God's Not Dead 2

by Travis Thrasher

  Peter Kane is sitting at the other table, decked out in a three-piece suit. I bet the tie costs more than my entire wardrobe. Grace looks a thousand times more serene than I am.

  Stand and breathe and put up a good calm front.

  I do exactly that.

  “Your Honor, may I come forward?” I call out.

  “Counsel may approach the bench.”

  Judge Stennis appears a bit friendlier this morning. Well, friendly isn’t quite the term. He seems less offended by the sound of my voice. I walk toward the figure towering over me like I’m Frodo staring up at Mount Doom. Next to me stands Gollum. A very well-dressed Gollum with that creepy smile of his.

  “I would like to add two witnesses, Your Honor.”

  “Really?” Kane asks before the judge can make any kind of response.

  “Lee Strobel and James Warner Wallace.”

  Words I would bet a thousand dollars I don’t have are about to come. One . . . two . . . three . . .

  “Objection, Your Honor. These witnesses weren’t on the discovery list.”

  “Your Honor,” I begin in my most nonchalant Bob Marley “One Love” sort of tone, “these are both effectively rebuttal witnesses who, I might add, have traveled great distances at considerable expense to be here.”

  And thank you very much, Roger, for momentarily picking those costs up.

  “And what will they be testifying to?” Judge Stennis asks.

  This morning I’d have wagered I had a 75 percent shot at the witnesses being admitted. Maybe 65 percent. I don’t know. Looking at the judge’s face now, I’m guessing I have about a 40 percent chance.

  “Evidence concerning the existence of the historical figure Jesus the Christ.”

  It’s not accidental that I added the the. There’s something about that title that makes it sound more official. It reminds me of Alexander the Great, another historical figure.

  Kane has a smile that resembles the Joker’s. “You’re looking to prove Jesus Christ actually existed? This is ridiculous.”

  “Yes.” I’m not any kind of good Christian, but even I don’t find it hard to believe in the historical Jesus.

  “Is this some sort of game?” Judge Stennis asks.

  “No, Your Honor. In his opening statement, plaintiff’s counsel referred to the ‘alleged’ existence of a certain Jesus. If you check the record, I believe you’ll find him charging my client with ‘reciting words alleged to be attributable to this religious figure, who allegedly existed some two thousand years ago.’ My witnesses are here to dispute the ‘alleged’ nature of these facts.”

  “I don’t believe I have to check the record to know what’s in it,” the judge says. “Mr. Kane, do you dispute the accuracy of Mr. Endler’s claim?”

  “No, Your Honor, but—”

  “The objection is overruled. You made a material assertion, meaning the defendant has the opportunity to refute it.”

  The great thing about judges, especially when they’re doing their job, is that they don’t play favorites and they can always pull the rug out on either of the sides being represented. I glance over at Kane and relish the glare on his face and the silence on his lips.

  How about you object to that?

  “The defense calls Lee Strobel,” I say a bit more loudly than necessary.

  I can see the disdain on Kane’s face as we walk back to our tables. It’s directed at Grace.

  The first of my two surprise witnesses walks past us and stands beside the bailiff. The sixty-something-year-old has a friendly face and an easygoing way about him. He looks trustworthy and simply nice. Always a good thing for a witness.

  “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?” the bailiff asks.

  “So help me God. I do.”

  Nice touch with the added “so help me God.”

  If anybody is going to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, it’s going to be an author specializing in apologetics.

  I walk up to Lee and give him a smile of greeting. “Can you state your name and occupation for the court?”

  “My name is Lee Strobel. I’m a professor of Christian Thought at Houston Baptist University and the author of more than twenty books about Christianity, including The Case for Christ.”

  I haven’t studied the jury too much this morning, but as the professor shares his title, I glance over and notice one of them looking a bit . . . pale.

  The pastor.

  Uh-oh.

  “Can you help me prove the existence of Jesus Christ?” I ask.

  “Absolutely,” Lee says with full confidence. “Beyond any reasonable doubt.”

  “How so?”

  “Actually, this court already affirmed it when we were called into session and the date was given. Our calendar has been split between BC and AD based on the birth of Jesus. Which is quite a feat if he never existed.”

  Lee isn’t acting superior in his wisdom or smug in his confidence. He’s talking more like a reporter sharing news from the field with an anchorperson.

  “Beyond that, historian Gary Habermas lists thirty-nine ancient sources for Jesus, from which he enumerates more than one hundred reported facts about his life, teachings, crucifixion and resurrection. In fact, the historical evidence for Jesus’ execution is so strong that one of the most famous New Testament scholars in the world—Gerd Lüdemann of Germany—said Jesus’ death as a consequence of crucifixion is indisputable. Now, there are very few facts in ancient history that a critical historian like Gerd Lüdemann will say are indisputable. One of them is the execution of Jesus Christ.”

  I remain silent for a moment and let this all sink in since I know it might be a lot for the jurors to process. Lee would be a great teacher to take a course from. He has a no-nonsense, believable manner about him. In another life he might have been a sports commentator.

  “Forgive me, but you’re a believer, right?” I ask. “A Bible-believing Christian?”

  Lee nods at me with a comfortable grin coming over his face. He puts up his hands as if surrendering.

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “So . . . wouldn’t this tend to inflate your estimation of the probability of Jesus’ existence?”

  “No,” he says.

  “Really? Why not?”

  “Because we don’t need to inflate it. We can reconstruct the basic facts about Jesus just from non-Christian sources outside the Bible. And Gerd Lüdemann is an atheist. In other words, we can prove the existence of Jesus solely by using sources that have absolutely no sympathy toward Christianity. As the agnostic historian Bart Ehrman says, Jesus did exist, whether we like it or not. I put it this way: denying the existence of Jesus doesn’t make him go away—it merely proves no amount of evidence will convince you.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  “Mr. Kane?” Judge Stennis says.

  It’s like waking up the bored jock in the back row of class. Kane looks like he’s been thinking of his stock portfolio the last hour.

  “No questions,” he says.

  I get the feeling that even Stennis is bored. It’s close enough to noon for him to make the decision. “We’ll adjourn for lunch and have a recess until 2 p.m.”

  The sound of the gavel striking is probably what Kane’s been feeling in his head this morning.

  As I watch the jurors leave, I notice Reverend Dave again. He looks sick. Like maybe flu sick or something. Hopefully it’s just some sort of minor bug. I can’t afford to lose him. No way.

  “Thank you,” I eventually tell Lee as we exit the room with Grace. “Excellent job up there.”

  “This is what I do, Tom.”

  I nod. Grace thanks him too.

  “Maybe you’ll make him believe,” she says.

  Lee looks at Grace. “You mean the judge?”

  “No. I mean him.” Grace nods her head in my direction.

  “Hey, now, keep that down,” I say with a s
mile. “I never said I questioned whether or not Jesus existed. It’s the other stuff.”

  “The other stuff is pretty important,” Lee says.

  “So I hear.”

  They begin to walk toward the stairs that seem to spill out below us.

  “I’d pay attention to the things you hear. God might be speaking to you.”

  “Maybe,” I tell the professor.

  I peek at Grace and see she’s trying to hide a smile. She’s just not trying hard enough. Part of me wants to say that if God is indeed speaking to me, then I’ll make him a deal. Let me win this case, and I’ll listen to whatever he has to say.

  The thing is—I don’t want to make that deal.

  It’s terrifying to think of the things God would say if indeed he happened to have a nice chat with me.

  39

  “WE’RE DIVIDED and determined to stay on our side, standing and not seeing the others’ eyes.”

  Amy speaks this into her phone. Sometimes lines like this come to mind when she least expects it. This time she’s on the courthouse steps and sees a crowd that’s doubled in size. Maybe more than doubled. And the sides have definitely squared off like boxers in a ring. They’re glaring and tossing out taunts and trying to make their case. Amy wonders if they know that the trial is happening inside the courthouse and not on these steps.

  People are barking at each other. Not talking but literally yelping words that aren’t heard but are loud and just pelting noise. Amy can’t see Marlene or Brooke.

  “Get it out of the classroom!” someone screams across the steps.

  “God loves you, sinner!” someone else screams back.

  Well, there’s a sophisticated conversation.

  There’s a loud screeching sound followed by a voice speaking into a bullhorn. Amy looks over and sees a man near the doorway aiming his loudspeaker at the crowd and starting to chant, “Teach—don’t preach!” only to be joined by half the crowd. The several news crews quickly surround him to get footage. Amy can’t quite believe all the national media represented here.

  How’d this get so big so fast?

  She’s become absorbed into the crowd now and feels like she’s at some music festival. For a moment she’s trying to make her way to the doors but making very little progress when a hand clasps around her arm.

  “Ms. Ryan—this way.”

  Brooke is standing there and pulls her in the opposite direction. They squeeze and push through the crowd until they reach a group of students sitting on the steps in several rows. They’re quiet and holding hands.

  “This is what we were studying,” Brooke says. “Nonviolent peaceful protest.”

  Marlene gives that infectious smile of hers. “And we aren’t moving.”

  “Want to join us?” another girl asks.

  Amy just stands there, scanning the crowd around them. “I better go back in,” she says.

  “How’s it looking?” Brooke asks.

  “Not very good.” She tells the girls to hang tight and then works her way to the front doors. It’s nice to be inside and out of the noise.

  Amy thinks of the girls sitting and performing their “nonviolent peaceful protest.” She remembers her own phase when she was all about this. She studied people like Gandhi and saw the film and then decided to go all in. It was her satyagraha season. She always used to tell everybody that this was the term Gandhi coined simply because “passive resistance” still had negative connotations and was misunderstood.

  Thinking about these seasons of her life makes her wonder if she’s just searching for another one. She gets bored with springtime so she rushes over to find summer, then bursts into fall and then falls headfirst into winter.

  Is my faith just a season? Is it just another round of playing dress-up like I used to do when I was a girl?

  The thought of studying peaceful protest and Gandhi and Jesus makes her think of the story she heard a pastor tell a while ago from the book of Mark. Jesus was with his disciples at a man’s house, dining with lots of disreputable people, and he got called out by the Pharisees. His response was to say that only sick people need a doctor. Jesus wasn’t there to try to save those who claimed they were righteous. He came to save those who knew they were sinners.

  All these people standing out in front of the courthouse, all claiming to be right.

  Do they consider themselves righteous too?

  There’s something about Marlene and Brooke and their other friends that makes Amy think of Jesus. The Jesus she’s read stories about didn’t come with a sign or a threat or a bullhorn. He came to sit down next to you and have a relationship and simply share the truth.

  It’s the truth that scares so many people. It’s fear of the truth that keeps the name of Christ out of the classroom. The truth that says Jesus is the only way.

  Amy knows it scares her, too. It scares her a lot.

  40

  PASTOR DAVE—or Reverend Dave, I’m still not sure which one he should be called—has me worried. I knew from the very beginning he didn’t expect to be sitting on the jury, but when I got him on it, I hoped he would be sympathetic to Grace’s case. But now it seems there’s something going on with him that may or may not be related to this case. This morning, he’s been looking a little green. Is it a case of Montezuma’s revenge from a bad batch of tuna salad he ate last night? Or could it be something else?

  After we come back from lunch and my second surprise witness is ready to be called to the stand, I watch the jurors all file in like a class of third graders. It’s always interesting watching jurors experiencing something that’s usually completely foreign to them. Is jury duty fascinating? Probably not. But it’s definitely foreign. Pastor Dave is the last to come in, and he seems to have gotten worse.

  He’s no longer pale—he’s flushed. The guy looks like he spent his lunch break training for the next Olympics. In his regular street clothes. His face is dotted with sweat, and I can see rings around his armpits and spots even on his chest. His light-blue shirt is not a good one for perspiration outbreaks like that.

  The older woman sitting next to him says something to him while giving him a look of caution. She then seems to try to sit as far away from him as she can.

  “All rise!” the announcement comes.

  The steady sound of a couple hundred people rising from their seats rushes over the room. Judge Stennis moves a bit more slowly than usual. I’m wondering if that steak he had for lunch is sitting well in his stomach.

  “You may be seated,” he says.

  For some reason, Pastor Dave remains standing. I don’t have to be a doctor to realize that something’s wrong. Really wrong. His eyes look out of it.

  Judge Stennis looks over at the juror and waits for a moment, watching him to see if he sits or makes a sound.

  “Juror number twelve, is there something you’d like to say?”

  The pastor looks over at the judge like he’s very, very far away. There’s more sweat and more blotchy color on his face.

  “Your Honor—I don’t feel too—”

  He lurches forward and is caught by the railing in front of him as he falls down. There are several gasps and shrieks as the jurors around him stand and a few go to help him up. More people talk and stand and suddenly the courtroom is ruled by chaos.

  Judge Stennis cracks his gavel but nobody seems to hear. Pastor Dave is helped up to his chair while several people go to see him, including the bailiff and a police officer.

  “What happened?” Grace says with a hand on my arm.

  I can only watch and think the worst.

  Our trump card just got trumped.

  “I’m not sure. He looks sick.” I hate stating the obvious, but in this case I don’t have any idea what else to say.

  “What are they going to do?” she asks me.

  “I don’t know.”

  The judge tries to get order in the court and calls out some instructions. The rest of the jurors are sent out of the courtroom while a team
of paramedics comes in and checks out Dave. The crowd behind us mostly watches in complete bewilderment.

  At one point I look over at Kane and his team. He’s trying to hide the smirk, but I don’t have to see it on his mouth. It’s in his eyes.

  “They’re strapping him to a gurney,” Grace says in utter—something. Disgust maybe. Disdain. Disillusion. Distaste.

  She’s feeling a dis word right now.

  Maybe she’s feeling a bit dissed by God.

  As for me, I’m numb. This sort of thing happens to me all the time. All the time. I’m not a woe-is-me sort of guy, but the woes don’t take the hint, so they keep following me.

  Once Dave has been wheeled out of the courtroom, the judge adjourns for the day.

  “Wait a minute,” Grace says to me. “How can he just call it a day?”

  “I don’t know if you realize this, but judges are basically sovereign power in their courtrooms. As far as operations like adjourning, they can do pretty much anything.” I collect my documents and files and follow Grace toward the door.

  Peter Kane seems to be waiting for me. I can already hear what’s coming as he walks alongside me in that finely tailored suit of his.

  “How’s that for proof there is no God?” Kane asks me.

  I’m glad he’s out of Grace’s earshot. “He’s not gone yet.”

  We both know, however, that the guy’s gone.

  “You just lost the one juror you could actually count on,” Kane reminds me.

  “Maybe his perceived bias would have backfired.”

  As we reach the door, Kane turns and blocks it to talk to me in private.

  “Have you seen the cameras out there, Tom? The protesters?”

  I just shake my head and look perplexed. “No. I haven’t seen any of that. A few pigeons by the fountain. They’re pretty—have you seen them?”

  “Save your cuteness for your client. The country is watching. And do you know why? Because this will be yet another barrier broken down and obliterated in the court of public opinion.”

  “Some of those protesters are on my client’s side,” I say.

  He nods and I think I detect some type of old-guy aftershave that smells like Scotch and new-car leather.