by Davis Bunn
When the four entered the studio, they were greeted with a silence that mirrored the stillness beyond the portal. John knew they had all seen the disastrous news programs. They probably felt his own shame, doubted his worth. And they were right to do so. He doubted himself.
The young woman with her fishing tackle box of cosmetics patted his face with powder as the technician did a quick check of his microphone. John explained to the producer what he had in mind, and swiftly two more chairs were drawn around and a mock conference table set up on the raised dais. They used portable tables with folding legs and quickly covered the surface with green felt. They miked Yussuf and Aaron and seated them to John’s left. Then they were ready, and the producer counted them down, and it was too late to wonder if he was right to do this thing, too late to do anything but speak.
“A lot has been said about me today,” John began. “And most of it is true. First I will give you my take on the events that have shaped my life. Then I’ll tell you what I really think is going on here.”
The tawdry tale of youthful arrogance, too much alcohol, and out-of-control violence tasted like sawdust in his mouth.
“I didn’t ever really see the guys who finally took us up on our challenge,” John went on. “I was too full of my own power. I was addicted to the red veil of fury that came with the certainty that I was invincible. The next thing I knew, I stood over a man I had reduced to a bloody pulp. Then the cops slammed my face down into a puddle of spilled beer and cuffed me. The steel ratcheted tight, and I knew my life was over. I still have nightmares of that sound, cutting off the future that I had just tossed away.”
He felt the perspiration slick his face, and he heard his voice crack. But he knew his decision was right. There was a power that came with the deed, enough to see him through. “My shame was worse than the jail and the trial and the six months in prison. The disgrace and the guilt became a tattoo on my heart. I could never hide from what I had done. My life was reduced to a series of dead-end jobs. For years I humped garbage pans and cleared tables and cooked fries and stocked shelves. I was just one paycheck away from being on the street. I was constantly afraid and utterly helpless. I paid for my mistake. And paid and paid. And the guilt never went away.”
He punctuated the end of that sorry tale with a moment’s silence. He resisted the urge to swipe at his face. Then he went on, “My only hope came from Jesus as shown through my beloved wife. In Heather’s loving gaze I came as close as I possibly could to knowing God’s forgiving power. Until that day in church, two Sundays ago, when God spoke to me and started me down the path to this place.
“The question is, why would God choose someone like me? There are a million believers who could do a better job. There is but one answer that makes any sense. God wanted someone who represented the power of hope. Someone whose entire life was a wasted mess, except for this one thing. This one truth. The eternal message of hope. And that is what gives me the strength to speak honestly to you today. This isn’t about me, no matter what all these other people tell you. This is about the eternal message. Hope is alive. Hope is real. Hope is here and hope is now. Jesus is waiting for you to discover this for yourself.”
John turned to the two men seated beside him. “Now I’d like to ask these two friends, my new brothers in faith, to tell you what the eternal message of hope means to them.”
Both men gave their own stories of lives reshaped by a hope most people prefer to ignore. John wondered if his own voice had sounded that shaky, and decided that it did not matter.
Then the two men were finished, and the cameras panned back to his face. John realized they wanted him to offer a final word. He said the first thing that came to mind. “When the world of entertainment starts shouting their grim chant that hope is dead, they’re nothing more than vultures circling around the dying. But they can’t rob you of life unless you want them to. It’s still your choice.
“We’re asking you to join us in taking a stand. The only thing that matters to these wannabe trendsetters is their bottom line. So to stop them, we have to impact their profit margins. Don’t go see a single film released from the Mundrose Group. Don’t buy any of their games. Don’t purchase anything made by one of their sponsors. On your screen is a website listing their sponsors and products. Turn away from them. Do it now. Your voice will be heard loud and clear.”
John was still in the process of unhooking his mic when it happened. The lights simply went out. All of them. The studio was utterly black.
Aaron asked, “What is happening?”
Kevin called out, “Somebody check the mains!”
Then a glimmer appeared from high overhead as the emergency lights came on, just strong enough to show people rushing about, vague shadows cut from the gloom. A young woman said, “The system is fine. Our power has been cut.”
“What, to the whole building?”
“Looks that way.”
Kevin’s voice rose a full octave. “Somebody please tell me we didn’t lose the footage!”
A technician called, “Saved and in the can!”
“Okay, boot up your laptops, let’s get to editing!”
Aaron looked around and asked, “What just happened?”
Heather replied, “Our opponents have taken this to the next level.”
24
“… though he slay me …”
WESTCHESTER COUNTY
Alisha spent most of the day watching John Jacobs lead their team. He was not aware of the impact he was having, which only made his example more inspiring. Time and again she thought of the saying about believers needing to preach all the time, and occasionally needing to use words. Because John spoke very little. But he relayed truth with every breath, every movement.
Alisha observed that the attacks struck like bullets from a gun. First, power was cut to the entire compound, including Ruth’s home. Then the phone lines all went down. Then cellphone connections were gone. John’s steadiness held them together. He knew about generators, and he knew about using tools. So he pitched in and helped the technical crew restore power. The cellphone tower was visible from the admin building. But when he and technicians tried to drive there, they discovered the front driveway had been sealed off by a bevy of Con Ed trucks, and a four-foot trench was dug where it met the main road.
So John and the techies took off overland and discovered the cable to the cellphone tower had been cut. Once they had that repaired and returned to the admin building, news started coming in. All of it bad.
John received the first phone call, telling him that he was fired. He accepted it with the grim resolve of a man who was not going to let a body blow deflect his focus from the goal. Alisha watched him hold hands with his wife as he explained, “My boss was never one to soften things up. But he didn’t try to hide the fact that he hated doing this.”
“Especially after the deal you brought in with that New York group,” Heather said. She stroked his arm. “Oh John, I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
“He said word had come down from the executive board,” John went on. “That it was totally out of his hands.”
Alisha knew she should probably be worrying about the two of them, but right then all she could think about was the Kennedy Center, and how right John had been. Both about her phoning Tabatha, and her talking to Celeste. And how close she had come to doing neither.
And Alisha realized she had never thanked the man.
Aaron confessed that he and Yussuf had been informed not long before their recording session they were up for administrative review. Alisha had no idea what that meant, but from their expressions, she assumed it was serious. Then came Miss Ruth with the news that all the ministry’s accounts had been frozen. The bank manager assured her it was a minor administrative issue, but could not say when funds would be made available.
Which meant they were all gathered there together when John’s son called. John listened for a moment, then asked his son if he could put him on speaker so
his mother could hear as well. When Alisha started to rise with the others to give the some privacy, John waved them to stay where they were. “Go on, son.”
“My company’s bank is withdrawing our line of credit, our loan, the works. The branch manager wouldn’t tell me why. Just they were reviewing their small-company portfolio, and some aberrations had been revealed in our accounts. I talked with him three days ago—everything was fine.”
“When did he call you today?”
“About an hour and a half ago. Does this have anything to do with what you’re doing, Dad?”
“I can’t say for certain, but I think … yes.” John looked up as Heather reached over and took his hand. “I’ll walk away from this if you ask, son. I can walk away.”
“Would it do any good?”
When John hesitated, Heather replied, “Probably not. Your father has confronted a very large group and powerful conglomerate. This is their response.”
Alisha waited for the young man on the other end of the phone to bemoan his fate, berate his father. Which was probably how she would have responded. Instead, he simply said, “What should I do?”
John looked at his wife, then asked, “Would you like to pray with us?”
“Sure, Dad. That’s probably a good idea.”
So they all joined hands, forming a circle with the phone in the middle. Alisha felt a hand settle on her shoulder, and saw that Kevin the producer had joined them. John said the words.
After they hung up, John stared at his big, callused hands and said, “Before I came up here, I’d be swamped by the same awful feelings of guilt and helpless rage. Then I’d do what I’ve done for thirty-five years. I’d put my head down and focus on the next step.”
Heather stroked the point where his collar met his hairline, the simple gesture of a woman in love. “And now, John?”
“It’s all so new. I tell you how it seems. I am growing. It probably sounds like a selfish thing to say at a time like this, when my son has come to me for answers I don’t have. But that’s the only thing that registers in this moment. I’m not blown off course by these events. For the first time in my life.”
Alisha was still digesting his words when her phone rang.
She looked at the readout, she saw who it was, and she resisted the urge to go slip away somewhere private. She stepped back a bit, but she kept her gaze on John. There was only one reason why her boss would be calling her just then. And all she could think of was how much she wanted to hold on to what was happening inside that group. With her friends. With their leader.
Celeste pleaded, “Slow down, slow down, Alisha.”
But Alisha was too caught up in what had just gone down to apply the brakes. Not to mention what she was doing right then—the first thing that came to her after speaking with her boss. She called the woman who had been her nemesis. Right then, though, all Alisha could think of was how this call was four years in the making. “Like I said, I’ve just been fired. Eleven years I’ve worked for them. They wouldn’t even tell me why I was let go. Eleven years!”
“I’m so sorry you’re going through this, Alisha.”
She might have felt God’s nudging to make this call. Even so, Alisha felt odd talking so personally with this woman. Four years of issues didn’t just fade away. Even so, this discussion felt immensely right. So she left the admin building and walked up and down the little lane where it turned off to the darkened house and her cottage. Now telling Celeste about what had happened to the others. Summing it all up with, “This is pure harassment.”
“Of course it is, Alisha. Now tell me you understand what’s going on here.”
Alisha finally heard Celeste’s tone of voice. It might not have been the calm and care Pastor Terry was so famous for. But Celeste was listening. What was more, the woman offered Alisha strength. Doing all she could to get Alisha back on solid ground.
“Alisha?”
Alisha took the first easy breath since the power had been cut. “They’re worried.”
“There you go. That’s exactly what’s happening here. One of the world’s biggest entertainment groups is so concerned about what you’re doing up there, they’ve taken aim. Now tell me what it is you folks need most of all.”
Soon as the one word shaped in her mind, the hand holding her phone steadied. “Prayer.”
“There you are. When we’re done, you’re gonna tell me what else you and your friends need from us. And then you’re going to go tell the others that you folks have a lot of us out here, just looking for a way to help out.”
John punched in the number that Ruth gave him, hit the speaker button, and set it on the small table between his chair and her rocker. He did not like how Ruth looked, and worried that the strain of being under assault was worsening whatever disorder she refused to discuss.
They were gathered on the admin building’s front porch. The building’s prefab warehouse structure possessed homey touches in the form of a broad front veranda with wooden railings and flower-clad trellises. Rockers identical to those on Ruth’s front patio, right down to one with padding that John suspected no one used except Ruth, furnished seating for the group.
When the pastor came on the line Ruth said, “Good afternoon, Craig.”
“The Internet is on fire, Ruth. Tell me what’s happening.”
“My voice is a bit weak today, Craig. I’m going to hand you over to John Jacobs.”
There were six of them clustered around John and Ruth—Jenny and Alisha and Yussuf and Aaron and Kevin and Heather. The others were manning the phones, which had been ringing constantly ever since power and the comm links had been restored. John did a swift recount of what had come down, avoiding mention of his own family’s problems. The pastor responded, “It’s only the beginning, I’m afraid.”
“That’s my feeling as well.”
John liked hearing the man add himself to their numbers. As he did hearing Craig ask, “What can we do to help?”
“Sir, I actually don’t know where to start.”
“John—can I call you John? This is no longer about your organization and our church. This is a unifying issue.”
Ruth leaned in toward the phone. “There is one thing. John probably won’t say it, so I will. His son has a small business. The bank has pulled his line of credit. If he can’t find an alternate source of funds by Friday, he will go under.”
“Have him call me. I’ll make a couple of calls and see if one of my elders in the finance community can arrange a discretionary short-term loan.”
“But—” John felt Heather’s hand settle upon his shoulder. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Who else has been affected?”
Ruth said, “All of us.”
“You’ll need to get your lawyers on this. Do it now. Waiting won’t help. Let me know if you need assistance on that side.”
She shared a smile with the others gathered around her. “You really are a fighter at heart, Craig.”
“Of course I am. All good pastors know when to push back.” His strength resonated through the small speaker, lifting the mood of everyone gathered. “I want you to understand that my church is constantly invited to participate in national events. All I can do is share the invitation to visit the web-page list of where to buy products. The rest is up to the congregation and our Lord.” Craig Davenport spoke with a natural authority that resonated about the porch. “That is what I did when I first heard of this event.”
“Our turning,” John said. “That’s how I’ve been thinking of it, ever since I was called to take the first step.”
“Your turning. It’s as good a word as any. I played the first video before all our services. And I shared it with my network of fellow pastors. Then I left it in the hands of God. What you need to know is this. I’ve had to assign my newest associate pastor to handle the telephone traffic. We’re fielding calls from all over the nation. All over the globe, if I’m understanding him correctly. Because the overture originated
here, it’s coming back here. And we’re getting swamped. I mean, this is unlike anything I’ve ever witnessed. We are receiving emails and phone calls and offers of help from thousands of churches and outreach programs and individuals.” He gave that a moment, then went on, “Your call has awakened the church. This can’t be ignored by the powers that be. It’s too big, and it’s growing too fast. Of course they’re going to attack.”
25
“… the beauty of the Lord …”
WESTCHESTER COUNTY
John awoke twice during the night, reliving aftershocks from the previous day. He lay in the dark, waiting for the sense of helpless dread to overwhelm him. Instead, each time he knew a soft sorrow, an ache deep in his bones. Pain for himself, of course, and even more for his son and the others in his group. The second time, John rose from the bed and entered the cottage’s front room. He turned on a light and took the small book from the pocket of his coat. It was the first time he had held it since that Sunday service, and instantly he was flooded with recollections of that hour. The astonishment he had felt, the unconditional recognition that a turning had been made. He opened the book and read a page at random, and knew with utter certainty that this was where he should be. The entire process, all these experiences, all focused upon this very moment. Returning to the discipline of listening and waiting for God to speak. Or not. The important thing was not whether God had something to say. His responsibilities began and ended with making himself ready, available.
The next morning John spent the breakfast hour waiting for any in the group to have a change of mind about him. If just one of the team was having second thoughts, he was ready to step away from the spotlight. Without a moment’s hesitation. All it would take was another to say, “The Lord seems to be turning us in another direction. I believe it’s time for another up-front person.”
They gathered as usual for prayer, which Aaron led. Power had been restored sometime during the night, so they breakfasted in the main house. Afterwards it seemed to John as though they were unified in a need to draw breath. Simply sitting together and absorbing that another day was opening, and they were together. Listening for a new word from God.
