator decided. We all wore tee shirts with a classy looking YMFN logo on the front and a scripture, “Endeavoring to keep the Unity of the Spirit in the Bond of Peace—Ephesians 4:3,” on the back. The next month, someone would shuffle the cards so we never went out with the same people twice. To hear Miles Newberry tell it, this was to ensure a “well-orbed” relationship with the rest of the body of Christ. We went along with it, tapping colored golf balls through windmills and past waterfalls and carrying on superficial conversations, all the while stifling suggestions from Satan that the church was picking our friends for us.

  I REALLY HAD A HARD TIME getting it through my head that The Cathedral of Life did not need nor desire my help. Every church I had ever been a part of always needed help with something, whether it was teachers for the Sunday school or volunteers to clean the building once a month or just greeters to stand inside the doorway and pass out bulletins to people arriving. I was ready to be a servant, to do things the right way, to humble myself and be useful somewhere, somehow.

  “We already have a trained staff,” said the youth pastor. “Thanks anyway.”

  “The banjo?” said the music minister with a half-smile. “Why?”

  The chief usher shook his head. “I’ve got all the greeters I need. You’d have to complete a greeter program anyway, and that would require a year’s membership.”

  “We’ll talk about it, brother,” said Miles Newberry, and we never did.

  They did everything and had no procedure for dealing with two unknown faces emerging from the multitude and wanting to do something.

  So month after month we continued to show up, hurry in, praise the Lord, hear the Word, and hurry out with the thousands. We put our tithe check into the offering plate and supported those highly trained, handpicked folks who ran all those programs with all those logos. Surely we could get used to feeling unknown and unneeded every Sunday. Someday we would conquer the cynicism we felt every time we turned to greet those around us, knowing the likelihood of ever seeing them again.

  After all, this was our role as members.

  THE ROLE OF THE PASTORAL STAFF, apparently, was to create and maintain the proper image.

  Pastor Dale Harris took full advantage of video, which seemed reasonable, given the size his task would have been without it. The drawback for us was the subtle awareness that crept in as we sat with hundreds in an overflow room watching his image: To all the thousands, whether in the sanctuary or in the overflow room, an image was all he was and ever would be.

  When we joined the church as members, we gathered in the overflow room with about thirty others for a new members’ orientation and welcome meeting. Pastor Harris came in to greet us; and I’d never seen him so close. I’d never heard his voice unamplified. I’d never seen the natural color of his face or the blemishes on his jaw. He said a few words of introduction, and then we watched a video recording of him speaking to us about the duties and obligations of church membership.

  “Unity, unity, unity,” he said. “As God has brought us together to be stones in his temple, so we must be set in place by his Spirit and mortared to one another by love. We are a worshiping church,” he said, “and in our meetings we strive to touch the throne room of God in our praise of him.”

  “Oh dear,” he said. “Pardon me, but if this is not your heart, if you do not wish to enter the presence of God with us in this way, please don’t join the church.

  “We are to be of one mind,” he said, “an army marching together.”

  These were fair and honest words, and on their face they were agreeable enough. It was only in the months that would follow that we realized the prerequisite for such unity: the abandonment of our wills and judgment to the organic will of the thousands, which, in turn, was controlled every Sunday by the man at the top.

  The man we did not know.

  When the video ended a
nd the screen went to snow, he returned to extend to us the right hand of fellowship and welcome us into the congregation. I can still see the face of one young man weeping, embracing Pastor Dale Harris. He was home now, part of the family. He’d found a shepherd.

  Months later, I would reflect on that moment and wonder, Did that young man know that this was the only time he would ever embrace his pastor? Did he consider that his pastor would never again touch or look him in the eye? This pastor would never turn aside to greet him by name or return his smile from the platform. After this evening, his face, his name, his very existence would drop from the pastor’s memory and the pastor would retreat once again behind his phalanx of associates who spoke his jargon and kept the machinery running from behind those dark cherry office doors.

  After this evening, Pastor Dale Harris would once again be a face, a voice, a two-dimensional, unknowable, untouchable image, and all of us would become unseen, unknown, nameless faces in the sea of thousands, all marching in step.

  I don’t suppose that young man thought of such things at the time.

  When I embraced the pastor, I wasn’t thinking of such things either.

  But I think Marian knew it all along.

  IT TOOK MY SISTER, Rene, to hit us over the head with it. She’d been hitting me over the head with her big sister wisdom ever since we were kids, so she had no qualms or hesitations. She came to visit us in the spring when we’d been at the Cathedral for ten months and been members for six. When we took her to church with us on Sunday morning, it was the first time she’d ever been there.

  We got to the sidewalk at our usual time, but for some reason the main sanctuary filled up before we could get in. The ushers, standing in a long, tight line like traffic cones, directed us downstairs into the overflow room where the television was set up. We and three hundred other people went through the Sunday routine in front of that tube, worshiping, greeting one another, saying things to each other, asking the stranger on either side a personal question about their spirituality, hearing the message, and then getting out of there, walking along another line of living traffic cones. Rene wasn’t much of a participant that morning. She just sat quietly, listening, observing, and being a courteous guest.

  Sunday evening, she didn’t become difficult, but she did ask with wonder, “You’re going back there again?”

  I knew Rene wasn’t an avid churchgoer. Our strict, church-first upbringing seemed to have had the opposite effect on her. “Well,”

  I said, “it’s how we do things. It’s part of our covenant with the Lord and with our local church body. If the man of God is sharing the Word, it’s our duty to be there.”

  She looked horrified, but said nothing.

  She came with us to the Sunday night meeting, and this time we got into the main sanctuary but had to sit up in the balcony. I was a little nervous because she was new and hadn’t had a chance to learn the balcony rules.

  “Make sure you keep your purse tucked under your seat,” I instructed her, talking close to her ear so she could hear me over the worship music. “We have to keep the aisle in front of us clear.”

  We managed to find some seats at the very front of the balcony. Uh-oh. There were a lot of rules here.

  “Uh, make sure you keep your Bible beside you, not on the railing.” She moved down the pew ahead of me toward the wall.

  “No, don’t sit there, you’ll block the television lights. And don’t touch the brass railing; the fingerprints dull the shine.”

  She sat down slowly, looking at me and giving me time to stop her in case that was a wrong thing to do. I nodded to her that it was okay.

  An usher hurried up. “Pardon me, we’re trying to keep this row clear.” There were already thirty people moving down the row behind us. He called to them, “We have to keep this row clear, folks. Sorry.”

  We backed all the way out and found the next row up. It was a thirty-foot pew and there were enough bottoms to far exceed that capacity. Rene sat across the aisle from us and got out her pen to jot something down. I tried to warn her, but—

  Too late. An usher tapped her on the shoulder. “Excuse me. We can’t allow fountain pens in the balcony.”

  She put her pen down, stroked her forehead a moment, and then looked up at the usher. The worship singing was full and spirited, but I imagine half the balcony could hear her question. “Is there anything else I’m not supposed to do? Do you have a list I can read? Is there a class I can take? Is there any way I can save you the trouble of harassing me!?”

  I had seen people get booted out of the balcony before. I started to cross the aisle.

  A second usher stopped me, his hand on my chest. “Sir, please sit down. You’re disturbing the service.”

  I sat down. My sister was going nose to nose with an usher and about to be removed, and I sat down. Marian gaped at me. “What are we doing? Rene’s in trouble!”

  Rene was gathering her things. “Travis, I’m leaving!” She stood and waved to the people in the balcony. “Good-bye, everyone! Happy churching!”

  Marian and I got up.

  An usher held up his hand at chest level in front of us. “Please sit down—”

  Marian maintained a mature dignity and poise. “Stand aside,” she told him, “or I will scratch your eyes out.”

  He stood aside. Marian followed Rene and I followed Marian, cringing to think how grieved the Holy Spirit must be.

  We tried to keep up with Rene as she stormed down the sidewalk, heading for our car in parking area two. Knowing Rene, I was aware she’d been patient to the point of sainthood, but now her time had come. She’d seen it all, heard it all, digested it all, and she was ready to comment. “Why, oh why do you subject yourselves to this?”

  “Well, it’s a big church in a big city—” I started to say.

  “That is religious, God-tripping, cockamamie—” I won’t complete her full description of my excuse. “Have you lost your mind? That’s not a church, it’s a Christian factory!”

  “They have to control— ”

  She stopped and looked back at the building, pointing. “Do they even know who you are?”

  “Well, it’s—”

  “Do they? Does anyone at that church know who you are?”

  Marian answered, her own pain showing, “Not really!”

  “You say it’s your church home. Does it know when you’re home? Does it even care?”

  I tried to shrug it off. “You get used to it.”

  “NO!” She grabbed my arm, on the verge of tears. “Don’t get used to it, Travis! Don’t you ever get used to it! Don’t let them do this to you!”

  We went back to our little apartment, had soup and sandwiches, and talked until close to midnight. To summarize the whole evening, we were hit soundly over the head by an outsider who still had eyes to see. We broke down and wept, finally getting in touch with the pain we’d been trying to suppress for ten months. We concluded that the Cathedral did not attract people like Rene, and accepted the truth that the Cathedral could never hold much attraction for us either.

  We never went back.

  But more than a year later, we continued to receive a monthly calendar and letter from Pastor Dale Harris, telling us how much we were loved and how he appreciated our continuing participation and support.

  WE FOUND ANOTHER CHURCH, also well spoken of, and were astounded and relieved to find that there was nothing seriously wrong with us—we weren’t in the wrong; we were just in the wrong church. We met the pastor the first Sunday and he remembered our names the next Sunday. We could easily join conversations with people just like us and made friends immediately. We got to know the pastoral staff the way people get to know people, and we didn’t even need nametags!

  And we could serve! When the pastor announced they needed help carrying in folding chairs, we leaped at the chance and just about cried from the joy. Next we handed out bulletins at the door and welcomed people coming in. I got out my banjo and helped with the worship
at our Wednesday night home group meeting. Three months later, I was leading a home group myself.

  So we grew in the Lord. We learned, we matured, and when we finally left Southern California, we had made friends for life. After the Cathedral, it was surprising how easy it was.

  I DON’T CONSIDER MYSELF SCARRED or wounded by the Cathedral of Life experience, but I admit I picked up a few quirks. I never believe anything just because a big-named Christian leader says it. I never do anything I don’t want to do just because a pastor, presuming to be the voice of God, tries to coerce me with guilt or threats. I no longer respond to visions God gives to others about what I should or should not do, think, or be.

  And since the Cathedral I have never, and will never again, turn to someone and say something the pastor tells me to say. Never.

  20

  WHEN I TOLD THEM about my telephone encounter with The Cathedral of Life, Morgan and Kyle laughed, then apologized for laughing and offered to help me out with airfare to L.A. So with teeth gritted, I called the Cathedral one more time, got bounced all around the premises by secretaries and answering machines, and finally—miracles still happen!—got an appointment to see Associate Pastor Norm Corrigan on Tuesday, June 9, at ten in the morning, for one hour.

  Tuesday, June 9, at nine-thirty in the morning, I was there, dressed in suit and tie and ready to go nose to nose.

  The new building was spectacular. Stone, brick, and acres and acres of tinted glass. Fountains, walkways, trees, shrubs, and tons of beauty bark and lava rock. Inside, miles of rich carpet and fine woodwork. Sitting areas the size of major hotel lobbies. Fine furniture, high ceilings, and massive chandeliers. A huge brass plaque bearing the names of all those who gave ten thousand dollars or more to the building project.