The Frank Peretti Collection

by Frank E. Peretti

  “MATT KILEY, if you ever show your ugly face around here again I’ll rearrange your nose and mash it into the highway myself!”

  Judy Holliday could take quite a bit of irritation before she got riled, but now she was threatening and cussing a blue streak, and had a frying pan in her hand to back up every word. She was standing over Matt Kiley, and he was lying in the front doorway, half-inside and half-out.

  “And don’t you get none of your blood on my carpet!”

  Judy’s granddaughter Gildy brought a towel for Matt to dab his face and head. “I think you’d better leave.”

  Judy turned on Irv the trucker, the winner in this particular brawl even though he didn’t look like it. “Go on, go in the washroom and wipe that blood off before you drip on something. Greg, go with him, and Linda, there’s some iodine and bandages above the freezer. Go on, all of you!” She turned back to Matt, still lying at her feet in the doorway. “I don’t see you moving!”

  He tried to move and got as far off the floor as his knees before he teetered forward again. At least now he was a few feet farther outside.

  “He’s out far enough,” Judy observed. “Gildy, get my towel back.”

  She knelt gently and took the towel from Matt’s swelling face.

  “Sorry.”

  “Mmph,” he said with swollen lips. He rolled and managed to sit up, looking up at Judy standing in the doorway. “Why’s Irv get to stay?”

  “’Cause you’re the ornery cuss that started this whole fight and you know it!” she answered. “Dumb cluck! You knew how Irv feels about that truck of his and you called it names anyway!”

  “He had it coming! Used to call me little four-wheels, and I couldn’t do a thing about it!”

  “Well, my late husband’s got more brains than both of you, and he’s been dead twenty years! Now git!”

  Matt struggled to his feet, his face still smarting as if Irv’s big fist were still buried in it. This hadn’t turned out the way he planned.

  He should have been able to whup Irv, whup him good. It should have been Irv staggering out of Judy’s and not him.

  His legs felt weak and he had trouble standing, but it wasn’t just because Irv had made a milkshake out of his brains. He’d been wondering about himself even when he went into Judy’s. He just didn’t feel the old strength. He expected a good fight would bring it out.

  Well, he expected wrong. It used to be there, but not tonight.

  The power had faded when he wasn’t watching.

  He stumbled and almost fell.

  My legs, he thought. My legs.

  What happens when all the guys I’ve whupped find out?

  I gotta see Nichols and get this fixed.

  KYLE AND I SPOKE OFTEN by telephone or in person over the next few days, and prayed for the people who came to mind: Don, Adrian, Mary, Dee, and Matt being among them. We also discussed a hunch that kept nagging me but seemed terribly farfetched. He thought I should check it out, but I kept stalling. It would be hard enough just for me to make the phone call—I really did not want to talk to those people again. Once I got someone on the line, what in the world would I say? How could they have any idea if Nichols/ Johnson had ever been there?

  Still, I couldn’t shake the notion that our local messiah wanted me to make that call. He had mentioned L.A. and gave me the “turn to somebody and say” routine. He was too subtle, too cunning, for that to be a blunder. “We’re both angry at the same things,” he said. “We’ve been in the same places, felt the same pain. Herd them in, herd them out.” He was dropping clues.

  He had to know I’d been down there—just like him.

  On Thursday, nearly a week after my conversation with Nichols/ Johnson, I got the number from information and placed a call to Los Angeles.

  “Hello,” said a cheerful female voice. “Thank you for calling The Cathedral of Life. Our Sunday morning services start at seven, eight-thirty, ten o’clock, and eleven-thirty; our evening service starts at 6 P.M. Our Wednesday evening service begins at 7 P.M. Childcare is available for all services. If you know your party’s extension, you may enter it now. For a ministry menu, press 9.”

  I pressed 9.

  “For nursery and Sunday school, press 1. For youth ministry, press 2. For college and career, press 3. For young marrieds, press 4. For family ministries, press 5. For seniors, press 6. For singles, press 7. For weddings and funerals, press 8. For more options, press 9.”

  I could feel my throat tightening up. I often had that problem when Marian and I lived down there. I pressed 9.

  “For men’s ministry, press 1. For women’s ministry, press 2. For children’s ministry, press 3. For counseling, press 4.”

  A counselor may have known him. I pressed 4.

  “For marriage counseling, press 1. For addictions, press 2. For financial counseling, press 3. For other counseling, press 4. To learn how you can begin a new life in Jesus Christ, press 5.”

  I banged 4.

  A lady’s voice came on the line. “Norm Corrigan’s office.”

  “Hello, my name is Travis Jordan and I’m calling from Antioch, Washington.”

  “And are you calling for counseling?”

  “No, I’m—”

  “Well this is the counseling department. Did you dial the right extension?”

  “It’s all right. I wanted the counseling department. I’d like to speak to one of the pastors or counselors.”

  “Are you currently attending The Cathedral of Life?”

  I stifled a witty comeback and answered her question. “No, I’m living in Antioch, Washington.”

  “Are you attending a church there?”

  “Uh . . . listen, I’d like to speak to a pastor.”

  “Are you currently receiving counseling from a minister at your own church?”

  “I am not calling for counseling. I need to speak to a pastor, somebody in charge, please.”

  “Well, you’ve called counseling.”

  “Then how about connecting me with Dale Harris’s office?”

  “Thank you.”

  Praise music came over the line as I waited. “Great and mighty is he, Great and mighty is he, Great and mighty, Great and mighty, Great and mighty is he . . .”

  “Pastor Harris’s office.”

  “Hello. This is Travis Jordan. I’m calling from Antioch, Washington and I’d like to speak to Pastor Harris.”

  “Is he expecting your call?”

  “No.”

  “Pastor Harris is unavailable. I can connect you with someone on the pastoral staff.”

  “Okay. Sure.”

  “Great and mighty in the morning, Great and mighty at noon, Great and mighty in the evening, Great and mighty all the day through . . .”

  “Norm Corrigan’s office.”

  “Hello. This is Travis Jordan from Antioch, Washington. I’d like to speak to, uh—” The name escaped me. “The pastor.”

  “Well, this is Norm Corrigan’s office. Did you wish to speak to him?”

  “Is he someone in charge?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Then I’ll speak to him.”

  “He’s out of the office right now. Would you like to leave a message on his voice mail?”

  I don’t know why I fell into it. “All right.”

  “Hello. This is Pastor Norm Corrigan. I’m away from my desk right now or on another line. You can leave me a voice mail message after the beep, or dial one-two-two-zero to speak to my assistant, Joanne Billings. God bless you and have a great day.”

  I decided to try for Joanne Billings. “One-two-two-zero!” I muttered as I pounded out the numbers.

  “Hello, you’ve reached Joanne Billings, Pastor Norm Corrigan’s assistant. I’m away from my desk right now or on another line. You can leave a voice mail message after the beep, or dial pound-star-nine-nine for an operator to assist you.”

  “Pound . . . star . . . nine . . . nine . . . ”

  “The Cathedral of Life. How may
I direct your call?”

  I sighed and actually groped with my hands as I tried to think of what to say next. “Can I talk to someone in charge, uh, preferably a pastor?”

  “I can connect you with our counseling department.”

  “No, no, I was just there. How about . . . is there a pastor I might talk to?”

  “Great and mighty is he, Great and mighty is he . . . ”

  “Hello. This is Pastor Norm Corrigan. I’m away from my desk right now or on another line. You can—”

  I slammed the phone down and sat there quaking with an old, familiar anger. Things hadn’t changed much at The Cathedral of Life. If anything, they’d gotten worse.

  I’d have to go down there.

  But I didn’t want to. Didn’t want to set foot in the place ever again. The very idea dredged up painful memories for me, memories I’d rather just forget. . . .

  Nineteen

  MY FIRST CRACK at the ministry, and I’d blown it. After we were cast out of Northwest Pentecostal Mission on our ears, I spent at least a month wallowing in self-doubt, self-pity, and self-flagellation. I never heard a peep from anyone, but still I imagined the talk circulating through the denominational district: “Look out for Travis Jordan. He’s a hothead. He’s cantankerous, disrespectful, and big-mouthed.” I would have agreed.

  Well, I asked myself, what can I learn from this? What’s the Lord trying to teach me?

  I supposed the Lord was trying to teach me to be more coolheaded and cooperative, more respectful. I had some repenting and changing to do, most of which took place on my knees— scrubbing toilets. No more of this young ruler conquering the world for Christ stuff. Next time—if there was a next time—I’d be thinking more in terms of what it meant to be a servant, in submission to the authority God placed over me. After all, God loves a servant’s heart.

  Fortunately, Marian stood with me. “Travis, you don’t think I knew what I was marrying? I don’t have any misgivings. A few bruises, sure, but I got them by standing with you.” I remember her resting her arms on my shoulders and looking at me with admiration—and maybe a little mischief—in her eyes. “When you stood up to Brother Rogenbeck—” She drew in a breath and let out a deep sigh. “A little more patience might have been a good thing for both of us,” she admitted, “but that didn’t mean Sister Marvin wasn’t an old busybody. As for Brother Rogenbeck, the only reason his head is wrinkled is because it’s low on air.”

  Thankfully, our loss of the ministry position did not have a significant impact on our monthly income. Marian still had her job at the hydraulic valve and coupling company, and I still had my janitorial job at the mall. Even so, we were restless.

  “We’ll try again,” she said. “We’ll trust God, and we’ll try again.”

  “If God will have me,” I retorted.

  “I’m not worried,” she said. “He knows you.”

  It’s typical of the Lord to close one door only to open another.

  A month after Northwest Mission threw us out, Marian’s company offered her a higher paying position with the parent company in Los Angeles.

  “Hey,” she said, “you could go to school down there and get your teaching degree.”

  That seemed prudent. I’d always felt that, were I not a pastor, I would just as soon be a teacher, and I minored in education at West Bethel. With the credits I had earned so far, I was within easy reach of a teaching degree—a safety net should I get booted out of the ministry again, or be unable to re-enter the ministry at all.

  We saved our money, applied for some grants, filled out some paperwork, and went through that open door in the spring of 1979. We found a small apartment, I enrolled at UCLA, and we settled in for a two-year stint.

  That’s how we started attending The Cathedral of Life. According to the Christian grapevine, it was the place to be. Pastor Dale Harris was reputed to be an incredible teacher. Anybody who was anybody went there—actors, recording artists, Spirit-filled billionaires who flew Lear jets. I don’t know what I was thinking when I decided we should go there. I guess I expected I would learn something from such a godly man. Perhaps I would gain new wisdom and insight into the ministry. Maybe I’d get my spiritual cobwebs cleared out just by being shepherded, nurtured, and pastored by someone so highly respected. I was ready to submit to good leadership. I was ready to do it right. While getting my degree and widening my skills, I could submit to mature, godly leadership and deepen my spiritual walk.

  Looking back, I think I did learn things I never would have known otherwise. It just didn’t happen the way we expected.

  When we showed up at the Cathedral for our first Sunday, we discovered church as we’d never experienced church before.

  We were accustomed to arriving for church, greeting our friends, shaking hands and jawing with the pastor, casually finding our way inside, and sitting down. We had never worried about finding a place to park, never seen “FULL” signs on the first, second, and third parking areas, never been directed down side streets by parking attendants in fluorescent orange vests with walkie-talkies.

  We’d never been to a church where the congregation worshiped in shifts and you had to be early for your shift or wait for the next one. We’d never had the church door closed in our faces and locked by a polite usher who placed a sign in front of the door:

  “SERVICE FULL. NEXT SERVICE AT NOON. DOORS WILL OPEN 11:45.”

  There were four Sunday morning services. We arrived entirely too late for the seven o’clock and eight-thirty services, but on time for the ten o’clock, which was still too late. Enough people had already gathered on the front steps and down the sidewalks to fill the sanctuary before we could get through the front doors. We ended up standing on the front steps of the church under the midmorning sun with a few hundred other people we didn’t know, not yet aware that none of these people knew anyone else either. Little introductory conversations started up throughout the crowd. Marian and I met the people immediately around us. “Hi, I’m Travis, this is Marian.” They were Bob and Joan, Mike and Carol, James, Ronny, and Andre. Marian told them how she worked for a company that manufactured hydraulic connectors and valves. I told them I was going to UCLA, working on my teaching degree. They told us how they sold real estate, custom-painted expensive cars, managed a Taco Bell, went to school. After that morning, we saw one or two of them from a distance, but never met or talked with them again.

  At 11:45, the rear doors opened. The third shift flooded out onto the streets, sidewalks, and parking lots, combining their numbers with the fourth shift still arriving and throwing the main avenue and surrounding neighborhood into gridlock.

  As for those of us already waiting at the front door, we poured like floodwater into the sanctuary, moving down the aisles and filling the pews to the music of piano, organ, worship leader, and three-voice worship team. Folks all around us knew the drill; they were taking up the song even as they moved along the pews to sit down: “Making melody in your heart, unto the King of kings . . .”

  They were raising their hands, getting into the worship. The place was already cooking.

  Marian and I joined in. She wasn’t a tongues-speaker, but she was a God-lover and a hand-raiser. We knew the songs and we were enjoying it.

  The good things we’d heard about this church were true. The worship was robust, joyous, and heartfelt. Emotion was natural and flowing, without excess. The song leader at the pulpit was a handsome, articulate man who sang with gusto and displayed his joy with dignity. The worship team standing to one side, two women and a man, were polished and well dressed, each with a color-coded microphone. The pianist and organist were polished and coordinated—they even had an intercom between them.

  This church seemed to cater to the educated. Anyone who spoke from the platform spoke well, using words like “problematic,”

  “specificity,” “pedagogical,” “well-orbed” and even college-brewed hybrids like “distantiate.” You never heard a double negative, and I never caug
ht anyone using “where” and “at” in the same sentence.

  There had to be teachers in the congregation. Cool.

  Pastor Dale Harris lived up to our expectations and then some.

  A man of medium height and broad build, he was animated, personable, and articulate, and he loved to work the audience. “The psalmist says that praise is comely for the upright, which you can take to mean that praise and worship lift the countenance. When you praise more, you look better. Turn to somebody and say, ‘You look like you’ve been praising the Lord.’ Go ahead.”

  Marian and I turned to the people on either side of us and said at the same time they did, “You look like you’ve been praising the Lord,” and then we all had a pleasant, social laugh about it.

  Pastor Harris taught out of Ephesians that morning and we hung on his every word. It was great stuff, insightful and eloquently presented. When he was finished he gave an altar call, and even that had a nice touch of no-nonsense sophistication: “We offer you two questions. The first is, Do you know Jesus? The second question is simple and direct: Would you like to? If you’d like to know Jesus, after the closing prayer just slip through this door to my left and our pastoral staff will meet with you, pray with you, and show you how to find him. We’re not set up here to argue or debate. You know the answers to the questions I’ve offered. You know what to do.”

  We sang the closing song and I saw six or seven people go to that door. Souls finding Jesus! What a feeling!

  At the close of the service I decided I’d like to go to the front and greet Pastor Harris, just let him know who we were, where we were from, and how happy we were to be in the service. We stepped into the aisle and had to swim against the current—everyone else was heading the opposite direction. I looked around all the heads, returning smiles as I tried to see up front. I couldn’t see him anywhere.

  “I think he’s gone,” said Marian, holding my hand so we wouldn’t get separated.

  I kept going anyway. I’d never been to a church like this and I didn’t know any better.

  We broke into the clear near the front of the sanctuary and found one man standing near a door to the right of the platform.