by Laurel Dewey
“Fine,” Bartosh said concisely, and Jane pushed the RECORD button.
“I’ll leave you two alone and get those newsletters, Jackie,” Ingrid said before quietly vanishing into Bartosh’s office.
Jane took a breath and started to speak when Bartosh interrupted her.
“I smell smoke,” he said, his tenacious eyes focused on Jane. “Cigarette smoke.”
“I was afraid of that,” Jane replied, never wavering from character. “As your wife may have told you, I’ve been in Colorado on family business and, unfortunately, surrounded by individuals who are smokers.”
“It’s a filthy habit.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more,” Jane said, briefly flashing on the soothing image of inhaling a deep drag of nicotine-laced smoke. “It’s such an addiction. Some say it’s worse than addiction to heroin.”
“Addiction is addiction,” Bartosh said tersely. “It’s simply a lack of self-discipline. And where there is no self-discipline there can be no self-rule.”
Jane seriously considered the statement and found it oddly provocative. “May I use that in the article?”
“If you wish,” Bartosh brusquely replied, sitting back in his chair but maintaining a strong, cautionary posture. “What happened to your niece is unforgivable.” The statement appeared to come out of nowhere and rang with resounding judgment. “It’s a perfect example of what occurs when one falls prey to the Secular Humanist manifesto and the Culture of Darkness.”
Jane had no idea what the Secular Humanist manifesto espoused, but she played along, with a callback to her conversation with Kit. “I agree. It’s secular elitism at his worst.” Jane waited for the catchphrase to take effect before continuing. “We’re all sick about what happened to Janie. It’s what makes the story I’m writing for the magazine so much more meaningful to me. Did your wife tell you about the theme of our story?”
“Yes. I’m sure she related to you that I usually don’t agree to do any interviews without prior written correspondence.”
Jane nodded and took another painful sip of the bitter java. “May I ask what changed your mind?”
“It’s not what, Mrs. Lightjoy, it’s who. Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Based upon situations that have come to my attention over the past three weeks, it’s become apparent to me that His fervent message is being ignored by our young people, and because of this, great suffering will befall the children very soon.” Bartosh’s visage took on a grave appearance. “I wrote about this exact subject in our last newsletter. My words, it seems, have become prophetic. But that doesn’t surprise me. God has always used me as a vessel to spread his message.”
“May I ask what situation occurred that allowed us to have this interview?”
A dark pall befell Bartosh. He spoke with a contained fury, edged with anguish. “Three weeks ago, one of the Brotherhood Council members informed me of a perverted group of men and women known as ‘A.C.U.S.’: Adult Child Union Society. The group encourages girls as young as twelve to have sexual intercourse with adults, as well as take part in sadistic ritual abuse.” Bartosh hesitated, obviously sickened by what he was about to divulge. “Once-a-month, they organize a ‘Night of the Virgin’ where adult members sacrifice their preteen, virginal daughters or female family members to the highest bidder in a silent auction.”
Jane felt a peak of ire. Years ago, she had cut her teeth at the Department working some of Denver’s most disturbing child sexual abuse cases. The lucky child victims, Jane always said, were those who died during their torment. The survivors lived their lives in tortured shells.
“When I returned home and my wife informed me of the manner in which your niece was murdered and then your story theme for Christian Parenting, I realized that it wasn’t a coincidence.”
Coincidence. There was that damn word again, Jane thought.
“As always, our Lord was speaking loud and clearly to me. He was telling me to use the Christian media to expose this repulsive, secular splinter group.” Bartosh appeared trapped in a moment of personal darkness, and his eyes drifted off to the side. “When young girls are led astray from The Way, their transgressions impact so many for decades. One sinful action can produce thousands of hours of anguish....” Bartosh fell silent for another long moment before regaining his focus and turning back to Jane. “I put full blame on the secular elitist society for creating this soil in our culture that allows a group such as A.C.U.S. to conceive their madness. They don’t have the heartbeat! The power of the secular media to impose a Godless message on our youth is truly unforgivable. They wrap their message in a seductive package that most young girls cannot resist! Exactly what message are the perpetrators of smut and carnal lust sending to young girls when they represent youngsters as harlots or glorify drug addicts? You can’t walk into a store these days without being bombarded with a visual reminder that young, innocent girls are sold as a public commodity for the prurient enjoyment of those who lack discernment and self-discipline. There was a time when there would be an outcry if a girl of eighteen were sexualized in public. Now, a child as young as twelve can be exploited in the media and no one thinks twice about that kind of sickness. When a nation turns a blind eye to rampant exploitation of innocence and then encourages it by purchasing the smut, is it any wonder why a group like A.C.U.S. formed and appears to be flourishing with unrepentant abandon?”
“Have you alerted the authorities about A.C.U.S.?”
“Secular authorities?” Bartosh asked with disgust. “Yes! You know what I was told? ‘We’ll check into it.’ Well, good for them! That means we can look forward to at least another ten years of bureaucracy before someone saves those innocent young girls! I go to the people who I know can spread the word and make a real difference! Members of our Congregation have invested nothing less than their souls in this Divine Mission. I’ve told them that it is a mandate from God and will be a Crusade like none they have ever seen! We are in the fight for our final redemption.” Bartosh took a deep breath. “If we lose this fight, the hammer of God will fall, Lucifer will rule, and darkness will engulf this earth, erasing the beloved blood sacrifice of our Lord, Jesus Christ.” Bartosh sat back, seemingly spent from the enormity of what he had just shared with Jane.
Jane dutifully jotted down his words on her notepad, nodding her head.
Bartosh leaned forward, his hands tightly clasped. “Hear, O heavens, and give ear, O earth: for the LORD hath spoken, I have nourished and brought up children, and they have rebelled against me.” Bartosh recited the words with an unflagging flair, as if he penned them himself. “Ah sinful nation, a people laden with iniquity, a seed of evildoers, children that are corrupters: they have forsaken the Lord, they have provoked the Holy One of Israel unto anger, they are gone away backward.” Bartosh took another meaningful, deep breath. “Isaiah, Chapter one. Verses two and four, respectively.”
Jane let the moment reverberate before speaking. “This is why I bring a recorder. These moments need to be captured on tape in order to appreciate their magnitude.”
Bartosh settled back, grasping the arms of the chair with white-knuckled tension. “Do you believe in signs, Mrs. Lightjoy?”
What a question, Jane thought. Her mind drifted for a split second to the snakestone and the hawk. “Of course.”
Bartosh proceeded to blame the secular elitists for everything from teaching evolution theory in grade school to premarital sex and bestiality. “What is the result of this secular sadism? Christians have become the most persecuted people on this earth. The wonder-working power of Jesus is defiled. His sacrifice is spit upon. We cannot depend upon the sideliners to bring the children back to Him.” Bartosh was clearly on a roll. For the next ten minutes he gave Jane one example after another of secular sadism. There was the demonstration by the American Atheists in New Canaan, Connecticut, against the crèche, claiming that the image stirred violence because it encouraged disturbed people to enter the neighborhood and destroy it. “So, the answer is to have no crèche
at all so we don’t attract destructive perpetrators! If I were to apply that kind of logic to life in general, I would stop eating so I don’t incur the wrath of those who have no food!” Jane had to smile at the wry comment. The examples continued. In one Texas school, no one was allowed to exchange Christmas cards. In Northern California, no Christmas hymns were allowed to be sung at a holiday pageant. “They cry from the rooftops, ‘It’s a violation of the separation of Church and State!’ And I respond that it is a violation to separate God from His people in the name of secular propriety!” Bartosh pounded his fist on the coffee table to emphasize his point. “The change must take place with our children. If they are not taught to fear God and worship His name, we are destined to live in the abyss and subsist on the pustules of Lucifer for eternity.” Bartosh once again leaned forward, his piercing blue eyes boring holes in Jane. “Are you raising your children to fear Him?”
“Absolutely,” Jane said with unflinching commitment.
“Do you have any daughters?”
Jane figured it was best to stay out of that dubious loop. “No. Two sons.”
“God has blessed you.”
“Were you and your wife so blessed?”
A dour look befell Bartosh. “Yes. A daughter.” His ruddy cheeks flushed suddenly with an angry crimson cast. “But she’s no longer with us.”
“No longer—”
“She’s in Lucifer’s hands now,” he said with a terse upturn of his voice.
“I’m...so sorry,” Jane said as she watched Bartosh’s eyes drift to the floor in a solemn yet odd, unsettling manner.
In a faraway stare, he looked up at the picture of Jesus, knocking on the wooden door. “The Lord will knock on the door of your heart and all you need to do is answer and obey His Law. Those who refuse will experience the hammer of God and live forever in the pit of darkness.” For a moment, tears welled up in his eyes. It was a startling human moment Jane did not expect. Bartosh swallowed hard and pressed the memory deep into his gut. He regained control and sat up with newfound conviction. “Christians kept quiet for so long and played the passive role. Turning the other cheek! That just allowed the secular Humanists to view us as doormats. But they don’t anymore! We are a powerful, unified group of people with a common cause! I was telling the Brotherhood Council this morning that we have to ratchet up our ministry to a new level! We will no longer seek tolerance toward us. Tolerance is requested by those who are too weak to stand up and grab what already belongs to them by a Divine declaration! And that Divine declaration is the literal teachings from God in the Holy Bible! Congregation members have taken their rightful ownership of Jesus!”
Jane bristled at Bartosh’s sanctimonious conviction. “Ownership?”
Bartosh explained that “ownership” entitled church members to proselytize with greater conviction. He sat back, satiated in his piety. “Do you know what I call our Congregation members?” Jane shook her head. “Motivators for Jesus!”
Jane recalled the term from the court files. “Motivators for Jesus. What an unusual terminology. Could you explain how one motivates for Jesus?”
Bartosh scowled at the question. “It’s very simple. One’s heart tells him.”
“What if one man’s heart says one thing, while another man’s heart—”
“When Jesus’ love fills your heart, the answer is always the same: spread His word and save the world from destruction! That’s simple to do when you own Jesus!”
Jane shifted the conversation to Bartosh’s psychology doctorate, only to learn that he did not acknowledge it. Psychology was part and parcel of the secular humanist decree; his theology doctorate more closely affirmed his beliefs.
“I was ignorant of The Way at that time in my life. I came to know Jesus as my devout Savior and Lord when I was thirtythree—the same age that our Lord was crucified. Divine Irony, I always tell my Congregation. He died for me at thirty-three and I was reborn at that same age. Part of being reborn is starting fresh. Some people change their name; I decided to disassociate myself from my psychology degree, as I felt it was part of my past and lacking relevance for my life as a leader of a Church.”
Jane was taken by Bartosh’s statement, since it seemed he used the psychology doctorate to validate his services when asked to testify in court cases. “Isn’t psychology useful for uncovering personality traits that can become destructive later in life?”
“Not the way the secular world practices it. They spend too much time making obscure associations that almost always have to do with sexual perversion or sexual abuse at a young age.”
“You don’t believe that sexual abuse can lead to sexual perversion later in life?” Jane asked, her mind using Lou Peters as a prime example.
“That’s a secular argument. Expose two brothers to the same sexual abuse at a young age. One will come out unscathed and the other, a twisted killer.”
Jane couldn’t disagree. Then there were those who were exposed to abuse as she and her brother were and neither ended up on the wrong side of the law. As far as coming out “unscathed,” well, that was a dicey determination. Jane felt comfortable enough to make a leap. “Have you ever had personal contact with anyone fitting that description?”
“What description?”
“A killer,” Jane said in an offhand manner.
“No.”
“With all your years of ministering, I assumed you’d meet a killer.”
“No,” Bartosh said with a definite shake of his head.
Jane couldn’t let it go. “That’s amazing.”
“I assure you I have never been in the presence of a murderer. Now, our newsletter is sent to the incarcerated. Some of them may be of that ilk, but I have no personal relationship with them. We also have our Ministry Forum on the Internet. It connects brothers and sisters who are shut-ins, or in hospice, or in prison, as well as anyone in the Congregation who wishes to discuss timely matters of our faith.”
“How do you justify the secular quality of using the Internet?”
“I gave that question soulful prayer. After much thought, I realized God wanted the Forum. When I received that word, I had no choice but to follow His wishes.”
Jane wasn’t sure how God expressed interest in the Congregation going online, but she figured she’d let that question ride. She recognized an emerging pattern with Dr. John Bartosh: his tenacious, fundamental belief centered upon his direct line to Jesus. That heavenly connection allowed for any number of services, publications, and the like to come into fruition. In Bartosh’s eyes, “The Great Commission of Christ” demanded that he be the middleman for Jesus, a translator of His wishes for those whose ears weren’t as finely tuned to the bigger heavenly plan.
Ingrid quietly padded into the room, carrying a handful of newsletters. “I don’t want to interrupt you two,” she said, gently crossing to Jane and handing her the reading material. “I’ve included issues of timely importance from the most recent to when we first started our newsletter almost sixteen years ago in California.”
Jane glanced at the newsletter’s bold name: THE CONGREGATION CHRONICLE. Underneath, the subtitle read, WE ARE WARRIORS FOR JESUS!
“I’m still learning my way around the Forum,” Bartosh interjected. “That’s why I put Ingrid in charge of monitoring the daily traffic. We call her the ‘Matron of the Forum.’”
“Monitoring?” Jane speculated that the Ministry Forum was about as exciting as dry toast. Still, she maintained her plastic smile of appreciation. “Sounds wonderful.”
“It’s another way The Lamb of God can spread The Word,” Bartosh said in a self-satisfied tone. “Often, we see members who print on the Forum—”
“You mean post, dear,” Ingrid tenderly corrected her husband.
“Right, post on the Forum. I often see names of those who have moved away, are in hospice, and so forth, and am more than happy to respond to their questions and faith-related concerns. We have a Congregation brother in Chicago named Thomas, another
brother, Matthew, in South Dakota, I believe. Ah, Manuel, Simon, Phillip....”
Jane noticed that, aside from Manuel, all the names belonged to the Disciples. She wanted to ask if Judas was on the Forum, but decided against it. “How ironic,” she said instead, “most share their names with the Apostles.”
“No irony. As I said earlier, when one is reborn into the true faith of God, you cast off the old world. For some, that means changing their names to align with the heartbeat of true Christianity.”
“Who chooses the name?” Jane asked.
“They do, of course. They choose a Biblical surname that resonates with their new identity.”
“Did you change your name?”
“No. I was blessed with the name John. Of all the names, it’s the one I would happily choose. I have always had an affinity for John the Baptist.”
“Why is that?”
“His faith was as strong as mine. He was willing to sacrifice it all—his body...his life...to serve Jesus.” Bartosh soulfully spoke from the depths of his heart. “I resonate with his unyielding conviction. My devotion to Jesus, Mrs. Lightjoy, is unwavering. One is only as strong as his faith. It defines you. It motivates you. It narrows your perception to what is ultimately required for your own salvation. Some might say I have tunnel vision when it comes to my beliefs. I say, so be it when our Lord Jesus is standing at the end of that tunnel.”
There were a few thoughtful moments of silence before Ingrid’s soft voice broke the solemnity. “It looks like you need a refill on your coffee, Jackie.”
Ingrid reached for the cup just as Jane put her hand on the saucer. The joint encounter forced the remaining coffee to spill over Jane’s skirt. Jane quickly stifled a crude exclamation as she recovered the cup.
“Oh, my goodness, Jackie!” Ingrid said with genuine concern. “I’m so sorry! It’s my fault! Let me help you!”
“It’s fine. Don’t worry,” Jane said, more interested in continuing the interview.
“Perhaps Mrs. Lightjoy can attend to the spill in our lavatory,” Bartosh advised.
