Self-Control

Some say the Galilean understood the strictures that he outlined on the Sermon on the Mount were unachievable. They were stark. There’s no doubt of that. If we grant that “thinking is sinning,” we have to anticipate falling short. If we imagine cutting off a hand if it sins, we cringe. We have brothers and sisters whom it is hard to love. Many pray for riches and power as opposed to forgiveness for their sins, sins that they don’t even admit.

In short, we fall short. About half the marriages in the United States end in divorce. Some individuals achieve more than one. Of those, some are even deemed holy and righteous by their followers.

Professor  Francois P Viljoen observed, “When considering Matthew’s use of the word ‘righteousness’, it appears to describe one of the primary actions or virtues expected from the community.”

We could interpret that to mean that they are what the Galilean expects from us and what we should inspect for within our own hearts. What we find there will tell us what we know about our place in history. Our soul mirrors our actions, not our intentions, claims, or accolades. We must “self-police.” He spelled out a constitution for a righteous life there on the side of that hill and left us to live by it as we choose.

That is an area in which the messages of the Old Testament and New Testament depart in basic theology. Old Testament transgressors found themselves struck by lightning, drowned, consumed by a sudden fire, swallowed into the earth, or allowed to die in battle. A jealous and vengeful god communicated quite clearly to those who had lost favor. Judgement came fast in the form of either retribution or prophetic condemnation.

The Galilean more or less leaves it up to us. As the southern people of our country say, “That’s a tough row to hoe.” Self-control is not one of Americans’ strong points. That prompted Ralph Waldo Emerson, almost two thousand years later, to observe, “What you do speaks so loudly that I cannot hear what you say.” We must, then, take responsibility, no matter how difficult it seems.

These contemplations have commented on how we are commanded to be more righteous than our leaders. That wasn’t hard back when the Galilean spoke and it’s not hard now. But woe to us, we not only must rise above those who claim leadership, but above the worst impulses of our own nature.

Where do we find guidance?

Thankfully, we have the Beatitudes, no matter now embarrassing they may be to some who call themselves holy.

Information

sundown in zion

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Gideon returns home after visiting Charlie's wife and boyfriend.

            “I don’t know what to say.” Charlie’s eyes were moist and his face red. He said, “I really don’t know what to say. He looked at the pile of papers before him and picked up the check book.

            “How about, ‘You sailors aren’t as bad as I’ve always heard,’ and let it go at that,” Nelson said.

            Charlie flipped the pages of the check book. “There’s even some money in here. And there will be another deposit this week.”

            “You probably ought to change accounts,” Nelson said. “Sluggo may convince her to pull a stunt.”

            “I’ll take care of it,” Charlie said, “now that I have my own car.”

            They had picked it up late the night before without incident. The title was where it was supposed to be and there had been no sign of life inside the house. Charlie had smiled like a teenager on his sixteenth birthday when he slid under the wheel. He had gone straight home. He was finishing breakfast next morning and sorting his records when Nelson arrived.

            “So,” Charlie said, pushing the papers aside as Nelson sat across the table with a cup of coffee. “Did you steam along false bearings on your way home last night?”

            “Is everything there?” Nelson said, ignoring the question.

            “I think so,” Charlie said. “I think I’ll go shopping for some new clothes and then find a new bank.”

            “Sounds like a good plan,” Nelson said. “I’m off to Connerville.”

            “Oh hell,” Charlie said. “What now?”

            “I have an appointment with the police chief.”

            Charlie cocked his head in surprise. “How the hell did you manage that?”

            “Friends in high places.”

            “No doubt. You never cease to amaze me. What do expect from the police chief?”

            “Not much,” Nelson said, “it might be interesting to note what he doesn’t tell me.”

            “Good luck,” Charlie said. He stood and walked to the front door and opened it. He walked onto the porch and Nelson followed. The day promised to be fair and warmer.

Nelson took a deep breath and said, “I think I’ll head out, don’t want to be late for the chief.”

            A familiar sight walked along sidewalk. It was the woman walking her dog, the same one that Nelson had seen the day before. She looked at them, smiled, and nodded. The dog ignored them. Both men waved.

            Inside, Nelson washed his coffee cup, placed it on a rack to dry, and said, “You need in the shower?”

            “No,” Charlie said. “I think I’ll go for my walk around the park. Did I tell you that yesterday I made a complete lap around it without stopping to rest? That’s exactly a mile.”

            Nelson nodded in appreciation. “That’s great,” he said. “Do they have the distance marked?”

            Charlie scooped his papers into the box. “Uh … no, another walker told me.”

            “Well it’s a good accomplishment at any rate. Enjoy yourself.”

            “I will,” Charlie said. “You too.”

            Nelson shaved and showered and was heading for Connerville by eight o’clock. He found City Hall easily. One of the major state highways connecting the city with the nearest freeway dead-ended into a perpendicular highway that passed in front of the governmental complex. Winding through the traffic jam created by the intersection, he parked in a public lot and entered a building marked “Police.”

            Inside, a sergeant met him and directed him to a small waiting room outside the Chief’s office. Before leaving, the sergeant said, “You want coffee?”

            “No thanks,” Nelson said. “But tell me, has City Hall always been located so that it blocks a major highway?”

            “No,” the sergeant said, “just since we built the new complex thirty years ago. They had to catch up with the population growth.”

            “Did the highway go through before?”

            “No, the highway always stopped where it does, but the street continued through. It was closed so this building could be built.”

            Nelson studied the sergeant’s name tag and said, “Wasn’t that a strange bit of urban planning, Sergeant, … uh …, Patterson?”

            “Ralph, please sir,” the other said, looking around, “and no, not if the Mayor’s brother owned the land.”

            “A unique town you have here,” Nelson said.

            “Oh, not my town,” Sergeant Patterson said. “I don’t even live here. I’ve only been on the force for a year. Went to work here to get a promotion.”

            Nelson nodded. “I see,” he said.

            “I know who you are,” Sergeant Patterson said. “I worked for Sheriff Love before.”

            “Well,” said Nelson. “Mum’s the word.”

            The other smiled but before he could answer, the door opened and the Connorville Police Chief appeared. He was a man of medium height, with a thin face set off by a sharp nose that jutted forward as if being paid to test the air. His hair was full and carefully combed and sporting a deep bluish-black color that no human hair had ever achieved in the natural world. His uniform appeared neat and sharply creased. He nodded at Nelson. “You here to see me?”

            “I am,” Nelson said, “Thank you for taking the time.” He extended his hand. The Chief looked at it, hesitated for a second, and extended his. “Chief Rowland Banks,” he said as they shook.

            “Gideon Nelson.” He followed the chief into his office.

            The office was as sparse and neat as the chief. Awards and photographs covered the side walls. Plastic plants graced the corners of the room. A large print of George Washington kneeling in prayer in the snow adorned the wall behind his desk which was completely bare save for a phone and desk pad. The chief motioned for Nelson to take the visitor’s chair in front of the desk. He eased into his own chair and said, “The FBI guy said you were interested in that girl we found murdered.”

            “Just checking on the progress for the family,” Nelson said. “They still find it too painful to leave home.”

            “You need to talk to the county sheriff,” the chief said, inspecting a fingernail. “It’s his problem, not mine.”

            “I understand your men found the body and processed the crime scene.”

            “I don’t care much what you understand,” the chief said. “We were mistakenly called to the scene and retrieved the body. As for a crime scene, the heavy rains during the night had obliterated any evidence. Nothing left but mud and a little dead gangbanger.”

            Nelson drew his lips tight against his lips. “I thought you said there was no evidence.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “If there was no evidence, why do you think the murder was gang related?”

            “Because she was black and because she had been executed, gang style.”

            “Executed?”

            “Tied to a piece of plywood and executed.”

            “That’s how gangs do it? Tie them to boards, haul them to the next town and dump the body on the side of the road?”

            The slighted hint of a smile crossed the chief’s tight face. He said, “You from around here?”

            “No, from the northwest.”

            “Thought maybe so. Then let me tell you a quick story and I have to go to a department head meeting. There was a mayor in a city near here back in the 1960s that folks still talk about. A legend, so to speak. Once, a group from a black neighborhood came to his office complaining about flooding. Seems a major ditch wasn’t functioning. The mayor listened, respectfully. Then he leaned back and said this. ‘Tell you what I’ll do. Gonna send a crew out to clean that ditch. Ya’ll remember that when election time comes around.’ Then before they could thank him, he added, ‘That said, everybody knows that if you people can’t fuck it or eat it, you throw it in the goddam ditch. Find someplace else.’” The chief laughed. “So I just imagine how your girl got in the ditch.”

            “She’s not my girl,” Nelson said, “her parents are Eli and Martha Stubblefield.”

            The chief’s smile vanished. “Whatever,” he said. “Anyway, Sergeant Patterson can answer any more questions. He’ll even take you to the crime scene if you like, though it’s in the county’s jurisdiction. We want to be sensitive to the concerns of the parents and all that.” With that, he rose. “That’s all I can tell you about the victim. While we were on the case there was no evidence recovered except the body and the plywood, there were no witnesses, no tips, and no clues. Now I have to go.”

            He walked by Nelson but as he reached the door, Nelson said, “Just one more thing, Chief.” The chief turned, annoyance showing on his face. “Do you have any information about a girl from here,” Nelson said, "that went missing from the Ransom Center over in Saline County?”

            The chief’s face reddened. “That runaway?”

            “Bridgette Thompson.”

            “She ran away in Saline County,” he said. “We provided information to the sheriff’s office there but it wasn’t our jurisdiction. Not our problem.”

            “Even though the center belongs to a church here in the city?”

            The chief’s face reddened more. “Who told you that?”

            “Seems to be common knowledge.”

            “Look, Mr, Nelson,” he chief said, turning to face him, “I told the FBI agent I would meet with you and I have. Now if you want to chase down the thugs that killed that black girl, I’d suggest you get on back to Little Rock and start there. And I’d suggest you don’t make a hobby of looking for runaway white girls. We have a crime-free community here and we plan to keep it that way.” He opened the door, “Patterson,” he said to the young man waiting outside, “Please show Mr. Nelson here all the courtesy that our top-rated police department is known for.” With that, he walked away without another word to Nelson.

            Sergeant Patterson stood and smiled. “At your service sir,” he said. “Do want to drive out and see the place where they found the Stubblefield girl’s body?”

            “Some other time,” Nelson said. “Why don’t you just walk with me to my truck?”

            When they were clear of the building, Nelson said, “Did you enjoy working for Sheriff Love?”

            “Very much, sir,” Patterson said. “I would have stayed, but there is only one slot available for a chief deputy and I didn’t have time to wait.”

            “You’re young,” Nelson said. “Wouldn’t you have had time?”

            “Maybe,” Patterson said, but the sheriff doesn’t. He’s old-school around here. That means on the wrong side of politics.” He looked around and then leaned in toward Nelson. “Besides,” he said, “they say he goes to the wrong church.”

            Nelson thought as they neared his truck. “You mean that, if maybe, he became a member of the Connorville Baptist Tabernacle his political future might improve?”

            “That place,” Patterson said. “Oh hell no, the Sheriff wouldn’t be caught dead in there.”

            “Why not?”

            “The Soul Warriors,” Patterson.

            Nelson stopped at his truck and turned to face the sergeant. “The Soul Warriors?”

            “You know them?”

            “I hear things. What is the Sheriff’s beef with them?”

            “Oh,” Patterson said, “they keep squeaky clean here in Connorville. To hear them tell it, they just live to serve Jesus.”

            “But?”

            “But once they cross the county line, look out.” The sergeant looked around again.

            “Up to mischief?”

            “Anything you can imagine.”

            “Oh, I can imagine quite a bit,” Nelson said. “I am a sailor.”

            The sergeant laughed. “Let’s just say they quit serving Jesus and start serving Mammon once they leave our fair city. They have this ‘deer club,’ or maybe more precisely, ‘social club’ south of here where they hang out when they aren’t saving souls. Some of them stay there at all times. As guards, most people think.”

            “They hunt there?”

            “They hang out there. I don’t know how much they actually hunt although they shoot a lot. I know the family that owns land adjacent to them. When the Warriors first started building their clubhouse, the neighbors paid a friendly visit to see how they might cooperate in retrieving game that had been shot.”

            “And?”

            “The head Warrior, a charming guy named Bully …”

            Nelson interrupted. “I’ve met him,” he said.

            “Then you may not be surprised to learn what Bully told my friend.”

            “Which was?”

            “He said, “You stay on your side of the goddam line and we’ll stay on our side of the goddam line and we won’t have no goddam problems.”

            “So the Sheriff suspects they do more than talk hunting when they gather there?”

            “He’s pretty sure but he has no basis to enter. He has documented how much the methamphetamine business picks up when the ‘warrior’ hang out there a lot.”

            “But Connorville is crime free?” Nelson said, changing the subject.

            “Connorville is ‘crime-report’ free,” Patterson said. “There is a difference. Want an example of what I’m talking about?”

            “By all means.”

            “We had a couple of rocket scientists here a few years back. Big time football stars. Headed for the big state “U” and all that. They would get stoned of a night and decide it would be fun to raise a little anonymous hell. First it was just pranks—busted car windows, ‘good pussy’ spray painted on the driveways of houses where nice girls lived, beating up computer nerds, that sort of thing. They wore ski masks but everyone pretty much knew who it was.”

            “They were apprehended?”

            “They were football stars. You don’t apprehend football stars in this town if you want to keep your job.”

            “They went unpunished?”

            “I didn’t say that,” Patterson said. “For reasons known only to them, they decided it would be a rush to rob convenience stores. With a pistol they weren’t familiar with, and a little physical force, which they were, they had hit two and picked out a third. That’s when they met Mrs. Albright.”

            “A store owner?”

            “A retired army noncom who not only had her own pistol but knew how to use it.”

            “She did?”

            “Two shots. Two less football players. Two less petty thieves. Had you been paying attention, you would have felt a positive movement in the gene pool about that moment.”

            “Did it make an impression? Teach anyone a lesson?”

            “I’ll say,” Patterson said. “Taught the business owners in town not to protect themselves from football players gone bad.”

            “It what?”

            “You don’t shoot football stars in this town,” Patterson said. “if you want to keep your business. After a year’s boycott, she sold out and moved back to Texas.”

            “That’s not a happy story,” Nelson said. “Not what some would call the American way.”

            “It’s the Connorville way,” Sergeant Patterson said.

           

Greed

Sometimes the Sermon On The Mount becomes quite timely. Like today. Our country, and the world, is experiencing the worst pandemic crisis we’ve known in our lifetimes. Predictably, the experience is bringing out the best and the worst in us.

The best is displayed be the scientists, medical personnel, a public safety officials who are risking their lives be exposing themselves to the deadly virus that sweeps our planet. People are dying. Businesses are closed. Jobs are lost. Families face bankruptcies. The crisis is testing our faith in the systems on which we depend. Some families face not being able to buy food.

People turn to their religious leaders. What do they hear? Perhaps they hear the voice of the Galilean from that Judean hill:

“For I tell you that unless your righteousness surpasses that of the Pharisees and the teachers of the law, you will certainly not enter the kingdom of heaven.” (Matthew 5:7 NIV)

Perhaps they also hear the voices of TV evangelists who tell them they must keep sending money, even in the face of this unimaginable crisis, money to sustain the evangelists’ mansions and private jets.

Perhaps they see crowds, defying the exhortations of medical experts to remain at home during the crisis, gathering at mega-churches whose leaders defy logic, safety, and righteousness in equal measures.

Times like these make it easier to surpass the righteousness of some pharisees.

Justice

Sundown in zion

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

            As Nelson settled into his truck and inserted the key, his cell phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket and checked the number. He pressed the “talk” button, placed it into position, listened, and said, “Agent Benson, so nice to hear your voice. Calling before you leave for services?” He waited, smiled, and said, “A simple ‘no’ would have sufficed,” He listened again. “Tomorrow at 10:00. Got it. Is this with the Chief himself? Good. I’ll tell him we were fraternity brothers.” He listened again and then laughed. “I’ll just tell him you owed me a favor.”  He punched the phone and placed it in his pocket.

            Before leaving, he pulled a folded sheet from his pocket and examined it. Then he reached into the glove compartment and retrieved a city map of Little Rock. He studied it for a moment and then jabbed a spot with his finger. He traced route and placed the map on the seat beside him. Pulling away from the Stubblefield home, he headed north, and then west.

            At first, he retraced the route he had taken to the University earlier. This time, he continued west and crossed University Avenue. Then he turned south and wound his way into a subdivision of middle-class homes. He stopped alongside a curb and reviewed his map and notes again. He then continued south before turning onto a quiet, tree-lined street. He drove slowly, observing the house numbers. He stopped, checked his notes again and eased his truck to a spot in front of a brick veneer home with an open garage that housed a four-year old Honda Civic. An older Ford sedan was parked in front of the house on a lawn that showed little sign of maintenance.

            Nelson drew a breath and opened his door. Before stepping out, he looked both ways. He eased himself away from the truck and walked the short distance to the front door. The doorbell pad was missing so he knocked three times against the front door. From inside, there was the sound of movement. A chair scrapped, there was a sharp exchange of voices and the footsteps could be heard approaching. The door opened and a large man stood facing Nelson. He had “life-guard” looks with long blond hair partially covering a tanned face. “What?” he said.

            “Is Mrs. Charles Winters in?”

            The man glared at him and said, “What do you want?”

            Nelson spoke in a low, even voice. “I want to talk to Mrs. Winters.”

            “What about?”

            “Is she in?” Nelson fixed his eyes on the face of the man, a face that now showed a slight hint of confusion.

            The man’s face gave a jerk to the rear. He yelled, “Connie.”

            A woman’s voice came from within, “I’m busy.”

            “Come here,” the man said.

            “I said I was busy.”

            “And I said ‘come here’ and I mean right now, godammit.” The man returned his glare to Nelson.

            Nelson said, “Thank you.” This seemed to confuse even more the man, who stepped aside as footsteps approached.

            His figure was replaced by that of an attractive woman in her late thirties. Her blond hair was pulled into a ponytail and secured with brightly colored bands. She wore a sleeveless pullover with no bra beneath it. She had on faded jeans showing her knees beneath worn spots. She was on the verge of being overweight, but moved with a practiced sensuality. She took one look at Nelson and said, “Whatever you’re selling, we don’t want any,”

            “Mrs. Winters?” Nelson said.

            “Who are you?” she said.

            “Gideon Nelson of the United States Navy. May I speak with you about your husband Charles?”

            She brightened. “Charlie? Did something happen to him?”

            “Yes,” Nelson said.

            “Come in,” she said, looking pleased and holding the door for Nelson. She led him through a well-kept room that was furnished with a large-screen TV, stereo equipment, and an exercise machine. The kitchen contained a new refrigerator and other upscale appliances. She motioned Nelson toward a seat at the kitchen table. She said, “Coffee?”

            “No thanks,” Nelson said. He took a seat and placed his hands on the table in front of him. She sat across from him. Her companion stood by the kitchen sink, watching.

            “Now tell me what happened to Charlie,” she said. “Something bad, I expect.”

            “No, Nelson said, “actually something good.”

            Her face darkened perceptibly. “Good?”

            “Yes,” Nelson said. “Something quite good.”

            She looked at her hands. There was no wedding ring on her finger. Looking up, she said, “And the Navy sent you to tell me about it?”

            “No, I’m just reporting as a friend.”

            “I thought you said you were with the Navy.”

            “Oh, I am,” Nelson said. “But they didn’t send me.”

            She appeared confused for a moment but then took a breath. “So what good thing has happened to old Charlie, my, … uh, estranged?” The other man laughed.

            “He met me.” Nelson said.

            Her face tightened. “He what?”

            “He met me and found a friend,” Nelson said.

            The other man stirred and said, “Just who the hell are you mister?”

            “You might say that I am a modern Jesus,” Nelson said, continuing to look at Charlie’s wife, “come to earth to protect the righteous and poor in spirit.”

            “Bullshit,” the man said as he started toward Nelson. “I threw that cripple bastard out of this house and that’s all we want to know about him.”

            “You need to go outside and stay out of this,” Nelson said, his eyes still fixed on Connie Winters.

            “Mr.,” the man said, “I’m giving you about one minute to leave before I throw you  ...”

            He didn’t finish. He had walked over to Nelson’s left and was leaning in to yell in his ear when Nelson grabbed the man’s arm and, taking advantage of the downward momentum, slammed his face into the kitchen table. As he fell on the floor, Nelson spun from his chair, grabbed the man by his shirt and delivered a sharp blow to the side of his head, his fist traveling no more than a foot. There was a sharp crack and the man’s eyes rolled upwards, then closed as he thudded to the floor. Nelson released him, sat, and turned in his chair back toward Connie Winters.

            “Is it true that you have taken Charlie’s bank records and checks from him and used Sluggo here,” he nodded at the form of the other man, “to keep him from coming back to claim them?”

            She said nothing.

            “And is it true,” Nelson said, “That you threatened bodily harm to my friend if he filed for divorce?”

            Connie Winters stared at her hands for a moment and then looked at Nelson defiantly. “So what if I did?” she said. “The wimp ain’t no use to me and I’m still young. The VA will take care of him. But I’ve got to take care of myself, and that’s all I’ve been doing.”

            “Thing is,” Nelson said. “It’s over. Watch and learn why.” He stood, turned and walked into the living room. There was a loud crash accompanied by the sound of electrical sparking and glass shattering. He walked back into the kitchen. “That was your TV,” he said. “Would you like to get his checks and bank records for me now?”

            “Fuck you mister,” she said.

            Nelson walked back to the living room and there were more sounds of destruction. When he walked into the kitchen, he moved to the counter and lifted a large microwave and threw it onto the floor beside her. She screamed and jumped aside and glass flew. “His bank records please. I have all day and you have lots of goodies.”

            Connie Winters eyes were wide now and fear had frozen her face. “How will I live?” she said. “I haven’t paid the rent this month.”

            “Put Sluggo to work,” he said. “Shall I take on the refrigerator next?” He moved toward it.

            “No,” she said. “Wait a moment. I’ll get them.” She hurried through the kitchen door and down a hallway. As she entered a room off the hall, Nelson stepped over the broken glass and stood out of sight against the wall. When footsteps sounded her return, he flattened himself against it.

            He watched as a hand holding a revolver broke the plane of the door opening, followed by an arm, and then the body of Connie Winters, her face wild and looking for Nelson. Too late, she sensed him and spun. He grabbed her wrist and with one jerk sent the pistol flying toward the still form of her companion. “Stupid,” he said. “Really stupid. Now don’t make me mad … the bank records please, and his other military documents.” He released her.

            She was breathing heavily. Nelson walked over to the gun, reached down, and grabbed it. He removed the bullets and the cylinder, placing them in his pocket. He threw the remainder of the gun into the kitchen sink. When the man on the floor moved and groaned slightly, Nelson bent over, raised the man’s head by his long hair and clipped his chin deftly, putting him to sleep once more. He turned and said, “Now.”

            Sometime later, Nelson was checking a cardboard box full of paperwork. Connie Winters stood in a corner crying softly, her hand across her mouth. Her companion still lay senseless beside the table. When he seemed satisfied, Nelson turned to the woman and said, “Now here are the rules of engagement. One, if, when I take Charlie to the bank, there have been any withdrawals from this moment until then, I will return. Is this understood?”

            She nodded. Nelson closed the flaps of the box. “And if I have to return, I will be pissed. Look at me,” he said to her. When she did, he said, “Really pissed. Do we understand one another?”

            She nodded. “And let me assure you, Mrs. Winters,” he said, “you don’t want to see me really pissed.” As if to emphasize the point, he walked over and opened a cabinet door. With one hand, he sent its contents, a collection of cups and glasses onto the floor. “Now,” he said, “for the second rule of engagement. In a few days, you will receive paperwork for a ‘no-fault’ divorce. I’ll wait one week for you to return them. Do and you won’t see me again. Don’t and I will be pissed. Okay?”

            She nodded and began to cry again. Nelson said, “Final rule of engagement. I think, after the divorce is final, it would be nice if you and Sluggo here moved to a climate more suited to your health. Don’t you?” She looked at him and nodded.

            “Good. “I love it when great minds agree.” He smiled at her and said, “After the body parts pass through the grinder, as the butcher said while disposing of his wife, everything falls into place.” He lifted the box and started toward the door. Reaching it, he turned and said, “It has been a pleasure dealing with you. I’m sure Charlie would want me to extend his thanks as well. He’s busy, though, regaining the health that you and this thing,” pointing at the body on the floor, “along with our foreign enemies, attempted to take from him.”

            He stopped. “Oh,” he said, “one more thing I almost forgot … the car keys please.” When she hesitated, he said, “As my mother would say, Don’t make me have to come back in there.”

            She took her purse from a kitchen counter and rummaged through it. She pulled out set of keys and pitched them to Nelson. He caught them and said, “After I leave, put the title into the glove compartment. Sometime, probably late at night, I’ll come and get it. If I see either of you, I’ll wreak major damage. Understood?”

            The form of Connie Winters seemed small and frail as she stood among the ruins of her kitchen. She nodded and then summoned enough energy to say, “Who the hell are you, mister?”

            Nelson turned. “Why, Mrs. Winters,” he said, “like I told your friend there, I’m Jesus. Haven’t you ever read about the cleansing of the temple?”

            With that, he turned and was gone.

The Flavor of Righteousness

The Sermon on the Mount doesn’t change. Our perspective does, though. Ever seen a film that meant one thing to you when you were young and another when older? I sure as heck have. My best example comes from The Graduate. A twenty-something me watched it and said, “Yeah!” Now, I’m prone to watch it and think, “That poor child just ran away with an irresponsible goof who hasn’t the vaguest notion of a moral compass.” Some message lost its flavor during a span of 50 years. Life’s events change the way we see things.

We’ve been through a lot as a nation, and as a world, the last few weeks. Our perspectives on many things may change as we cope. Above all, we may yearn for, and seek, things in our world that don’t change, things that represent a stable path.

Maybe that’s what the Galilean was talking about on that Judean hillside. We’re not really sure what he meant about salt losing its flavor. It doesn’t in our world. But he was preaching in the 1st century CE. His audience knew what he meant. If he spoke to us today, he no doubt would speak with different images.

Speaking of moral compasses, he might tell us that if our hand compass ceased to point to the north, we would discard if for a new one. If we programmed our car’s GPS system to take us to Dallas, TX and it took us to Birmingham, AL, we’d probably throw it out the window somewhere along the way. If someone we had lovingly reared and nurtured ran off with a character like filmdom’s Benjamin Braddock, we’d no doubt call out the bloodhounds.

If we could agree that, at least in part, the Galilean was talking about veering off the righteous path, what path did he have in mind?

Some acquaintances would argue that we’ve strayed too far down the sinful path of hyper-tolerance. Some would argue that we’ve strayed too far in the direction of using religion as a hate-tool. What is the poor traveler to think? How can we be happy (blessed) with our moral and ethical choices regarding righteousness? What would the Galilean tell us?

Well, what did he tell us? I seem to remember that he said:

"Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.

Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.

Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God.

Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me.” (NIV)

Those sure as heck haven’t lost their favor after all these years.

One Life

Sundown in zion

CHAPTER TWENTY

Sunday morning: Still visiting with the victim's family

            “Give us ten,” Eli said. He stood and walked to the door of a small bathroom in a corner of the shop. He closed the door and the sound of water running drifted through door. Moments later, the door opened and he returned to the table, his face bright from the washing and a smile returning to it. “We flyboys aren’t as tough as you bad-assed swabbies,” he said.

            “Mr. Stubblefield, it’s far easier to train men to be tough than it is to train them to respect humanity.”

            Eli seemed for a second on the verge of another breakdown but he took a breath, looked away, and said, “Thanks.” Then he added, “Please call me Eli.”

            “This is a nice shop,” Nelson said. “Did you build it yourself?”

            Eli said, “I call it the ‘War Room.’ The girls allowed me to put all my combat pay into a special account for it. I pulled four tours in Iraq and two in Afghanistan.” He paused. “It added up.”

            Nelson said, “Isn’t it funny what war does to a man?” Eli knitted his eyebrows. “I’ll use mine to go to college,” Nelson said, “my war money.” He smiled.

            “I want to thank you for both of us for helping,” Eli said. “You’ll never know.”

            “Don’t thank me too soon. I’m not a trained investigator.”

            “Martin said you did pretty well in Armistead County.”

            Nelson shrugged. “I got lucky,” he said.

            “I didn’t think you guys believed in luck.”

            Nelson laughed. “A person hears a lot about the teams,” he said. “Some of it, not all though, may even be true.”

            Someone knocked on the door and Eli stood up quickly and walked toward it. He opened the door for Martha who eased by him carrying a tray with coffee cups, a carafe, and a platter of muffins. “Snack time,” she said, placing the tray on the table before Nelson. She took two cups and poured coffee for Eli and Nelson, then placed the platter before them. After seeing that they were served, she poured coffee for herself and sat opposite them. “Now you two better enjoy those muffins,” she said. “I made them myself.”

            “Best obey,” Eli said. “She is the commanding officer here.” He placed muffins on two plates and handed one, along with a napkin, to Nelson. “You don’t want to know the penalty for ignoring orders.”

            Nelson smiled and took a bite of his muffin. He followed it with a sip of coffee. “Delicious,” he said.

            “Now,” Martha said, nibbling at a muffin, “tell us what you know about Abbey.”

            Nelson shrugged. “Not much,” he said. “She sounds like quite an individual.”

            “We thought so,” Martha said.

            “I went to the church in Connorville,” Nelson said. “Nobody claims to remember her.”

            “An African-American child attending a church in Connorville?” Martha smiled. “Who would notice that?”

            “I didn’t expect much,” Nelson said. “That town’s reputation exceeds itself.”

            “They haven’t released the medical examiner’ report,” Eli said.

            “That was going to be one of the things I checked on,” Nelson said. “Is there a problem?”

            Martha leaned forward and spoke. “There appears to be a jurisdictional dispute.”

            “A what?” Nelson turned his full attention to her.

            “Seems,” Martha said, “from what we can dredge out of them, that the police chief is now claiming the place where they found the body is not in the city.”

            Nelson drew a deep breath. “I would think it either is or isn’t.”

            “Not that simple,” Eli said. “We found that out when we were redrawing our flight zones at the Air Base. Apparently, there are no standards in the state for preparing descriptions of city limits lines. So the quality varies, and that is an understatement. Most of the cities in the state have no idea where their corporate limits are.”

            “They are arguing over the spot where your daughter’s body was found?”

            Martha said, “They apparently don’t want to admit that a person of color—that’s not exactly what they call us—was in town after dark, even if they were dead.”

            The three sat in silence for a minute. Nelson broke it. “I may have to ask you some tough questions if we are to get underway with this.”

            Eli said, “Such as?”

            Nelson composed himself. “Is there any chance Abbey may have fallen in with any bad influences?”

            Martha stiffened. “Why do you ask that?” she said.

            “I hate to,” Nelson said, “but there will be some claims arise that she may have been the victim of gang violence.”

            “I wish you could have known her,” Martha said.

            Nelson said nothing.

            “Then you would have known how baseless that is,” Martha said, “wherever it comes from.”

             “I just needed to get that out of the way,” Nelson said. “Nobody who knew her seems to disagree with you.”

            “She could be strong-headed,” Eli said. “She was particularly good at controlling me.” He smiled.

            “When she wanted to con him, she would call him ‘Daddykins’ to soften him up,” Martha said. “By the time she got around to whatever it was she wanted, he would be like putty.”

            “She never asked for anything that I wouldn’t have wanted her to have anyway,” Eli said.

            “Remember the time she wanted a new microscope?” Martha said, looking at Eli.

            He laughed, “Oh do I?” He turned to Nelson. “She found these old glasses, probably at a flea-market, with these half-inch thick lenses—made her look like a teen-aged girl version of Mr. McGoo. She walked around for several days wearing them and bumping into things.” He stopped to savor the memory. “She’d say, ‘Daddykins, I just can’t see what I need to see,’ and then she’d pretend to trip over something. She finally asked for the microscope and what could I say?”

            “She must have been fun to have around,” Nelson said.

            “You’ll never know,” Eli said, “how much I resent now those overseas deployments that took me away from her.”

            Martha patted his arm. “Now honey,” she said, “the Air Force gave us a good life and you were faithful to it.” She looked at Nelson and said, “Did he happen to tell you that he was in the running for Chief Master Sergeant of the Air Force?”

            Nelson drew in a sharp breath. “No,” he said. “I was already impressed. Now I’m in awe.”

            “Problem was,” Eli said, “they insisted that I sign up for four more years. I chose to spend them with Abbey instead.”

            “You made the right decision,” Martha said. “We had some good days.”

            The room became quiet. Sounds from the street filtered through the walls and mixed with the fine dust leftover from the woodworking. Nelson said, “Was Abbey religious?”

            “No,” Eli said. “We weren’t. No apologies. You would have to understand growing up poor and black. Martha goes now just to fill time on Sunday mornings.”

            “I don’t practice the art of judging,” Nelson said. “I just wonder why she began attending church during the last weeks of her life.”

            Martha looked at Eli and he looked at his coffee cup. She waited and he finally raised his eyes to hers and nodded. She said, “We need to be honest with you.” Nelson waited. “Abbey did change after her friend Bridgette had her problems. Not enough to make her go bad. She just …”

            “She changed, that’s all,” Eli said. “It was like her childhood went away and some new personality moved into its place.”

            “She could be moody,” Martha said. Eli nodded. She said, “She could be testy. I thought it was just part of growing up. You know …when the bear cubs start fighting with the momma.”

            “Disrespectful?” Nelson said.

            “Oh no,” Eli said. “Just secretive and quieter than normal. She even made a “B plus” on an exam. That’s when we were sure she was behaving a little differently.”

            “This Bridgette,” Nelson said, “tell me about her.”

            “A white girl,” Eli said, “and that was a little different because most of Abbey’s friends over the years hadn’t been white.”

            “I don’t think she thought about it in terms of color,” Martha said. “She tended to focus so much on learning that she didn’t venture much into strong friendships, and then it was with kids much like her in terms of background.”

            “Until she met Bridgette,” Eli said.

            “Until she met Bridgett,” Martha said. “They were in the swimming club together and began hanging out, as they called it. Before long, they were inseparable. Mostly they hung out at our house because Bridgett was, you know, from Connorville,” She paused. “and because the swim club was located here.

            “Both good athletes,” Eli said, “although Bridgette was never quite the swimmer that Abbey was.” He paused. “Abbey seemed to have been born part fish … and Bridgette was just a blink of an eye slower,” he said. “And that’s what caused the problem.”

            Nelson said, “What problem?”

            “The problem with drugs,” Eli said. When the others waited, he said, “Bridgette was extremely competitive. You never saw a more determined person. She had the strength and determination of Hercules when she set a goal.”

            “Let me guess,” Nelson said, “steroids.”

            “Oh no,” Martha said. “She would never resort to that.”

            “No,” Eli said, “she was so determined to match Abbey that she overdid the practicing and strained some muscles. That led to pain medication and that is what led to the drugs.”

            “It devastated Abbey,” Martha said, “to see her best friend in trouble and because of her, the competitive obsession and all. They were very close but Abbey wasn’t able to help her.”

            “Then she disappeared,” Eli said, “Bridgette did.”

            “Into the drug culture?” Nelson said.

            “Oh no,” Eli said. “She was working on getting over the drugs, it seems.”

            Nelson appeared confused but didn’t respond.

            “He’s jumping ahead,” Martha said. “He’s apt to do that because his mind works so fast.” She smiled and patted Eli’s arm. “When Bridgette’s mom realized there was a drug problem, she got her some help. Lord knows how she afforded it. According to another young girl who was in treatment with her, Bridgette was responding and was going to be released from treatment soon. According to the girl, Bridgette had been a model patient. She had even started an exercise class for the others.”

            Eli said, “That’s an example of how strong she could be when she put her mind to it.”

            “Abbey was so excited,” Martha said. “She was planning a big party when Bridgette got home.”

            “You can imagine how disappointed she was when Bridgette disappeared,” Eli said.

            Nelson leaned forward. “Relapse?”

            “Don’t know,” Eli said. “Nobody knows.”

            Nelson said, “What happened?”

            “She just disappeared,” Martha said. “Ran away.”

            “Nobody has seen her since,” Martha said.

            Nelson said, “You mean she was responding to drug rehab and then just ran away?”

            “That’s how is seems,” Eli said, “although Abbey didn’t believe it happened that way.”

            “Why not?”

            “She had talked to Bridgette and, according to Abbey, Bridgette was making all sorts of plans for the future. She had even had athletic scholarship offers from a couple of schools.”

            “Not any as prestigious as Miami U, though,” Eli said.

            “No,” Martha said, “Not like our Abbey. Did you know the swim coach called us personally when he heard?”

            “Does Bridgette’s mother have any idea where she may have gone?” Nelson said.

            “Not a clue,” Eli said. “And the folks at the center haven’t been much help. They just kept saying that they have girls run away from time to time and it isn’t their responsibility to find them. They can only treat them while they are on campus.”

            “On campus?”

            “At the Ransom Center.”

            Nelson’s had been looking away as he listened. His head jerked around. “Did you say the Ransom Center?”