It's hard, yes

Was the Galilean just being sarcastic on that hillside in Judea? That seems to provide an excuse today for many things we don’t want to hear. He said, for example, “But I tell you that anyone who is angry with a brother or sister will be subject to judgment.” (Matthew 5:22, NIV) Did the really mean that? Tough? Demanding? Yes.

He didn’t stop there. He continued, “Again, anyone who says to a brother or sister, ‘Raca,’ [An Aramaic term of contempt] is answerable to the court. And anyone who says, ‘You fool!’ will be in danger of the fire of hell.”

“But,” we say, “Using that sermon as a guide to life is hard.” Oh yes. It forces one to determine just how badly they want to be a follower of the Galilean. Claiming sanctuary in the sanctity of The Sermon is a bit difficult, no doubt, for a man enjoying his third marriage while valuing riches above all other treasures and saying "Raca" to anyone who doesn’t follow his every footstep. Provisions of The Sermon are nothing, if not demanding.

“But,’ we say, “Isn’t it possible to be a good disciple by choosing some other passages? There are plenty of passages in Paul’s letters by which we can easily eke through life. Besides, he lets us hate the ones we want to hate."

Paul was Paul and the Galilean was the Son of God. He said so himself. When the road gets rocky, “who you gonna call?”

“But,” we say, remembering something we heard once, “Isn’t the code of The Sermon more what you call guidelines than actual rules?”

One of the most interesting ironies of modern Christianity resides in how quickly we can go from “The Bible says it and I believe it,” to “That’s taken out of context.” It is particularly prevalent in political circles since religion can be softened, twisted, obfuscated, and selectively re-mastered for political gain. That’s probably why the founders of the Union chose to separate religion and politics. To date, for example, no politician has ever counseled inserting The Beatitudes into the U.S. Constitution.

Perhaps we amuse the Galilean, but it’s doubtful that he was simply being sarcastic on that obscure hill. In more modern times, England’s Henry II voiced his famous “Will no one rid me of this meddlesome priest?” Thomas Beckett learned, and since then we have all known, that the mutterings of a leader have consequences. Ask the Europeans. Not many words have been more profound, though stiffened by challenge, as our Sermon on the Mount. The fact that they are so largely ignored in today’s America in no way diminishes their power, notwithstanding their difficulty, the presence of alternative guides, or a belief that they were simply suggestions.

There is no doubt that the Galilean threw his followers a challenge, but sarcasm?

No.

Interactions

Sundown in zion

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Our hero wanders the Earth

            “So there I was, little four-year old Clifton Sikes, holding up one of my Uncle John’s boots and looking straight up at Uncle John and Momma. She had her hands on her hips like an ass-whupin’ was comin’ for shore as soon as she got me by myself.” Clifton laughed. “Then, what are you doin’ with Uncle John’s boot, she wanted to know.” He laughed again. “I said, ‘Lookin’ fer snakes.’ Her face got real red she started to turn around but I said, ‘Didn’t you say Uncle John had snakes in his boots’ the other day?” This time he laughed long and hard, slapping his knee for emphasis. “Godamnest whuppin I ever got.”

            “I don’t understand,” Nelson said. “Were there snakes in his boots?”

            “Hell no,” Clifton said. “Don’t you see…?” He stopped in mid-sentence. “Oh,” he said. “You ain’t from around here, are you?”

            “No,” said Nelson, obviously confused. He was driving through downtown Connorville and enjoying Clifton’s stories.

            “She said Uncle John, he was my daddy’s brother, had ‘snakes in his boots.’ She’d said it at the dinner table the day before. Down in these parts that meant a man was a lyin’ asshole, a lyin’ deceivin’ asshole. Somebody that ain’t to be trusted. So Uncle John shore knew what Momma thought about him after that.” He laughed again.

This time Nelson smiled. He said, “I guess that description would still some folks.”

“We got our share around here,” Clifton said.

“Could I ask you a question?” Nelson said. “And ask you to forget I asked it?”

“I owe you,” Clifton said. “Ask away.”

“The big church here, the Connorville Baptist Tabernacle, would anyone connected with it fit that group, have ‘snakes in their boots?’”

Clifton turned toward quickly toward Nelson. His eyes squinted. “Why on earth would you ask that?”

“Just things I hear,” Nelson said, “make me wonder.”

“What sort of things?”

“Mostly about that group you were talking about. Aren’t they the ones who call themselves the Soul Warriors.”

“Oh,” Clifton said. “That bunch.”

“You know them then.”

“Hell son,” Clifton said, “Everybody knows them.”

“And?”

“Ain’t a snake on earth brave enough to hide in one of them boys’ boots.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning they’s lyin’ deceitful assholes that are mean as hell on top of that.”

“But they work for a church?”

“Hell, they don’t work for the church or nowhere else, much,” Clifton said.

“They don’t work for the church?”

“Not really. They hang around there scaring folks by talking about how they’ll beat the shit out of anyone that don’t love Jesus. That’s when they ain’t over at their so-called ‘deer club’ shootin’ their guns. Oh, and they hang out some at that concealed carry place you was at while ago.”

“How did you know I was there?”

“I seen your truck parked there,” Clifton said. “I notice things.”

Nelson returned the conversation to its previous course. “But back to the Soul Warriors,” he said, “what connection do they have with the church?”

“My opinion?”

“Your opinion.”

“Coverin’ their asses,” Clifton said, “so folks don’t start askin’ what goes on over at that deer club.”

“And what is that supposed to be?”

“Don’t ask me,” Clifton said. “I ain’t never been invited over. You can bet it ain’t Bible study, though.”

Nelson turned approached a main highway. “Speakin’ of that church,” Clifton said, “go straight and I‘ll show you a shortcut back to my truck. It takes you by the Tabernacle, matter of fact.”

Nelson continued straight. “What does the group do at the Ransom Center? I’ve heard they work there.”

“Maintain discipline, they say,” Clifton said. “And they help chase after runaways.”

“Are they good at it?”

“Not so I hear,” Clifton said. “They did find that Anderson girl, Bonnie Sue. That’s the only one I know of that they’ve found. The rest got clean away.”

“The rest?”

“I hear maybe ten girls run off from that place and ain’t never been found. They draw girls from all over the state.”

“The girls don’t like it there?”

“Some do. They’ve actually cured some.”

“Of drug addiction?”

“Mostly.”

“How did they find the one? What’s her name?”

“Bonnie Sue? Hell I could have found her. All you had to do was go to the nearest burger joint. That’s where they found her.”

Nelson looked confused.

“Girl likes to eat,” Clifton said. “Always has. That’s what she was in for.”

“Weight control?”

“You might say, “Clifton said. Before Nelson could answer, Clifton leaned forward and pointed. “Looky goddam yonder,” he said, pointing down the street.

Nelson leaned too. The Connorville Baptist Tabernacle campus started on the next block and the entire street was clogged with vehicles. Nelson immediately signaled and made a left turn to avoid the jam. “Jesus,” he said.

“They ain’t goin’ to see Jesus this time of day,” Clifton said. “Wonder what’s going on?”

“No idea,” Nelson said.

“Circle the block,” Clifton said. “Maybe I’ll see someone I know and can ask.”

“You aren’t afraid of being seen with me?”

“Hell no,” Clifton said. “It’ll build my reputation to be seen with that mysterious stranger who’s been hanging around town breaking the fingers of piss ants who cross him.”

“What makes you think I’ve broken …” He stopped. As he turned the next corner, he had stalled in traffic just as a figure stepped from a parked truck and turned to face Nelson and Clifton. It was the one they called Bully Bridges and he stopped cold from less than ten feet away. His face became stony and the glared at Nelson with a look of palatable hatred. The two locked eyes for a few seconds before Bridges nodded, displaying not a look of greeting but one that promised future intercourse, and that not of a pleasant kind. With that, he walked past them and toward the church.

“Who are you, Mister?” Clifton asked.

“Nobody,” Nelson said.

“You got to be somebody to rate a look like that. Do you know who that was?”

“I know,” Nelson said.

“Ya’ll ain’t in the same Sunday School class, I’ll bet.”

“No,” Nelson said. “We’re not.” He drove on.

As they neared the edge of town, Clifton was talking again. “So we never had no kids. But let me tell you, mister, we tried. We sure as hell tried. I loved that woman like Jesus loves a sinner and I’m pretty sure she liked me more than I deserved. We tried ever way we knowed how. Closest we came was one miscarriage. That nearly killed her and it nearly killed me when she died.” He stopped talking. He sniffed once and said, “It was just before her fortieth birthday. Cancer. I kept our dairy going until I turned 62 but my heart never was in it any more. So I sold out. What I got for it, and my Social Security, lets me live pretty well, but I’d give it all, ever last cent, for one more day with her. Hell, one more hour. You’d better believe I would.”

Nelson blinked. “You never remarried?”

“Son,” Clifton said. “A man who’s lived on steak for 20years ain’t never gonna be satisfied with hamburger again.” He stopped again, then, after a breath, resumed. “What about you? You married?”

“Not me,” Nelson said.

“Why in the world not?”

He thought. “I guess I’ve never been lucky enough to find one like you did. I guess if I ever do, I’ll know it right away.”

            “Son,” Clifton said. “It don’t work that way. It don’t work that way at all. What you got to do is find one that loves you, and will have you, and then you got to work long and hard to deserve her.”

            “I’ll keep looking,” Nelson said.

            “Not around here though,” Clifton said. “Slim pickings.”

            “You don’t like these folks?”

            “Oh, don’t get me wrong,” Clifton said. “They’s some nice folks left, mostly from the old families. Even some of the new ones who have moved here ain’t bad. But I wish you could have seen the place back in the old days.”

            “Good people.”

            “Good like you seem to be,” Clifton said. “People who wouldn’t a bit more pass a stranded stranger on the road than they would their own kin.”

            “That’s nice know,” Clifton said as he pulled behind Clifton’s truck. Clifton opened the door, climbed out and placed the new battery on the ground. He closed the truck’s door and spoke through the open window. “I can manage from here. Thanks a million.”

            “Couldn’t you use some help getting it in place?”

            “Evening traffic’s building,” Clifton said. “You’d better get on back to Little Rock. Just remember, though.”

            “Remember what?”

            “What you see now ain’t the Connorville that Marge and I knew. They were good honest folks who’d loan you the shirt off their back.” He paused. “If you was white.”

            Nelson said, “So that was important?”

            “They just never liked the coloreds.” Clifton said. “And that ain’t no crime these days, now is it?” He turned and reached for his battery. Nelson watched until he saw that Clifton had wrestled the new battery into place.

            Nelson drove back to Little Rock deep in thought. When he reached home, Charley’s care was pulled to the back of the drive but he wasn’t home. Nelson showered and changed to khakis and a knit shirt. He slipped on a pair of dark loafers and left a note for Charlie that read, “Going in harm’s way. You have the place to yourself tonight.”

            Arriving at Tina’s house he parked and walked to the door, carrying a bottle of wine. Before he could ring the bell, the door opened and Tina stood before him in the same kimono she had worn before. She ushered him through the door. Taking the wine, she read the label, looked at him, and said, “How thoughtful.” Stepping to him, she wrapped arm, hand, and wine bottle around his neck and pulled him toward her. She pressed her mouth to his and began a long, flickering kiss. Feeling a stirring, she reached down, felt, and smiled. She dew back, looked at the bottle of wine again, and said, “We’ll save it. ‘Sex first, wine and foreplay later,’ as the good old boys say. Don’t that sound nice?” With that she walked away and placed the wine on the kitchen table. She turned to face Nelson. “Follow if you dare,” she said as she turned and walked toward the hallway leading to her bedroom. With what was surely a practiced move, she unloosened the belt of her kimono,  executed a slight shrug, and let it fall to the floor. Naked, she continued into the hall. Viewed from behind, her perfectly-formed bottom moved in a fluid motion with her body, her shoulders thrown back with an arrogant promise. This brought forth a slight gasp from Nelson.

He followed.

            Later, the night began to close on the teeming masses making up the small spot of earth traveled by Gideon Nelson and on the people impacting his life. He lay beneath silk sheets thinking, with Tina Barrow snoring softly into his cheek. Across town, Charlie Winters punched keys on a keyboard and stared at a website on Nelson’s computer. In Hot Springs, Martin Barker studied numbers on a cell phone. In Armistead, Sheriff Gladson Love watched TV and read copies of notes his deputies had made for him. Not too far from there, Clifton Sikes finished another lonely meal in silence, looked at his wedding ring, wiped a tear from his eye, and reached for his check.

Acceptance

It’s hard to read the Sermon on the Mount in today’s environment. You get the feeling that America has drifted as far away from the spirit and intent of the world’s most famous sermon as it can get.

And I’m not talking about the freethinkers, non-religious, agnostics, secular humanists, or even atheists. The ones I know generally follow the advice of the Galilean by being more righteous say that a Franklin Graham, Joel Osteen, or Kenneth Copeland.

I’m talking about those who wear their religion on their sleeves while spouting their hatred into your face. They do love their cliches and explanations.

Let’s take and early example, Matthew 5:3. It’s reported that the Galilean simply said, “Blessed are the poor in spirit.”

Huh? If we take the most common translation of the Greek word for “blessed,” it means “happy.” So, we are supposed to be happy to be poor in spirit? Worse still, are we supposed to be, as it is stated in Luke, happy to be poor, period?

Let’s look at extremes. Perhaps an overabundance of spirit could be considered improper. That might make you judgmental even. One might, on becoming too filled with the spirit, attempt to filch the privilege of judging others from the Almighty himself.

Or one might become a pompous ass from an overabundance of spirit, following no rules of decent behavior except those that support greed, power, and self-aggrandizement.

Or one might become a follower and worshiper of a pompous ass, giving them an authority that is the very foundation of destruction.

One might even believe and become accepting of the evil spewing and deeds of a pompous ass.

It’s starting to come clear now. If we are poor in something, we are like an empty, or partially empty, vessel with room to grow in acceptance of grace. Could that be the point at which the Galilean was aiming?

It certainly is better than the explanation offered by a theological representative of the group we refer to now as the “one-percenters.” He said one should be happy to be poor on Earth, that is, not to resent those who are rich here. You will be rich in heaven and that should be enough.

More righteous than the pharisees. Yeah. 

Duty

sundown in zion

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

 Our hero runs into a local acquaintance 

            A half-hour after leaving Armistead, Nelson was almost back in Connorville. He turned before he reached the outskirts and drove toward the ProTex site. Arriving there, he found the building closed and locked. Nelson saw that the Toyota Sienna belonging to Sam Coulson was parked in the rear. He exited his truck and walked to the front door. Although the lights were off, he knocked on the door and waited. Hearing nothing, he knocked again, this time banging the door with a loud boom. Before he turned, a voice from the highway said, “Coming. Coming. Hold on.”

            Nelson turned to see a man arriving on a bicycle. It was a road bike, an expensive one by its looks and the man was dressed in the garish style of true believers. He exited the highway and wheeled to a stop in front of Nelson. “Hey sailor,” he said, laughing, “It’s me, Sam.”

            Nelson stared. The man lifted his racing helmet, revealing that it was, indeed, Sam Coulson. Nelson continued to stare.

            “Surprised?” Sam said. “You may be looking at the only biking enthusiast in Armistead County, but don’t tell anyone. They all think I’m a retired mobster.”

            “Certainly not what I expected to see,” Nelson said, “in a place where the average teenager drives a few blocks to school in a pickup truck that costs as much as some homes.”

            “A habit from my Army years,” Sam said. “Your buddy Charlie and I were the terrors of the military biking competitions.”

            “Charlie?”

            “He hasn’t told you?”

            “Told me what?”

            “Charlie …,” Sam said, “Charlie is, was, a world class cyclist before he got shot up.”

            “He’s never mentioned it,” Nelson said.

            “Must be painful to think about,” Sam said. “The Marines were going to let him train for the next Olympic Games, but you know the military, ‘fighting first and fun second,’ as the Irish couple said when they settled in for the night.”

            Nelson’s head jerked slightly. “Oh,” Sam said, “I enjoy your friend Dickens too.” When Nelson didn’t respond, he added, “This is a small county, my friend.” With that, he changed course, “But to what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

            “Best we go inside,” Nelson said. “As you say, it is a small county.”

            “Tell you what,” Sam said, “I’ll keep your secrets if you won’t spread it around that you saw me riding a bicycle.” With that, he unlocked the front door and motioned Nelson it, following him with his bike. “Wait one while I store this thing,” he said, and he disappeared down a hallway and around a corner.

            Returning, he unlocked the office door and the two men entered. Nelson took a seat in a visitor’s chair and Sam sat behind his desk. “Now what prompts this secrecy? I suspect it involves the Stubblefield girl.”

            “More or less,” Nelson said. “I seemed to have sailed into a sailed into a squall, particularly by getting too inquisitive with Sheriff Love.”

            Sam looked surprised. “Sheriff Love? He’s usually friendly. I can’t say anything bad about Sheriff Love since he sends all his deputies to me for firearms certification. That surely can’t be the reason you’re here.”

            Nelson said nothing, just looked at Sam and nodded.

            “No,” Sam said.

            “Afraid so,” Nelson said. “He sent me here to get certified. Can you teach me to use a pistol?”

            “Bite me,” Sam said, laughing. “How much is the old skinflint paying you?”

            “That’s the fascinating part,” Nelson said. “Nothing.”

            “That sounds just like him,” Sam said.

            “Oh, and he said to ask you for a discount on the training.”

            “Screw the training,” Sam said. “I’ll give you whatever old ‘Tub of Love’ wants.” He paused. “I suppose then, that you are going to solve the Stubblefield case?”

            “The Sheriff seems to think so. What I plan to do is bumble around and piss people off until someone confesses.”

            “I take it then,” Sam said, “that you don’t buy into the ‘gang-related’ theory?”

            “Don’t know,” Nelson said. “It sounds a little theatrical to me for a gang, no more than I know about them. Something does strike me, though.”

            “And that is?”

            “It seems that modern gangs operate more like my old outfit than they do the old mobsters.”

            Sam jerked back and stared. “What do you mean?”

            “They seem to operate on the basis of get the mission done with as little fanfare as possible and move on down the line. I would guess that they use theatrics more to attract women than to kill them.”

            Sam considered this. After a long pause, he said, “Maybe I can start you off with a tidbit.”

            Nelson waited.

            “That girl called me a few weeks ago,” Sam said. “I had forgotten about it until after you and Charlie left the other day.” He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a three-ring binder. Placing it on his desk, he fanned the pages until he found an entry. “Here it is,” he said. “A ‘Miss Stubblefield’ called about two weeks ago and wanted to know if she could come and visit about some people who might be my regular customers, a group calling themselves ‘The Soul Warriors for Christ,’ as she put it.”

            Nelson leaned forward with interest. “And?”

            “I told her that I didn’t share information about my clients. That’s what I call them, ‘my clients.’ She seemed disappointed but understood. That was it.”

            “That’s all she said?”

            “As I remember.”

            “Have you told anyone about this?”

            “I was going to tell the Police Chief, but when I called him, his response was ‘I ain’t responsible for that little …,’ well, you don’t want to hear the rest.”

            “Probably not,” Nelson said.

            “So I was going to tell Sheriff Love but now you’ve saved me the trouble.”

            “Thanks,” Nelson said.

            “No problem,” Sam said. “Now let’s get your paperwork together. You do know how to use a pistol, don’t you?”

            “I seem to remember something about it.”

            “What kind do you use at present?”

            Nelson shrugged. “To tell you the truth, I don’t own one.”

            It was Sam’s turn to be surprised. “A man with your background doesn’t own a firearm?”

            Nelson shrugged. “I laid down my sword and shield a couple of years ago. It may have been ‘down by the riverside,’ I can’t remember.”

            “Oh,” Sam said, “speaking of remembering, there was something that girl said before she rang off.”

            “Oh?”

            “She apologized for bothering me, that she was just trying to find a friend and she thought maybe some of the Soul Warriors knew her.”

            “That’s all?”

            “I know it isn’t much, but that’s all she said.” With that, he rose and walked to a file cabinet.

            Nelson left Sam’s place with a manila envelope in his hand. Not long after he turned onto the highway, he saw an old flat-bed truck pulled off on a long stretch of road with the truck’s hood raised. As he slowed to pull around, he saw a man bending over into the engine well. When the man stood, Nelson saw a familiar face and pulled off the road just beyond the stalled truck. He exited his truck and walked to where the man stood. “Remember me?” Nelson said. “Your name is Clifton, right?”

            The man’s face tightened. He shook it from side to side as if trying to cast out unnecessary information to uncover the one important fact.

            “We had breakfast together.”

            Clifton’s face broke into a smile. “Be damned,” he said. “You’s the one whipped Johnny Gallagher’s ass.” He stuck out a hand and shook Nelson’s. “They’s talk about makin’ you mayor. Old Johnny smacks that cast on his finger against the griddle ever time he tries to cook an egg.” He laughed to himself at the thought.

            “Don’t know anything about that,” Nelson said, “just saw you were stalled here. Stopped to see if you needed help.”

            “Goddam battry,” Clifton said. “I was going to get a new one today, but did I? Let me answer that. No, I heard there was some excitement going on over’t Armistead and I decided to drive over and see if’n I could find it.” He turned and spat toward a copse of woods that bordered the highway. “Stopped to take a leak, and guess what?”

            “The battery gave up?”

            “Dead as my whacker. You don’t have a jumper cable do you?”

            “Afraid not,” Nelson said. “Looks like you need a new battery more than a jump. I could take you for one.”

            “You’d do that?”

            “Sure,” Nelson said.

            “I’d be obliged. Wait just a second.” He went to the passenger side of the truck, opened the door and produced a small tool box. “Won’t take me but a second to get it loose,” he said, producing a small wrench.

            Minutes later, he and Nelson were on their way toward Connerville.  As they passed the ProTex building, Nelson broke the silence. “If I remember correctly, you said you were from these parts.”

            “Born and raised in Connerville,” Clifton said. “One of the few now who was. Our family had a dairy farm on the edge of town but our house was just inside the city limits. The whole place was just a speck on the highway when I was growin’ up.”

            “Did you like it?”

            “It was okay. They never allowed no coloreds in our town and that appealed to some folks.”

            “Why was that?”

            “Why was what? That it appealed to some folks that they didn’t allow coloreds?”

            “No. Why didn’t they allow them?”

            “They tell me it went back to a couple of men back in the 20s that got all worked up, raised a crowd, and started running them out of town, the coloreds, that is. They’d give a family a week or so to move and if they didn’t, a crowd would pay them a visit at night and burn their house down.”

            “Then it was an all-white town?”

            “Yep, they even printed some flyers braggin’ on the fact. Said folks ought to move here because it was ‘free of negroes and other low-lifes.’ Later on, that’s what drug the assholes here.”

            “What do you mean, drug them?”

            “When they started bussing school kids, assholes from Little Rock started moving here.” Neither man spoke for a moment. Then Clifton said, “Now we’re colored-free and Little Rock’s free of a bunch of assholes, so I reckon things are in some sort of balance. That’s why I was headed for Armistead.”

            Nelson looked at him, but said nothing.

            “I heard,” Clifton said, “that we got rid of a couple of assholes this morning.”

            “How so?”

            “They say a couple of those Baptist Tabernacle hoodlums wrapped their truck around a tree in the Baker’s Creek bottoms.”

            “Oh,” Nelson said. “Were they hurt?”

            “They say one went to the hospital and one went to see Jesus.”

            Nelson was quiet for a moment. “It doesn’t sound as if you like them much.”

            “About as much as I like rattlesnakes,” Clifton said. “They’s a bad bunch, but ain’t nobody gonna tell them so.”

            “Why not?”

            “They got God and Bully Bridges on their side.”

            “I see,” Nelson said.

            “That’s a dangerous combination, if you ask me,” Clifton said.

            “What is?”

            “Religion and power,” Clifton said. Then he pointed up a busy street, “Up there at that yellow sign.”

            Nelson parked the truck outside a business advertising auto parts. Clifton took the old battery inside. As he waited, Nelson’s cell phone announced a text. He took it from his pocket and read, “Will be enjoying wine in your favorite kimono tonight. Must I beg?”

Change

The Sermon on the Mount came early in the Galilean’s recorded ministry. He delivered it, we are told, shortly after he met John the Baptist, overcame the temptations, and chose his disciples. The message he delivered was new. One can almost see the shaking of heads among a crowd accustomed to ritualistic services performed by an exalted and unapproachable priesthood.

Here was a young man, in his thirties, simple in appearance but commanding in stature, laying out a strict moral code and teaching them not only how to pray, but where to pray, to whom, and for what. Spoiler alert: It wasn’t for money. Oh, and their righteousness had to outdo that of the priests. To be happy, one should be poor in spirit, meek, pacific, and so forth, every attribute so denigrated by many so-called Christians. And it would be best for you to keep that little light shining all the way. There must have been some squirming on that hillside.

 The exact location of the most famous sermon ever recorded remains unknown. One possible site is called the “The Mount of the Beatitudes.” A church sits there, known as "The Church of the Beatitudes.”

That’s a bit ironic for Americans. A church by that name wouldn’t attract a lot of members these days.

Enlistment

sundown in zion

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

 Gideon Nelson joins up again.      

“Well butter my hoe cakes and rub my jelly-roll if it ain’t Boats,” Elvis Barker said when he saw Nelson enter. “What’s up white boy?”

            “Out slumming,” Nelson said, “and giving thanks.” He walked to where the soft drinks lay stacked in orderly rows. He grabbed a diet soda and gestured toward Barker with it.

            “No thanks,” Barker said. “The old lady says I been drinking up the profits lately.” He followed Nelson to a table in the “Collusion Corner.”

            “Keeps watch on you, does she?” Nelson said, as he counted out payment for the soft drink.

            “I told her it was a good thing we are in a dry county,” Barker said. They both laughed as they sat. Barker checked the front door, and said, “So what’s up? What you got to give thanks for?”

            “All that Navy training we received.”

            “That you received. All they ever taught me to do was to chip paint and clean shit scuppers. What did they train you to do?”

            Nelson smiled. “Well, once they sent our team to Charles Town, West Virginia to that evasive driving school where they send the State Department boys.”

            Barker considered this. “Guess you need to know shit like that when you jump out of a helicopter in the middle of the ocean.”

            “It comes in handy at times,” Nelson said.

            When Barker saw that Nelson wasn’t going to discuss it further, he said, “So what brings you around?”

            “Just going to see the Sheriff,” Nelson said. “I called from the road and he said I could come on by a little later. He was receiving some urgent radio traffic. So I thought I would stop here and waste some time.” He grinned.

            “You always did know how to make a person feel important, Boats,” Barker said. He took the money that Nelson had placed on the table and took it to the cash register. Upon returning, he said, “What are you finding out in Connorville these days?”

            Nelson looked around, then back at Barker, “Just that there’s one bunch of lying sons of bitches there.”

            “Okay,” Barker said, “now tell me something I don’t know. And don’t tell me that they don’t like black folk.”

            “I met a former sheriff’s deputy named Ralph Patterson. You know him?”

            “Barney Jr.? He was Sheriff Love’s right hand man. We all thought he would be the next sheriff.”

            “What happened?”

            “Politics shifted. Power’s in the north county now.”

            “And?”

            “Roger’s roots are south county. Farm country.”

            “Which means?”

            “Next sheriff will be on the right side of politics. And I mean not on the left side.”

            Nelson nodded. “I see. He seemed like a fairly nice young man.”

            Barker said, “Oh, Roger? He’s okay. He never was one of those ‘Whatchew doin’ here this time of night, boy?’ type of deputies. He got pushed aside for a while by the two that you … uh … the two that injured themselves.” He stood up, walked to the door, looked outside. In the distance, the wail of an ambulance siren could be heard. Seeing nothing, he returned to the table. “So what are you going to see the Sheriff for about?”

            “They’re claiming Abbey’s body was found in the county and her murder is his case now.”

            “Well crack my chitlins. How’s he feelin’ about that?”

            “That’s what I’m going to find out.”

            “Say,” Barker said. “By the way …I’ve been trying to help you out with this case.”

            “Oh,” said Nelson suddenly leaning forward. “How?”

            “I been asking folks if any of them know Abbey or why she might have turned religious all of a sudden, and why she chose Connorville as the right place to come to Jesus.”

            “And?”

            “Not much so far,” he said. “The kids around here think it had something to do with her friend running away.”

            “This Bridgette girl?”

            “That’s the one.”

            “So what about her?”

            “Nobody knows much except she was athletic and Abbey’s best friend.”

            “Yeah,” Nelson said, “I had heard that already.”

            “One more thing,” Barker said.

            “What’s that?”

            “Everybody agrees that she was some kind of beautiful.”

            “I’ve gotten that impression.”

            “No,” Barker said. “I’m talking movie star beautiful. In fact, the kids tend to think she ran off to Hollywood.” He paused. “All of them except Martin.”

            “He disagrees?”

            “He says he knows for a fact that she and Abbey had made plans to take a field trip down to Louisiana this summer when Bridgette got out of the rehab clinic.”

            “She was going to be released?”

            Barker nodded. “Martin seems to think she had responded well to treatment, this was according to Abbey, before she just up and ran away.” Nelson narrowed his eyes in thought. Barker said, “Damndest thing I ever heard of.”

            “Passing strange,” Nelson said, as a group of workers walked into the store to buy lunch. With Barker occupied, Nelson finished his soda, tossed the can, and waved farewell.

            Reaching the highway, Nelson turned toward Armistead. As he did, a sheriff’s car approached him at high speed, lights flashing and siren screaming, heading in the direction from which Nelson had just come. Nelson pulled over until it had passed and proceeded into town. He passed a new building under construction, moved along a busy main street, and proceeded to the courthouse where he parked. He climbed from his truck and, after looking both ways, walked to the Sheriff’s office.

            When he entered the large anteroom, the Sheriff’s receptionist, who knew him now by sight, continued a phone conversation as she waved him through. As he passed, he heard her tell the person on the other end of the conversation, “I said that he would be glad to talk to you as soon as we hear from the deputies on the scene.”

He entered the office to find the Sheriff bent forward in front of a radio listening to transmittals. He motioned Nelson to the visitor’s chair as he continued to listen. Nelson heard a transmittal that ended with the words, “all secure here.”

            Sheriff Love pressed a button, said, “Ten-four, out,” and turned to Nelson. He rolled this chair back to its normal position behind his desk. He closed an open notebook and turned it over. Smiling at Nelson, he said, “My nautical hero, what brings you in boredom’s way? You’ve caught us on a busy morning, I fear.”

            “Crime never sleeps,” Nelson said, “or so I hear.”

            “Not crime exactly,” Sheriff Love said, “more like the spirits of the universe shining upon our poor jurisdiction.”

            Nelson gave him a questioning look but said nothing.

            Sheriff Nelson said, “Two of our county’s most notorious scumbags got to playing a little too hard this morning.”

            “At what?” Nelson said.

            “According to the one who is still able to talk, at playing race-car, actually race-truck, driver.”

            Nelson nodded. The Sheriff studied his reaction. “Why do I get the feeling that you always seem to be around when our county enjoys an upgrade?”

            Nelson shrugged. “Just enjoying a bad reputation I suppose.”

            “Hmm,” the Sheriff said. “But good news aside, what brings you here?”

            “I’ve heard that you now have the Abbey Stubblefield case.”

“They laid the poor girl’s body, so to speak, on my doorstep, rang the bell, and fled. It is indeed, now my case.”

“I hear the Connorville Police Department is quite pleased.”

“And where did you hear this?”

“I got that impression straight from Chief Banks himself.”

            “The Weasel?” The Sheriff leaned back with his hands folded on his stomach. “You didn’t hear this from me, but an informant tells me the Chief is bragging that the transfer is the Connorville version of the burning bag of excrement placed on one’s porch.”

            Nelson closed his eyes. When he opened them, he said, “Do you have any idea when you might be able to tell the family anything?”

            “Are you serious? I had one deputy that was well trained in crime investigation and he went over to serve The Dark One.”

            “Just trying to get something, anything, any hope at all for the family.”

“I’m not being cranky,” Sheriff Love said. “I’m just frustrated. If I ask the Bureau’s help, I’m a suck-up who has to call big brother to help. If I don’t solve the case, I’m inadequate. The folks up Connorville way dominate my Quorum Court now and they have eviscerated my budget. It’s a goddam shitty mess as my daddy used to say. I…” he stopped. Leaning forward, he glared at Nelson, his eyes growing wide. “Say,” he said. “I have a good idea about once every forty years.” He nodded toward the photo of a young Gladson Love and another Marine, taken at Khe San shortly after the siege was lifted. “Getting out of the Marine Corps was my last and I’m about due for another.”

            Nelson shook his head and shrugged in utter confusion.

            “You’ve an independent income, right?” Sheriff Love said.

            “I get by.”

            “No felonies? At least no sex-related felonies?”

            “I don’t understand,” Nelson said, “but no.”

            “I know you love truth, justice, and the American way.”

            Understanding seemed to settle on Nelson. “Now wait a minute Sheriff …”

            “Shut up sailor,” the Sheriff said. “Haven’t you heard that Marines rule?” He punched a button on his phone and roared into it, “Miss Matterson, bring me a set of that deputy paperwork in here.” He turned to Nelson, “I’m gonna deputize your seafaring ass.”

            “Now wait a minute, Sheriff,” Nelson said, but the Sheriff cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Do you want to see this goddam case solved?”

            “Of course I do,” Nelson said, “but …”

            “Then shut the fuck up,” Sheriff Love said just as his receptionist opened the door to his office.

            “Now stop that kind of talk,” Mrs. Matterson said. “Here you go.” She handed the Sheriff a folder of papers. “You should be ashamed of yourself.” She raised herself to her full height, glared at Nelson, and turned back to the Sheriff. “Don’t make me talk to your family.”

            “I’ll tell her about those fried pies you want to swap me for sexual favors, wench,” the Sheriff said. “Now begone.”

            She harrumphed, turned on her heels, and walked out.

            “Now you’ll need to fill all this out and let Miss Manners out there make you a photo ID. Of course I can’t pay you but this will give you official status and open up all the right doors. If we’re lucky, some of the wrong ones too.”

            “But …,” Nelson said.

            “And it will piss everyone in Connorville off to no end. Case closed.”

            Nelson shrugged in surrender. “You know,” he said, as he raised his head in thought. “It just might work,” as the 1950s Sci-Fi hero said when he finally figured out how to kill the monster.”

            “Fuckin A, it’ll work,” said the Sheriff. He yelled toward the door, “Now Miss Manners, get your ear away from the door and get a-holt of Judge Thomkins so he can swear this feller in.” The sound of scuffling came from beyond the door.

            “Now …,” Sheriff Love said as he walked to a locked gun cabinet in the corner of the office. He produced a key and unlocked the cabinet. Inside, there were no guns but a collection of umbrellas, a raincoat, a tattered Bible, a large box of Ritz Crackers, and a small metal box. He opened the box and fished out a badge. “Now,” he said, tossing the badge to Nelson, “Your first assignment is to go and tell that medical examiner that we expect some results soon or we’ll put out the word that he fornicates with his patients.”

            Nelson still appeared in shock. He stared at the badge and the back at the Sheriff. “Are you serious?” he said.

            “About the fornication?” he said. “No, just repeating rumors I’ve heard.” He smiled.

            “No,” Nelson said, “about this deputizing thing.”

            “Never been more serious in my life,” he said. “I’ll tell the other deputies that you are on loan from the Bureau and that will impress the hell out of them. They’ll follow you like lap dogs. You’ll have to kiss Miss Manner’s ass daily of course, or your life will be one of constant misery. You’ll furnish your own vehicle I presume? I have this feeling that it is fairly maneuverable.” He winked.

            Nelson didn’t respond. The Sheriff said, “I’ll get you a portable blue light and siren. Boy, it’s going be nice having you in the tent with me pissing out, as old Lyndon Johnson said of J. Edgar, instead of outside pissing in.” He sat in his chair and smiled.

Reason

There’s a saying heard often in my profession that it provides situations in which two people, each with honest intent, can review the same set of facts and come to diametrically opposed conclusions. In other words, there are situations in which reasonable people can and do differ in their opinions.

Today, untold numbers of people will make decisions that couldn’t differ more in logic or potential results. We are suffering from a world-wide condition in which exposure to others is bound to increase—greatly increase—our being exposed to, and contracting, a fatal virus. Some will abide by the warnings of science and stay home behind closed doors, enhancing their chances for survival. Others won’t.

Only a minuscule portion of those on both sides of the prospect have ever read, or put much thought into the Sermon on the Mount. The odd thing is that if each person were to read it, they would more than likely use the Galilean’s sermon on that Judean hill to justify their behavior.

After all, he did say, as reported in Matthew 6:25-34 (NIV):

“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? 27 Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life[a]?

“And why do you worry about clothes? See how the flowers of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. 29 Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. 30 If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you—you of little faith? 31 So do not worry, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’ 32 For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. 33 But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. 34 Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.”

There you go. Couldn’t be clearer. We don’t need no stinkin’ advice from physicians or scientists. We are protected as surely as the fowls of the air are protected. Let’s all gather up and go to church.

But wait, comes the advice from another. He didn’t advise the fowls of the air to go seeking the hungry hawk as an act of righteous defiance. In fact, he asked us to, in 6:33 (NIV) “… seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.” First things first, they caution. Oh, and didn’t he, just before coming to The Mount, rebuke the Dark One with "It is also written: 'Do not put the Lord your God to the test?'" (Matthew 4:7 NIV)

And they will add, just in case we don’t get the message, that our most honored apostle of the faith will, years in the future, caution his flock in First Corinthians 10:9, (NIV): "We should not test Christ, as some of them did--and were killed by snakes."

What’s a person to think? Maybe this: The Galilean felt his Lord had given us a brain to use. Might he smile to see us trust it?

Danger

sundown in zion

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

     

Our hero finds trouble

Nelson shook hands with Sergeant Patterson and watched him walk back to the police department building. He stood for moment thinking, then boarded the vehicle and eased from the parking lot. He didn’t follow the same route by which he arrived but eased onto the highway headed south. He moved through the late morning traffic and kept to the right lane. The flow was languid and slow.

            As he passed the end of the municipal complex campus, another pickup truck moved slowly into the same lane as Nelson but three vehicles to his rear. It maintained the same speed as Nelson at a distance that wouldn’t attract attention while allowing easy visual contact. As the traffic thinned, it moved to a position that kept one vehicle between the two trucks. They soon approached the outer limits of Connorville and Nelson turned left onto a state highway and passed a sign that read, “Armistead 15 Miles.” He increased his speed only slightly, seemingly enjoying a leisurely and thoughtful ride.

            The second truck also turned left as well and followed Nelson’s at the same speed. They soon passed beyond the area of expensive homes on large parcels of land, the scenery changing first to pastures of grazing cattle and next to large expanses of row crops. The truck in rear drew closer to Nelson and dominated the rear-view mirror, It contained two men of young appearance, each wearing baseball caps and sunglasses. It narrowed the distance as they entered a low, wetlands area. Trees and other vegetation began to dominate the landscape.

            As the rear truck drew closer, Nelson increased the speed of his truck. The other did as well. They approached an intersection with a less traveled state highway. Nelson slowed and carefully signaled for a right turn. The other followed. As they entered a remote bottomland reserve, Nelson increased his speed. The other matched it. They continued and soon Nelson’s speedometer was showing 70 miles per hour. The rear truck followed and began lurching forward at times to within fifty feet or so of Nelson’s. He drove faster.

            A hand appeared from the passenger side of the following vehicle and three loud popping sounds erupted. A pistol was now plainly visible and the truck was approaching at a greater speed than Nelson’s. He swerved slightly as two more pops were heard. Nelson swerved again. As the rear truck maintained its speed and direction, they came to a gentle curve in the highway. Nelson made a slight turn to the right and suddenly spun his steering wheel to the left and applied his brakes in time to slide into an intersecting county road that had been out of sight until that moment. He maintained control and sped forward. The driver of the other truck had no time to respond and his truck sped past the intersection.

            Nelson gunned his vehicle and it screamed through a dense forest of cypress trees growing along the narrow, but paved road. He slowed as he came to a gentle switchback in the road. Exiting it, he sped forward along a straight stretch before crossing a long bridge spanning a bayou of black water. At the end of the bridge, he braked and eased his truck to a stop 500 feet beyond. He took a deep breath and exhaled.

            He then put his truck in reverse gear and began backing the truck. When he reached a speed between 20 and 30 miles per hour, he turned the steering wheel all the way to the left. The truck spun around on the narrow road as if rotating on a spindle. Near the end of the spin, he changed to a forward gear and the truck stopped spinning. It now rested in the center of the road facing the bridge over which he had just passed. The roar of the other truck approaching could be heard over the bayou waters. When it slowed for the switchback, Nelson gunned his truck and lurched forward.

            As he approached the near end of the bridge with increasing speed, the other truck emerged from the curve and roaring toward the other end of the bridge. Too late, the driver saw Nelson’s truck coming toward them. The driver panicked and his truck shot to the left, crashing through the bridge abutment and becoming airborne. It remained so, arching gently, like a ballet dancer, before crashing headlong into a large cypress tree. Its motion stopped and it remained there for a portion of a second before sliding slowly into the dark water.

            Nelson had stopped in the middle of the bridge and now moved to a point even with the other truck. He leaned over and lowered the passenger side window to allow a clear view of the other truck. The driver lay against the steering wheel, unmoving. The passenger door opened and a figure half-fell, half- stumbled from the truck. His right hand hung useless against his side. As he gained footing in the two-foot deep water, he pulled a pistol from the seat of the truck and flung it toward the middle of the bayou. Then he turned to face Nelson.

            His hat was gone and his hair was matted with blood that still ran from cuts on the top of his head. All that was left of one eye was a mass of red tissue, veins, and blood. He wiped the blood from his other eye and stared at Nelson as if choosing between defiance and submission. With his good arm, he brought his hand around to grasp the broken one. Still staring at Nelson, he began to sob.

            Nelson saluted him and drove away. “Always know your terrain,” He said aloud. He drove back to the state highway and took it for several minutes before turning on to a county road that took him past his old house and toward Barker’s Store.