by Ray Garton
The protesters lifted their signs and began to shout at him.
"Pornographer!"
"Your books are Satanic!"
"How would you like your child to read what you write?"
Still smiling as his bodyguard made a path through the crowd, Denmore said, "My books aren't for children."
"Pervert!"
"Blasphemer!"
"Demon worshiper!"
Denmore's smile did not falter as he followed the large man through the crowd, and his companion did the same, never letting go of his hand.
A white van with the call letters of a local television station painted on the side came to a stop, double-parked in front of the bookstore.
"Oh, no," Freeman breathed, rolling his eyes.
The shouting grew worse as the bodyguard held out an arm and pushed people aside to clear a path to the door.
Freeman could not believe the things he was hearing from members of his congregation—from any of the other protesters, all of whom claimed to be Christians. Worst of all, it was making him feel angry. He tried to resist it, gulp it down like a foul-tasting syrup. But he could not.
He raised both of his arms, clutching the small bible in his right hand, and shouted, "Stop! Stop this! This is wrong! This is—"
Reverend Wickes stepped forward, slapped a hand onto Freeman's chest, and pushed him backward as he growled through clenched teeth, "Stay out of this. You're no part of this. You've got no business here."
"I have a lot of business here, and if you touch me again, I'll call the police and have you arrested for assault."
"Some of your people told me about your little show on the pulpit this morning and I think it's shameful. Some of them think it's enough to start a campaign to have you ousted from the church. After only two months at the pulpit. No, Pastor Freeman, you have no business here. Even your own people don't want you."
"I don't live my life according to your opinion, Reverend. Or popular opinion. Only God's opinion. You do what you feel is best for your congregation, and I'll do what I feel is best for mine."
He turned his back on Reverend Wickes as the shouting continued around them and addressed the crowd again.
"Stop this!" he shouted. "You have no right to judge this man."
Someone inside the bookstore pushed the door open and held it for Densmore, but he stopped and turned to Freeman, listening as his smile fell away in surprise.
"Even Christ himself said he could not judge others. Only God has the right to judge us."
"Thank you," Densmore said, smiling at Freeman. "I appreciate that. Who are you?"
"Pastor Gil Freeman."
Densmore's eyebrows hiked up in surprise. "You're a pastor? And you're defending me? Why?"
The crowd had become silent by then and waited for Freeman's answer.
"I, uh, I've read your work. It's not a genre I normally read, but—"
Densmore laughed good-naturedly and said, "I bet it's not."
"Well, given my congregation's preoccupation with it, I thought I should sample it. You're an excellent writer, by the way. The fact that I don't, uh, well, like your fiction, mostly for religious reasons, is irrelevant. My beliefs make me no better than you. And I don't think you deserve the treatment you're getting here. I hope you'll forgive these people for their behavior."
Densmore moved forward and reached out his hand. Freeman shook it.
"I appreciate that," the writer said. "You're a good person, Pastor, and it's nice to meet you."
Then Densmore and his companion disappeared into the bookstore and the bodyguard followed.
The crowd erupted in loud accusations and denouncements aimed now at Freeman. He found himself surrounded by angry faces and hate-filled eyes and mouths that worked furiously, flashing teeth and tongues. Their knuckles were white as they clutched their signs, pumping them up and down now as they railed at him.
Reverend Wickes appeared before him, his large, fleshy face swallowing up Freeman's field of vision, pearls of sweat clinging to the red-splotched, trembling cheeks.
"Well?" he said. "Do you still want to stay here? Where you're not wanted? Where you don't belong?"
"I'm not going anywhere, Reverend."
Half of the reverend's mouth curled into an unpleasant smile. "Maybe not right now. We'll see come judgment day."
A heavy, bearded man stepped out of the bookstore wearing slacks and a sport coat and raised a hand, shouting, "Please, could you listen a moment, please!" When things calmed down a bit, he said, "My name is Ed Bailey, I'm the manager of this store, and I'd like to ask you—no, no, I'm telling you that if you do not calm down and clear this doorway immediately, I'm calling the police and having you all arrested. Is that understood? Arrested."
They were silent.
Bailey nodded. "Thank you. But I won't speak to you a second time. You're welcome to protest, but if you don't keep it peaceful, the police will be here to deal with you." He went back inside.
Freeman wished he would call the police now. Maybe their presence would keep the hostility from escalating, which he feared was a possibility.
"Just spread out for now," Wickes told the crowd, "and hold your signs high."
They watched Freeman with stabbing eyes as they stood or paced with their signs. Seeing those faces took him back once again to that morning's sermon.
* * * *
"The Bible says to resist sin!" Deanna Furst shouted as she rose from her pew. "It says to fight it. It says to 'take up the armor of God' and fight it."
He froze at the pulpit. No member of any congregation had ever stood up and shouted at him during a sermon. He gathered his thoughts quickly and said, "No, no, God means for us to take up his armor and fight temptation. The temptation that comes to us all to drag us into sin."
"But this man, this writer," she spat disdainfully, "is presenting a temptation to others. He's making himself a stumbling block, a—"
"No, Deanna, personal temptation, the temptations we face individually in our own lives. That's what the armor of God is for. We have no right, no moral room to worry about the temptations and sins of others. We have too many of our own. God did not intend for us to take up his armor simply to disagree with people."
Deanna Furst remained standing, lips pressed tightly together, fists clenched at her sides.
Marvin Kent shot to his feet and said, "How can you condone what that man writes?"
"I don't condone it. But I'm not going to condemn him for it, either.
"But what he writes is polluting minds," Kent said, his voice getting louder.
"Yes, maybe so, but they are the minds of people who are choosing to be polluted. Our job is not to take away their freedom to make that choice but to show them an alternative by living as the examples Christ wanted us to be. We should be living our beliefs instead of beating people over the heads with them. If you could get rid of James K. Denmore, there would be another to take his place, and many more after that. Are you going to try to ruin all of them?"
"Yes!" someone shouted.
Another voice cried, "Yes!"
Then another, and another.
Anger welled up in Freeman's chest and he gripped the edges of the pulpit tightly. He said, "Matthew 7:1: 'Judge not, that ye be not judged.' In other words, do you want God to judge you as harshly as you are judging James K. Denmore? If he did, how would you hold up? Would you do any better? Frankly, I think that if God judged me that harshly, I would not do well at all. I'm glad to know he won't, though, because I refuse to pass judgment on others. It's not my place. And it's not yours."
"That verse means we shouldn't judge other Christians!" a voice shouted from the back.
Freeman's mouth dropped open in genuine shock. "You think it only applies to other Christians? Where does it say that? Do you really believe God is that narrow-minded?"
"He put us here to fight evil!" someone shouted.
Then everyone st
arted shouting as they stood and began to leave the church.
* * * *
They were calm for a while as they carried their signs up and down the sidewalk past the bookstore's large display window, where a sign read:
JAMES K. DENMORE IN PERSON!
AUTHOR OF "LUST AND THE DEVIL"
HERE! TODAY!
2:00 p.m. – 4:00 p.m.
They were waiting for their prey—anyone who showed up to have their books autographed by Denmore. There was already a crowd inside, and more were sure to come. He wondered how those people would feel, on their way home with their autographed books, about the "Christians" who had shouted insults and ridicule at them. If he were in their position, Freeman thought it would be difficult to see Christianity as anything more than divisive and ugly.
Voices rose in the crowd and Freeman turned to see two young couples, books tucked under their arms, walking toward the bookstore, the two women in the middle and the men flanking them. They had just rounded the corner when they saw the protesters and signs and slowed their pace. They stopped, conferred for a moment, then continued toward the bookstore.
The protesters shouted as the couples approached, and Freeman shouldered his way to the door and held it open for them. The young people looked nervous, even fearful, as they made their way through the crowd, but they smiled and thanked Freeman as they went inside.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I hope you'll forgive their behavior."
After that, customers came in force, as if a gate had been opened somewhere. He stood holding the door open while people filed in, and he smiled and greeted them as they passed, asking them to forgive the protesters for their behavior.
Outside the door, Freeman's words angered the protesters, who began shouting at him that he had no business apologizing for them.
Then they started going into the bookstore Just a couple at a time stepped into the foot traffic entering the door. Then they broke off from the others and began to gather near one end of the long table where James K. Denmore sat signing books with his companion seated beside him and the bodyguard standing behind them both, watching the crowd through his sunglasses.
Horrified, Freeman followed them in after several protesters had entered the bookstore. He walked in directly behind Fred Granger, with his wife, baby, and child, and that heavy-hanging canvas shoulder bag.
Freeman hurried around the group of protesters, stepped between them and the table, and said, "Stop this. Please stop this. What you're doing is wrong."
"No, no," Fred Granger said, stepping forward, "you're doin' wrong, Pastor. Fact, you're not even a pastor, you're a traitor. You shouldn't even be here."
"I'm here to remind you of why you're here, Fred, and it's not to pass judgment on this man, or anyone else. Have you completely missed Christ's message?"
"His message was that he came here not to send peace but to send a sword."
"But did he ever pick up a sword, Fred? Can you think of any time in the gospels when Jesus picked up a sword and started lopping off heads? No, you can't. You know why? Because it never happened. A lot of things in the Bible are meant figuratively, not literally, and that's one of them. Jesus never picked up a sword. His message was that we are here to take care of each other, of everyone, even our enemies. His message was the sword because it went against the way the world works. It still does. And the world still rejects it. You've been fooled into rejecting it, too. Do you understand?"
Granger's lips pressed together hard and curled into a sneer as his face darkened with anger.
"Please, Fred. The others will listen to you. Call this off now."
"Move or I'll move you myself.
"Fred—"
Granger put both hands on Freeman's shoulders and shoved him aside so hard, the pastor fell to the floor.
Freeman looked up to see Granger turning toward the table again. The bodyguard was already coming around the table in his direction. Granger reached into his canvas bag.
Scrambling to get to his feet, Freeman shouted, "Gun!"
The bodyguard reached his right hand beneath his suit coat.
Granger lifted the shotgun to his shoulder as Freeman got to his feet and dove in front of him. At the same moment, the bodyguard drew a handgun from beneath his coat.
Granger fired the sawed-off shotgun a fraction of an instant before the bodyguard fired his gun.
Freeman's midsection erupted as he moved through the air. Granger collapsed to the floor as Freeman's body landed with a wet sound.
Although the gunfire left everyone's ears ringing, it could not drown out the screams.
* * * *
"Wait, please wait!" Freeman shouted from the pulpit as most of the congregation quickly went to the rear of the church and out the doors. "Please, think about what you're doing. How would you feel if someone came into this church and tried to silence me because they disagreed with what I had to say?"
They ignored him and left the church early to gather at the bookstore.
CHOICES
The whole family was up early because it was Friday. Friday was a special day for the Holts and they were all wide awake in spite of the intrusions on their sleep during the night. There had been an explosive summer storm with thunder so loud it shook the house and rattled the windows and woke the whole family. Summer storms were not uncommon, but something about this one was unlike anything the Holts had seen before.
The thunder had been so spectacular it sounded more like bombs dropping nearby, like a war had broken out all around them. And the lightning—it had flashed an electric blue, sending its light through the gaps in closed window curtains and in flickering shards across the floors. At times, just for a heartbeat every now and then, the blinding blue had become a strange reddish-orange. Al and Nita had reassured the children it was just God's own nature reminding them of his strength, protection, and love. But Al was so concerned, he had gotten up and gone to the living room in his pajamas, pulled the curtain aside, and peered out at the storm.
From the north, a silver bolt of lightning cut through the clouds; from the south, a reddish-orange bolt clawed the sky. Al had never seen anything like it before.
A strong wind blew as the lightning changed the night sky from black to blue to a blood-like color and trees were tossed by the strong gusts.
But no rain fell. He found that odd.
Now it was a bright summer morning and the azure sky stretched cloudless in all directions. School had been out for nearly a month. Al was pleased the kids would be able to participate today. It was something they enjoyed every bit as much as a church picnic, so they were especially boisterous this morning, the first ones at the breakfast table.
Al was a little late, though, as was his habit on Friday mornings. After showering and dressing, he spent more time than usual in Bible study and prayer, preparing himself for what was ahead, sitting on the edge of the bed with his back straight, his King James open on his lap. The bedroom door was always closed and locked during this private, quiet time.
When he was finished, he closed his Bible, set it on the nightstand, and knelt beside the bed, back still straight, folded his hands on the bed, bowed his head and closed his eyes. He prayed aloud.
"Dear Lord, thank you for this new day, for my beautiful family, and for showing me—for showing us—the truth and wisdom that so many others have chosen to ignore. Be with us today as we go out to do your work. Guide us as we to try to hold back the tides of sin, to prevent sinners from making their condition worse by killing innocent and helpless human beings. Speak through our lips, use our hands as tools, and let our work make a difference in bringing an end to the holocaust perpetrated by wicked and hateful agents of the Devil. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen."
Then he stood and went to the kitchen, which smelled warmly of eggs, bacon and coffee.
"Morning," he said cheerfully.
Both children, eight-year-old Matthew and ten-year-old Ruth, returned th
e greeting happily. The food was on the table, their empty plates before them, and they waited patiently. No one ate until Dad had seated himself at the table and thanks had been given to God.
Nita was still in the kitchen, getting the rest of the food. She was nicely dressed and a bit more made up than usual: modest lipstick, a touch of eye shadow and a little mascara. Once she was seated at the table, all of them automatically bowed their heads.
"Dear Lord, we thank you for this food," Al said, "and for our loving Christian home. We ask that you march with us today as we go forth as soldiers for your cause, to stop the murder of unborn babies and expose the worldly, misguided women who kill them to your word and your will. In the name of Jesus—"
They all said "amen" together, raised their heads, then Nita began moving around the table, serving up the food.
Al noticed a folded newspaper on the table beside his plate. "Is this yesterday's? I didn't get a chance to read yesterday's paper."
"That's why I kept it for you. Today's hasn't come yet. It's too early."
"That was some storm last night, huh?" Al said.
Everyone agreed.
"Something odd about it, though. Did you notice, Nita?"
"Just that it was very loud." She scooped scrambled eggs onto his plate.
"A lot of electricity. I mean, even for an electrical storm. Made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I wonder if there'll be anything about it in today's paper." He opened yesterday's edition and his head nodded up and down as he scanned the headlines and articles. Al enjoyed reading the newspaper. It saddened him to know that newspapers were closing all over the country—another casualty of the internet. It was far from the most serious casualty, though. He allowed the children only one hour a day online, and only if they used the computer in the living room where he or Nita could keep an eye on what they were doing. They had installed the most rigid child protection software they could find to keep the kids from being exposed to the filth and immorality that was now being vomited from computer screens and into people's homes all over the world.
