How low? How high?

One way to view the Sermon on the Mount is vertically, or by height and depth. We live in a time during which the moral “limbo bar” has been lowered to the ground and we seem to be excavating to descend it further.

The Galilean on the other hand, created a bar that was not a measurement of the depth of depravity, but a test of our ability to ascend to righteousness. In other words: a tall moral measurement.

When he tells us, for example, to love our enemies and pray for those who persecute us, it is, as we Southerners would say, “A hard row to hoe.” He’s asking us to leap pretty high. How many would make the effort these days when people tend to see the characteristics of good and evil so clearly—diametrically opposed as they may be.

He equates “lust-think” with the actual act of adultery. The concept of lustful impulses remains, however, one of the most solid bedrock principles of modern advertising. In modern mythology, some of us can not only get away with pronounced lust, we receive great rewards for it.

Perhaps the most difficult of the Sermon’s exhortations, at least for many of us, is that which urges us not to store up for ourselves treasures on earth. Some of the worst transgressors here are men and women clothed in their self-sewn cloaks of righteousness who flit to and fro upon the Earth while claiming to speak for “God.”

They don’t mention the Galilean a lot, never his most famous sermon.

Anyway, he despairs over divorce except in cases of adultery, yet we live in age in which modern churches proudly advertise special classes for divorced singles.

What are we to think? Anglican clergyman and theologian. R. F. Browning summed the opposing views about The Sermon clearly.

“On the one hand are those (predominantly Catholic) who have regarded them as commands

to be taken as they stand; for with the help of divine grace, they are able to be put into practice, at any rate by those with a special vocation to do so, such as members of religious orders. Others (mostly Protestant) have regarded the sermon as giving ideals to be striven towards; for a requirement to love as God loves (5: 46) is an impossible demand for perfection (Matt. 5: 48) which accuses the readers of their imperfections and which already Luke in his version (6: 36) modifies to the more practicable command to be merciful as God is merciful.” -  "Sermon on the Mount." In A Dictionary of the Bible.”

As we ponder the imponderable, it is instructive for us to remember that the Galilean didn’t require proof of loyal party membership by his listeners. He spoke to disciples, the rich, the unwashed, Jews, Romans, and Gentiles alike. Perhaps he intentionally left it to each individual to whether that person would strive for the heights or wiggle as far as possible into the depths of depravity and despair.

That is where we find ourselves this fine Sunday morning in America. It is our destiny to think. The Galilean set the limits of our yearning. A modern motivational guru, Dale Carnegie finessed the message when he said. “Two men looked out from prison bars, one saw the mud, the other saw stars.”

That is the challenge of modern life. Do we see a bar over which we may climb to seek righteousness or a bar designed to measure how far we may sink down and away from it?

The Past

Sundown in zion

Chapter thirty-five

(In which Nelson seeks information on his friend's beating.)

            “According to my grandmother,” Underhill said, “her grandad became quite impressed with former Confederate General Nathan Bedford Forrest’s solution to the emancipation of the slaves under the tyrant …,” he stopped and smiled, “Abraham Lincoln. So he, her grandfather, decided that Connorville needed a local chapter of the Klu Klux Klan.”

            “To keep the former slaves in line,” Nelson said.

            “Precisely,” Underhill said. “But there was a hitch.”

            “Oh?”

            “Yep. There were no former slaves in or around Connorville. So no reason for the Klan.”

            “So the local chapter never happened?”

            “Oh, it happened, all right. Great-Great-Great was the first Grand Dragon. I have the old family photograph of him hanging on the wall at our home, a distinguished old gentleman with a full beard and a Bible in his hand. His obituary omitted the Klan part but stated that he preached when he wasn’t busy providing for his family.” Underhill paused, looked away, and then continued. “I guess preaching didn’t pay that well even then.” His gaze returned and he smiled. “The obit also said that he was a good man who, ‘never took part in a neighborhood brawl.’ I’m not sure exactly what that meant, but bless him for it.”

            “So, if there were no black families around, what did the Klan do for fun?”

            “That’s what I’m getting to,” Underhill said. “Bless you for your patience.” He took a breath. “They terrorized the youth, not for fun, but for community stability, like tribal members have done for ages. In Africa, the village elders used to keep the rowdy teenagers in line by slipping out at night and making frightful sounds with leather thongs pulled through stretched animal skins—beyond the village, monsters lurk, and all that. Only during the rites of manhood was the truth revealed.”

            Nelson stirred in his seat.

            “To get to the point,” Underhill said, “in tribal Connorville, the Klan members were the monsters from beyond the pale. My grandmother told me that whenever the local youth became unruly, Klan members would show up one Sunday, all hooded, robed and serious, and sit on the front row of the church, saying nothing, but delivering a powerful message. It would be a klavern from another church, of course, so the identities couldn’t be guessed by seeing who was absent—an early form of networking. At any rate, all would be quiet in the neighborhood for some time afterwards.”

            “And?”

            “And,” Underhill said, “Flash forward. The Soul Warriors form what you might call our Klan. They seem to have this mysterious calming power over our teenagers.”

            Nelson nodded his head.

            “So,” Underhill said, “they keep the youth in line and we do our best to keep them in line, these Soul Warriors. Sometimes we are more successful than at others.”

            “So you have what one might call an ‘unholy alliance,’ then?” Nelson said.

            Underhill laughed, “Everything we do is holy,” he said. “Didn’t you know that?” Before Nelson could answer, Underhill continued. “But what interest could our little peacekeeping force have for the Armistead County Sheriff’s Department?”

“It may be,” Nelson said, “that a couple of them were involved in the beating of one of your long-time residents.” He stopped and waited.

Underhill studied him at length before speaking. “Wait a moment,” he said. He rose, went to the door, and opened it. “Sister Rose,” he said. “Would you call over and ask Brother Glover to come join us in here?” He closed the door and turned to Nelson. “He keeps a closer eye on the young folks than I do,” he said. He walked slowly around his desk and sat. Leaning back, he knitted his fingers across his stomach and thought, and then nodded. “Perhaps you are thinking of our local eccentric: Clifton Sikes. I heard he got roughed up.”

Nelson dropped his chin, gave Underhill a sharp look, and said, “Roughed up is what you heard?”

“That’s the coffee shop talk, as I understand things.”

“Stories must get sanitized in your coffee shop,” Nelson said. “He was nearly beaten to death.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Underhill said, “but not totally surprised. Clifton is what you might call a liberal in his thinking, and not shy about expressing it. That kind of thinking doesn’t sit well with some folks around here, as you might have guessed by now.”

“Is he one of your members?”

Underhill shook his head. “No, and that’s another thing. It’s always circulated around that he and his wife were both, shall we say, non-religious?”

“Does he spout off about that as well?”

“No, they kept to themselves while she was still alive. Folks say they liked to sit in their back yard under a shade tree and talk to one another of an evening. Some even say that they spiced their conversation with a little bourbon from time to time. That sort of thing goes a little further in agitating the good folks of Connorville.”

“The talking or the bourbon?”

“Both,” Underhill said, “but that’s not what started the rumor that they were atheists.”

“Oh?”

“No,” Underhill said, “it was when Clifton chased one of our deacons and two of our sisters off his place with a broom when they called on him to offer the church as a place for healing.”

Nelson nodded. “Sounds like him.”

“Oh,” Underhill said, “then you know him? How? But wait, here’s Brother Glover.”

The door had opened and the assistant minister was entering. Underhill motioned for him to take the other visitor’s chair. Glover walked around and took it, ignoring Nelson.

“You know Mr., Nelson—now Deputy Nelson—I think,” he said, addressing Glover.

“We’ve met,” Glover said. He stiffened and waited.

“Well then,” Underhill said, seeming put off by the terse response, “then maybe you can help us.”

Glover didn’t answer, but waited.

“You’ve heard about what happened to Clifton Sikes?” Underhill said to Glover.

“I heard he got smart with the wrong person at last,” Glover said.

Nelson turned to Glover and leveled his eyes. “Persons,” he said, plural. It took more than one person to inflict that kind of damage.” He paused, and then said in a cold voice. “And trust me, I know a little about inflicting damage.”

Glover fidgeted, seemed to be steeling himself, and said, “Word is out, around town, Mr. Nelson, that you are some sort of big war hero. I know that, but what I don’t know is what concern all of this is to you.”

“First,” Nelson said, “I’m no hero of any sort, just an average guy who doesn’t like bullies or wiseasses.”

Underhill interrupted. “Well,” he said, “I’m glad we got that out of the way. But now where were we?” He stopped and leaned back. Assuming a pose like that of a schoolteacher, he said, “But first of all, where are we? We’re in a house of God and, last time I checked, that implies a high degree of civility.” He smiled. “Go on, Deputy Nelson.”

“My concern arises from the fact Mr. Sikes wasn’t beaten in his home but was taken to a farm shed near the edge of his farm and tortured there. That is outside the city and, thus, a county problem.” He paused. When nobody spoke, he continued. “I interviewed Mr. Sikes and he felt strongly that the assailants were part of a local group known as the Soul Warriors.”

Glover stiffened. “Are you referring to members of our Young Adults Sunday School Class?”

“I’m referring to a group of men who call themselves, ‘The Soul Warriors’ and claim membership in you church.”

“I can assure you,” Glover said, looking first at Nelson and then at Underhill, “that our young men had nothing to do with harming your victim. The group has undergone its share of sorrow lately, the latest instance of which is the mysterious disappearance of two members of the group. This happened only days after one was killed and another crippled in a tragic motoring accident. The fact that even one survived is a miracle.”

“Yes,” said Underhill absentmindedly, “the Lord was certainly riding with him that day.”

Glover ignored him and kept his eyes on Nelson. “But I don’t suppose you know anything about all that, do you, Deputy Nelson?”

Nelson returned his look. “I only know,” he said, “what I pick up on the backroads of the county.”

“Oh,” said Underhill, interrupting, “Brother Dale doesn’t know. Hasn’t heard the news yet.” He turned to him. “The case of our disappearing members is solved.”

Glover leaned forward. “Solved? How?”

“This just in: one of the two phoned one of the other members of the class, all the way from Los Angeles, California.” He smiled. “Seems the pair of them decided on the spur of the moment, like young folks do, that they would take off and seek their fortunes out west. That’s all he said, except to tell you they were looking for a new church home.”

Glover turned to Nelson and glared. “This doesn’t mean,” he said, “that they were guilty of anything,” he said.

“Only poor judgement in my opinion,” Nelson said. “Have you ever been to Los Angeles?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned to Underhill. “I also wanted a little information, if you would about your clinic, the Ransom Center.”

Underhill and Glover looked at one another. Underhill turned to Nelson and said, “Our clinic?”

“Isn’t it?”

Glover stared to speak but didn’t. A few seconds later, Underhill answered. “Technically yes. But we don’t market it as a faith-based clinic. The name itself was mandated by the deacons, APA. That’s ‘against pastor’s advice’ if you want to know. Other than that, it is an independent rehab clinic operating under scientific, not scriptural, guidance. It has gained a positive reputation in the area of behavior modification.”

“But it is, technically, your clinic,” Nelson said.

“It is ours. We fund and staff it,” Glover said. “Is there a crime in that?”

Nelson ignored him and spoke to Underhill. “So why play down your association?”
            “Simple,” Underhill said. “We want our clientele to get better because their underlying problems have been identified and treated, not because they have substituted one addiction for another.”

“I’m not sure I would call belief in Jesus Christ an addiction,” Glover said.

Underhill shot him a sharp glance, then turned to Nelson and continued. “We seek to remove the curse of drugs and other problems from society at large,” he said. “We’re not there simply to serve those who believe exactly as we do. We like to feel that each of our clients leaves the center with a clearer mind, and that a clear mind will lead them to Jesus without further input on our part.” He thought of something and laughed. “Besides, we make more money with a broad-based clientele.”

Nelson nodded and smiled. “An honest preacher,” he said.

“But of course,” Underhill said. “What other kind is there?” Both men laughed. Glover squirmed in his chair.

“Do you have many of your patients try to run away, escape from the clinic while under treatment?” he said.

Underhill thought. “No, but why would that be important?”

“The young girl who was murdered,” he said, “Abbey Stubblefield, had a friend who was at your clinic but who disappeared not long before Abbey was murdered.”

“He’s talking about Bridgette Thompson,” Glover said.

“Ah yes,” Underhill said. “Comely young Bridgette. Yes,” he said, “she did go ‘AWOL,’ so to speak. We never knew to where. A real disappointment to us all.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me if she is in the same place as our two members who left town,” Glover said. “That girl could make it big in Hollywood. That’s what we all figure, anyway.”

Underhill said, “That makes sense. Where else could she be? We feel badly about her. But to answer your question, we have three or four each year that leave without completing treatment. We make an effort to find them. Sometimes we do. Sometimes we don’t. We aren’t in the detective business and, if they are of age, no one could do much about it anyway. Perhaps Bridgette enticed our two young men out to Hollywood with a promise of their own stardom.”

“And the remaining Soul Warriors,” Nelson said, “your Sunday School group, they help provide security at the Ransom center?”

“At times,” Underhill said. “At times.” He placed his hand upon his desk. “Is there anything else we could do to help you?”

“You’ve been informative,” Nelson said. “And I thank you for your time.”

“Thank Jesus,” Underhill said. “It’s his time we shared.”

The men parted, Nelson left the office and proceeded to the main entrance. Before exiting, he stopped and withdrew his cell phone. He punched in a number, waited, and then spoke. “Thanks for the text. Yes,” he said, “I can meet you there now. Which street do I take to get there? And oh,” he said, could you get something for me? I’ll wait out there if it takes you a while.”

He spoke for a few more minutes and placed the phone in his pocket. He walked to his truck with slow and deliberate steps. When he had started the truck, he backed slowly to where he could see the office area in his rearview mirror. He paused and waited while he shifted gears slowly. Then he saw it. The curtains behind a second-floor window flickered and remained open wide enough for a person to watch Nelson’s truck as he left.

Pondering the Imponderable

As one who professionally deals with policy analysis and the regulatory process, I always stand in awe of the simplicity employed by the Galilean in the Sermon on the Mount. You need to go no further than his opening line, the first Beatitude.

 “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” (Matthew 5:3 NIV)

Close your eyes and you can just hear the modern analysts having a go at it.

“Did he mean the poor, or the poor in spirit? Which source has it right, Matthew or Luke? Should the text include a disclaimer section?”

“Did he mean all of the “blessed” or a statistically pure population sample?”

“We need to add an exceptions section. Are Muslims included? Lonely prostitutes? Sexually confused teenagers? Methodists?”

“We need to define the word ‘spirit.’ Is it a measurable phenomenon or a simply a linguistic guide?”

“Is the kingdom of heaven theirs alone or will they share it with the others? Do we need an organizational chart?”

“Is there one kingdom of heaven or several? We may need mapping.”

“Will the statistical definitions of ‘poor’ change over time or are they fixed?”

"Have we fully established provenance?"

“If the term ‘blessed’ translates into ‘happy,’ what are the definable characteristics of same?

“Let us consider the contextual implications.”

“Does ownership include control over?”

“Is there a legally defensible definition of ‘heaven’ we can use?”

“Has anyone checked the translation from the original English in the King James Version?”

And so it goes. His simplicity seems to breed confusion and spawn difficulty in acceptance. He might as well have told us not to get divorces, to forgive our enemies, or to quit loving money.

History

Sundown in zion

Chapter thirty-four

            Nelson headed toward Connorville as the sun stood full in the sky. The morning’s route took him through a low wetlands area marked by swamps and remnants of past efforts at growing vegetables. Giant cypress trees rose above the marshy land and seemed to watch as he passed. It was silent with a minimum of late morning traffic sharing the road. Nelson leaned his left arm against the trucks side window opening and held his hand against his face in thought. The morning breeze brought the smell of willows that were scattered like serfs among the majestic cypresses. He smiled as if the smell of the willows brought contentment.

            In Connorville, he drove straight to the church and parked. This time there were no other trucks in the lot and no sign of Bully Bridges or his soul warriors. Nelson left the truck and proceeded through the office entrance.

            “I’m sorry, Mr. …,” The receptionist looked at her notes. “Mr. Nelson,” She looked again. “Uh, Deputy Nelson, Brother Dale had an unexpected visitor after we made your appointment. If you would, have a seat, and he will be with you shortly.” She straightened the papers on her desk and looked at Nelson. “Coffee?”

            “No thanks,” Nelson said. “I’ll just wait.” He moved to a visitor’s chair, sat and pulled his cell phone from his shirt pocket. He read the screen and then tapped a message. He adjusted the phone to silent and returned it to his pocket. His staring into space seemed to unnerve the receptionist who kept glancing at him as if she expected him to start a conversation. He did not.

            “Have you been with the Sheriff’s Department long?” she began as the door to the pastor’s office flew open and a tall, sandy-haired man burst through it. He saw Nelson, stopped, and turned around to face the pastor who was following.

            “Now let’s get Sean in that teens’ class by next Sunday, Brother Underhill,” he said. “He thinks his pals are leaving him behind.”

            “We’ll take care of it Brother Dilahunty,” the pastor said. “No problem.”

            “He’ll be thirteen in ten months anyway,” the man said. “It’s not his fault his classmates are older than he is. It’s his mama’s.”

            The preacher stammered. “I don’t understand. His mother’s fault?”

            “Yeah,” the man said, “she insisted on starting him to school a year early.” He smiled. “Makes her feel older.” He looked at the receptionist. “Ain’t that something, Sister Rose?” He winked and gave her a lewd grin. “I want her to make me feel younger and she wants to feel older. Ain’t that true love?”

            The receptionist produced a weak smile that followed the man until he had left the office, whereupon the smile fell like a collapsing umbrella.

            “Well sir,” the pastor said, “we meet again, in a more official capacity I understand.” He turned and motioned Nelson into his office. “Come in. Come in.”

            Nelson followed him and took a seat in front of the desk of the pastor who sat and said, “You know the rules.” He smiled. “Have you accepted Christ as your personal savior yet?”

            “Been too busy saving myself,” Nelson said.

            “I have to ask,” Underhill said, smiling. “Rules are rules. Sorry you had to wait.” He nodded toward the exit. “Head deacon. He doesn’t have to make an appointment.”

            “I understand,” Nelson said.

            “Oh,” Dale said, “if only you could. That’s Don Dilahunty, one of our biggest supporters.” He waited for a response from Nelson. Seeing none, he said, “The name ring a bell?”

            “Afraid not.”

            “He’s the ‘Don’ of Don’s Almost Free Things. You know, ‘You’d have to be daft to purchase when you can’ lease for almost nothing.”

            “Not familiar with him, or it.”

            “His stores lease furniture and appliances to customers who can’t afford to purchase and have no credit history. He has stores here in Arkansas and five other states. Worth a fortune.” He stopped and considered what he had just said. “Well, he’s worth half a fortune now but it’s still a huge one.”

            “Half a fortune?”

            “A little less than a half if you add in the value of the house—a major scandal in the church and the community. A hell of a lot bigger scandal, if you’ll pardon my language, than the case of the assistant pastor who ran off with his sister-in-law.”

            “What kind of scandal?”

            “The good Brother Dilahunty and his wife Ruth were a fixture in this church for years. My dad married them when they were still teenagers. They had three kids and were the model family until bookkeeping tore them apart.”

            “Money problems?”

            “No, bookkeeper problems, as in a young twenty-something who sashayed by old Don in her short skirt one time too many.”

            “I’m beginning to understand,” Nelson said. “A messy divorce?”

            “Messy ain’t the word for it,” Dale said. “It was worse than a herd of pigs fighting over an ear of corn in a foot-deep mud hole. Folks in the church took sides and some still don’t speak to one another over it, after more than 13 years.”

            “But he’s still a member?”

            “Oh yes,” Underhill said. “He increased his tithes until the other deacons shut up about it.

After a while, Sister Ruth became a Methodist. That moved a lot of sympathy in Don’s direction.”

            Nelson allowed this to sink into his thinking.

            “Of course when the dust settled and the new Sister Dilahunty—Irena is her name—became a fixture and began donating to the various Sunday School classes, the other ladies took her in and the old men decided she sort of brought … ahem … a new image of salvation to the services. She became a pillar of the church and the community. The community decided, by the way, that Sister Ruth came out okay with her half plus the house. It’s the huge one with the pink bricks as you come into town, by the way. The one that always has a new suitor parked out front.”

            Nelson thought. “The house with all those gables that don’t match?”

            “That’s the one,” Underhill said. “As Cheech Marin put it, ‘Don customized it himself.’ They say Ruth hates it—always hated it—but stays there because she knows Irena wants it so bad and it pisses her off so much every time she drives by.” He leaned back, “But you didn’t come to hear about our most famous divorce case, did you? Have I gotten you off track?”

            Nelson shook his head and seemed to focus. “I was just thinking about something I read once,” he said.

            “Not, by chance, what our lord and savior said about rich men and divorce?”

            Nelson laughed. “You caught me.”

            “Well,” Underhill said, as they taught us in Preacher School: Jesus never had to pay rent or meet payroll.” He smiled and looked to make certain the office door was closed, then spoke in a low voice. “We put up with the results of Brother Don’s organ as long as he helps us pay for our new organ.” He began to smile but changed his demeanor. “I shouldn’t be engaging in levity,” he said. “We haven’t had much to laugh at lately.”
            “Sorry to hear that,” Nelson said.

            “One church member dead and one crippled for life in a car wreck,” Underhill said, “and two apparently gone missing without telling anyone.”

            “I saw the crowd the other day. It must have been the day of the funeral.”

            “Probably,” Dale said. “Is that why you’re here, to offer condolences?”

“No, I wanted to ask you something that might be a little difficult.”

“Difficulty is my middle name,” Dale said. “Actually it’s Dale, my first name being Jeremiah— Jeremiah Dale Underhill is the complete ignominy. You can understand my choice of a professional moniker.”

“Quite,” Nelson said. He settled in his chair and chose his words carefully. “To get back to the purpose of my coming, I think it may deal with that group of young men you mentioned.”

“Our so-called Soul Warriors?”

“They seem to be,” Nelson said, “what we might call a rough and rowdy bunch, and, I might add, the type not normally associated with a church.”

Underhill pursed his lips and stared at the ceiling. Returning his gaze to Nelson, he said, “May I share a bit of history with you, Deputy Nelson? It may help me explain why the group you call the ‘Soul Warriors’ is an integral part of this church.”

“I’ve all day.”

“I was close to my grandmother,” Underhill said, “and we used to have long talks about the old days. Would it surprise you to learn that her grandfather served in the Third Arkansas Infantry of the Confederate States of America?”

Nelson didn’t respond.

“The Third was the only unit from Arkansas that served the entire war in the east. Seems old Robert E. Lee wanted units from all the Southern states in his beloved Army of Northern Virginia to make it the ‘peoples’ army’ so to speak. The unit saw action in all the big battles from Malvern Hill to Antietam to all the big ones afterwards, including a dreadful day in the Devil’s Den at Gettysburg. They were at Appomattox where 144 men, Great-Great-Great Grand Dad among them mustered out, what was left of the more than 1,300 who had mustered in. Can you see how there may have been some bitterness in the hearts of the survivors of the Third Arkansas?”

“Perhaps. They had seen a lot, those survivors.”

 “And you’ve never heard of them?”

“I’m not a Civil War buff,” Nelson said. “Not an avid reader about wars in general.”

            “I’m surprised,” Underhill said.

            “Why?”

            “Given your background,” Underhill said, “or at least your background as the local gossip has it.”

            Nelson shrugged. “Reputations are like sails,” he said. “If you allow other people to attach them and set them for you, they can pull you along to wherever the wind blows, maybe to a wooden cross on a lonely hill, or maybe to a muddy ditch on a rocky road.”

            “Nice imagery,” Underhill said. “You have a knack for words. Would you like to speak to our congregation some Sunday?”

            “No,” Nelson said. “But go on with your history.”

Persistence

Sundown in zion

Chapter thirty-Three

Our hero, Gideon Nelson continues to search for the killer of a young girl while balancing a newly found romantic interest and new friends.

            “God damn you, god damn you,” Tina cried as a great orgasm wracked her body, her pelvis arching into Nelson’s in a series of primal thrusts and her nails digging into his back. Nelson placed a hand behind her head and held it as a massive climax, also, emptied him of all thought or reason. They clung together, two wild beasts finding safety in a storm. It was over, but neither moved, the only sounds being their breathing and the last, faint remnant of a moan from Tina.

            Then it was completely over, and a stillness settled upon the room, the tendrils of its quietude seeking and filling every space like a fog covering a forest. Tina raised her head to Nelson, who lay over her, his weight resting upon his elbows. She kissed him. He kissed her back. In the stillness, she said, so softly that the sound barely carried through quiet, “God damn you.”

            Nelson rolled to his left leaving his right arm around her shoulder and, with it, pulled her to where her head lay upon his chest. He spoke into her ear. “Now what did I do?”

            Tina didn’t respond right away. She spoke only after she had raised her mouth to his chin, took it between her teeth, and bit gently. “I should have never let another man make me feel like that again,” she said. She began to lick his chest in quick, darting taps.

            “So I did something wrong?”

            “No asshole,” she said, raising her head to run her tongue across his lips, “You did something quite right, and that is the problem.” She rested her head on his chest and moved her hand to where it rested between his legs. She moved, and after a moment, said, “And I’m afraid you might do just do it again.”

As he started to turn toward her, he tensed and his face broke into a grimace. Two spasms racked his body, then another. Tina raised her head toward his. “Something wrong?” she said.

            He closed his eyes and his body began to relax. Slowly, his face returned to a smile. “Nothing you can’t cure,” he said.

            Next morning, after both had showered, they returned to her kitchen and the site where it all had started. The half-finished meal remained. A red stain formed a circle where Tina had knocked over her wine as she had risen quickly and grabbed Nelson by his hand. The chair he was using at the time still rested on its side, away from the table. Nelson returned it to an upright condition and began to clear the table as Tina made coffee. She stopped and looked over at the stain in the table cloth.

            “See what you made me do,” she said.

            “I thought for a moment that you had gone mad,” Nelson said.

            “Raging hormones,” she said. “Didn’t they teach you about those during your Navy training?”

            “Now what on earth,” he said, smiling, “would the United States Navy know about raging hormones?”

            “Some say that they are simply experts at redirecting them,” she said, “toward more useful purposes, such as killing and maiming people whom our government decides that they don’t like.” She poured two cups of coffee and carried them to the table. Placing one in front of Nelson, she moved to the opposite side of the table, placed the other cup in front of her, and sat. “That’s a basic problem, as we sociologists see it.”

            “And what basic problem is that?”

            “Raging hormones.”

            “Raging hormones in whom, exactly?” He drank from his cup.

            “Let’s start with young girls,” she said. “Back around 1900, the onset of puberty, and the resultant raging hormones was from about 15 to 17 years of age. So, it occurred about the time they were ready for marriage, and the world, as your friend John Steinbeck would say, was ‘spinning in greased grooves.’ Now,” she said, “with improved nutrition and general health, that onset may occur as early as 11 years of age. With marriage ages moving out, we have the evangelical dilemma.”

            “The what?”

            “The problem that evangelical Christians have with science.”

            “And that problem is?”

            “Math and science, actually,” she said. “They expect girls with raging hormones just to say ‘no’ and things will be fine. Back in the day, they might have to say ‘no’ for less than a year.” She took a drink of coffee. “Now we ask them to say it for more than ten years.”

            “I see,” he said. “Not good odds.”

            “Bad news for the uneducated, as usual,” she said. “But there’s another problem.”

            “Oh? And what is that?”

            “That shit just wears us out …,” she said, “us women. So before long—a good ways ahead of men—we grow weary of ‘making the beast with two backs’ and take up more meaningful pastimes, like shopping or scrapbooking.”

            Nelson drank his coffee and listened.

            “So men need younger and younger women to keep them, shall we say, up for the challenge.” She stopped and looked off. “Then, it’s not only the young girls you need, but chemical assistance to help launch the bombardment, so to speak.”

            “You’re beginning to embarrass me,” Nelson said.

            “Good,” she said. “You need to understand why mature women get weary sometimes.”

            He nodded toward the stain. “You haven’t reached that stage yet.”

            “No,” she said, “so you’d better seek a berth every time you get near port, sailor,” she said.

            When Nelson arrived home, he saw two bicycles parked on the front porch with a chain locking them to a column. He smiled as he pulled his truck into the drive and parked. He slammed the truck’s door with unnecessary force and waited a few moments before walking on to the porch steps, where he stomped loudly.  He reached the door and fumbled with it before entering. “Well come in,” a voice said from within. “Don’t tear the place down.”

            He entered the house to see Charlie and the familiar jogger sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee. Neither wore the flamboyant type of attire typical of most cyclists filling the city streets. Both could have just walked in from a picnic. The woman had dark red hair that would have cascaded to her shoulders had it not been pulled and secured behind her head. She had piercing blue eyes and a somewhat ruddy complexion. Full lips completed the case for a very seductive look, one not hampered by full breasts swelling beneath a grey sweater. Both wore shorts, despite the fact that mornings could still be quite cool. Charlie wore a sweater retrieved from a box of clothing that had been in his car when they had gone for it. A cartoon appeared on the front, depicting an artilleryman stopping the recoil of a Civil War era cannon with his leg. A caption read, “The Army Artillery Redlegs, Keeping Our Pals Safe.”

            “Good morning,” Nelson said.

            “Hello sailor,” Charlie said. “Meet Angela, Angela Masterson.”

            When she extended her hand, Nelson crossed the room and shook it. “I’ve seen you pass by,” he said.

            “Yeah,” she said, “you always watch my tits jiggle.”

            Nelson’s face reddened as Charlie laughed and slapped his leg. Nelson looked from one of them to the other, not speaking.

            “He made me say it,” Angela said, gesturing toward Charlie and laughing as well. “He told me it would be a good way to break the ice with a hard-core sailor.” She gave Nelson a smile that would have melted pig iron. “Friends?” she said.

            Nelson finally smiled. “Friends,” he said, “but don’t do everything he suggests. Not everyone is as trained to withstand surprise attacks as I am.”

            “Message received and understood, sir,” she said, giving Nelson a mock salute. She began to rise from her chair, “Coffee?”

            Nelson pursed his lips and thought. “Why not?”

            Angela walked the cabinet as if she had lived in the house for years and selected a cup for Nelson. It was a thick white cup with no handle. She filled it and placed it before him. “Navy issue?” she said.

            “Old Navy,” Nelson said. “I found it in an antique store and couldn’t resist. They’re pretty rare.”

            “I’ll not choose it then,” Angela said, “if I ever need to throw something at him for protection.” She used her same disarming smile on Charlie and sat between the two men.

            “Charlie says you are a GIS expert,” Nelson saoid.

            “Courtesy of the United States Air Force,” she said. “I know you probably don’t think highly of flyboys and girls, but they taught me a great set of skills.” She drank her coffee. “In fact I still work for them as a contract professional.”

            “She does top secret stuff,” Charlie said. “She can’t tell us what because she’d have to kill us then.”

            “I’ll be you have some pretty high-classed equipment,” Nelson said.

            “You mean my mapping equipment, or what?”

            Nelson reddened again and Charlie laughed.

            “Yes,” Angela said. “To answer your question,” I have some fairly sophisticated software, and the Air Force has capabilities you wouldn’t believe for this entire area, what with a huge air base at Jacksonville.”

            “She can probably read the license number on your truck,” Charlie said.

            “I could probably tell you when you washed your truck last,” Angela said. “So don’t go places you don’t want your buddy here to know about.”

            “I’ll remember what you said,” Nelson said. “What are you two up to today?”

            “Going to ride the River Trail,” Charlie said. “She’s going to show me some new sights.”

            “On the River Trail only,” Angela said. This time it was Charlie who reddened and all three laughed. She looked at Nelson. “Want to come along? I can borrow another bike.”

            “Thanks,” Nelson said, “but I think I’ll drift over to Connorville and see what the progressives are up to these days.”

            Angela frowned, “In Connorville? Progressives?”

            “I want to see both of them,” Nelson said. “Has Charlie told you that I’m officially investigating a murder there?”

            Angela grew serious. “He has,” she said, adding, “and it’s somewhat personal with me. I work with a lot of airmen that know the poor girl’s dad. In fact, I met him once.” She drank more coffee. “It was a real tragedy.” She sat her cup on table and leaned forward. “Are you at liberty to tell me if you are making any progress?”

            Nelson lifted his own cup with two hands and drank. “I’m at liberty to tell you but I can’t.”

            “Can’t what?” Angela looked at him closely.

            “Can’t tell you that I’m making progress because I’m not,” Nelson said. “But it does seem that a church in Connorville is beginning to act like a clue magnet.”

            Angela stiffened. “You mean that mega-church in the middle of town?”

            “Why yes,” Nelson said. “You know anything about the church, or a bunch of hooligans that hang out there and call themselves the Soul Warriors?”

            Angela started to speak but changed her mind and leaned back. “Let’s not talk about it right now,” she said. She brightened at turned to Charlie, “You going to ride me, I mean ride with me today or not?” she said.

            “That’s a fact, ma’am,” he side rising and coming to attention. All three laughed.

Departures

Last night we watched Da 5 Bloods, the new Spike Lee film now streaming on Netflix. Recommended, that is all I can say. The film is many things, including a whimsical re-rendering of the 1948 classic, The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, complete with the iconic line: “We don’t need no stinkin’ badges.”

The film tells the story of four African-American men, far past their physical prime, who return to Vietnam to recover the body of a comrade/hero as well as a fortune of gold they hid when the comrade died during a fire fight. From the joys of recovered friendships to the frantic ending, the film covers what one can only imagine is the memory-stained experiences of African-Americans who have gone to war for America. Although a Vietnam Veteran myself, I can no more imagine their demons and ghosts than I could imagine the despair of American Indians who died at Wounded Knee.

The film is thus to be viewed with an open mind and open heart, the latter of which will be ripped from you several times during the two-plus hours of the film.

Why I choose to depart from my normal obsession with the Sermon on the Mount today may contain some tenuous thread to the film. Why do Americans who received such shabby treatment from their countrymen and countrywomen still go and fight our wars for us? It must, I feel, be tied more to the Sermon on the Mount—in fact the totality of the Galilean’s message—than to American history.

I’m not a film critic, but were I, some brief mention of minor flaws would be mandatory. Would that Spike Lee had retained a firearms consultant to add verisimilitude to the battle scenes using M-16s and AK-47s. They were not used exclusively on “full-automatic” and when they were, they only fired three or four bursts, not 15 or 20. In fact, the AK-47 was specifically designed to require special, clumsy, movements to move it into “full mode.” Minor point and irrelevant, although one scene did picture the jamming of an M-16 which was a common problem.

Another amateurish point, Spike Lee has a bit of a tendency to violate what I am told is a trial-lawyers maxim: don’t overstate the obvious.

Still, a magnificent work, with a cast that deserves mentioning.

The Four Bloods:

Otis: (Clarke Peters), who quietly manages the operation.

Melvin (Isiah Whitlock, Jr.), a quiet hero.

Eddie (Norm Lewis) a failed businessman with Caucasian facial features and characterstics

Paul (Delroy Lindo) who wears a MAGA hat and suffers a mental collapse similar to Dobbs in “Treasure.”

Others:

David (Jonathan Majors), Paul’s estranged son, who forces his way into the adventure

Tiên (Lê Y Lan), a Vietnamese woman with whom Otis had a child (Sandy Huong Pham)

Desroches the French grifter (Jean Reno)

Hedy Bouvier (Mélanie Thierry) a French activist

Vinh (Johnny Tri Nguyen), a trustworthy guide, and of course:

Norman, a.k.a. “Stormin’ Norman” (Chadwick Boseman), the dead comrade.

Though I could never assimilate the feelings of African-American warriors, the film evoked a couple of memories. One concerned a non-com from Texas who briefed our detail before we went out. He delighted in taunting the sailors of color in our detachment by getting in their face and calling them “boy.” He went on an unauthorized jaunt into the jungle one day to “kill myself a deer,” and got lost. At the next assembly, we received an impassioned plea from our Executive Officer, a staff nerd who was supposed to spend his required military service running a PX in the Washington area but had obviously screwed up. He asked, “Who would join a patrol to go and look for our Texan?” After all, he was our shipmate.

It created the loudest ten minutes of silence I encountered during my entire tour.

The other was of the departure of our plane as we left the massive U.S. Air Base at Da Nang. Of the myriad Navy and Marine passengers, statistically slightly over 30 percent were African-American. Although they were eligible for the same GI benefits I would be, what good was a GI loan to a man who couldn’t purchase a home in my future neighborhood?

I’ll stop lest I begin to state the obvious. See the film. That’s all.

Unseen Righteousness

Whooda thunk it? This sets up one of the lesser followed statements recorded in the so-called Sermon on the Mount. (It was first given this title by St Augustine about 392 CE). It concerns the oft ignored concept of undetectable fasting. The Galilean tells us

“When you fast, do not look somber as the hypocrites do, for they disfigure their faces to show others they are fasting. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward in full. But when you fast, put oil on your head and wash your face, so that it will not be obvious to others that you are fasting, but only to your Father, who is unseen; and your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.” (Mathew 6:16 NIV-17)

During the Sermon, he shifts between the indicative form and the imperative. The indicative mood is a verb form that makes a statement or asks a question. (See: The Beatitudes). The imperative mood is a grammatical mood that forms a command or request.

Here he is commanding, not illustrating. Does that mean he was particularly adamant, or simply illustrating a path to, as opposed to a standard for, righteousness? This forms a dilemma for us in these troubled days. Is it more proper, in the face of social injustice, to be seen on the streets as a supporter of good, or to be alone with our thoughts of how we might bring about  one act of righteousness to those deserving of our love?

The Galilean may not tell us. Those who truly believe he walked this planet some 2,000 years ago must rely on his words then, as recorded. Or will he speak to us in our solitude and contemplation? Who knows? One may hope, but one must also look.

I remember reading once, years ago in my formative years, the account of a man who died in a town somewhere in America. He was not famous. He was not part of society. He had never received awards of public accolades. He had no family and no apparent friends who came to “hang out” with him. He was just a speck on the Mount Everest of history.

Then a strange thing happened. At his funeral, people began to arrive, first as singles, then as couples, then as droves. The Church became filled and officials had to change the arrangement. It seemed to those present that every adult in town came to the last rites of this nondescript brother. The whole affair appeared bizarre at best.

Then those there started talking to one another. It became apparent that this simple and unassuming man had accomplished at least one act of kindness to everyone with whom he came in contact. Moreover, the acts occurred in private and without a sharing. Unseen and unknown they were. Are mowing yards, fixing faucets, comforting the bereaved, a friendly word to a lonely person, an act of social acceptance—all these and more—acts of humanitarian fasting, even if no one is watching?

Yes. I think the Galilean speaks to us if we listen. One can almost hear his voice echoing through the halls of time, perhaps in a modern indicative parlance, as he watched this gathering of the unaware: “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”

New Loves

Sundown in zion

CHAPTER THIRTY-two

            Nelson left the Natural Resources campus and had lunch at a place not far away with the odd name of Jimmy's Serious Sandwiches. The title fit and Nelson enjoyed a meatloaf sandwich and potato salad. Then he drove across the street to a large park in the center of the older part of Little Rock. War Memorial Park featured a golf course, sports stadium, zoo, and the object of Nelson’s attention: a large fitness center. He took a gym bag from the passenger side of his truck and entered the facility where he paid a daily fee and changed in the men’s locker room. Once changed, he hit the weight room with an intensity bordering on fury. Others working out nearby stopped to watch the strong man pumping iron, not with huge amounts of weight, but with astounding repetitions and precision. He moved from station to station, quietly ignoring the stares as a film of sweat formed on his body.

            After an hour in the weight room, he took to the streets and ran for another hour. By the time he had returned, showered, and dressed, it was mid-afternoon. He drove next door to the hospital where he had visited Clifton the night before. He parked in the same deck in which he had encountered the Soul Warriors and walked into the hospital. As he arrived at Clifton’s room, the nurse who had greeted him the night before was leaving, carrying a tray of medication and various instruments. She was an attractive woman of near 60 years of age with dark brunette hair pulled into a bun. A pair of stylish half-lens glasses perched on the end of her nose, uncovering blue eyes the color of an autumn sky. She wore a soft brown uniform and a badge that identified her as Christina Lopez, RNP.

            The nurse looked over the lenses of her glasses and recognized Nelson. “Oh,” she said, “it’s you again.”

            He smiled, “Do you work night and day here?”

            “In the process of changing shifts,” she said, “so I get the pleasure of Clifton’s company again today.”

            “How is he?” Nelson said. “And may I see him?”

            “Better, and he would enjoy that I’m sure,” she said, “as long it is a short visit.”

            “Will he be here long?”

            “You don’t know much about modern hospitals, do you?”
            “Not civilian ones,” Nelson said.

            “We’ll evict him as soon as he can sit upright in wheel chair,” Nurse Lopez said. “And then he’s not our worry anymore, but his family’s.”

            Nelson studied her face. “Do you know if he has any family?”

            “No,” she said. “Do you?”

            “What?” he said. “Have any family?” He smiled and winked. “Are you trying to tease information out of me?”

            She balanced the tray on one hand and patted his arm, still swollen from the workout. “You should be so lucky, and a bit more mature,” she said, smiling. “I meant do you know if he has family?”

            “He’s never mentioned anything to me except that his wife died young,” Nelson said. “But I don’t know him that well.”

            “See what you can find out,” she said. “The powers that be will want to establish a dumping place soon.” With that, she eased past Nelson and left.

            Clifton still looked awful. Some of the swelling had left his face but the bruises were now dark but multi-colored. As Nelson entered the room, Clifton turned his face toward him and attempted to raise his head and smile. The effort produced a grimace and Clifton lowered his head back onto the pillow. “Hell of a mess, ain’t it?” he said, his voice barely audible.

            “I’ve seen worse,” Nelson said. The important thing is how you feel.”

            “Like I’ve been rode hard and put up wet, as they say over in Armistead County.” He stared at the ceiling without moving his head. “Did you see Nurse Goodbody when you came in?”

            “I saw Nurse Lopez,” Nelson said. “She seems to be taking good care of you.”

            “She’s a nosey old thing,” Clifton said. “Wanted to know who you were.”

            “And what did you tell her?”

            “That I had no idea but that troubles seem to come with the package as far as you are concerned.” Nelson smiled, though Clifton couldn’t see it. “She thought that was interesting.” He shifted his face slightly toward Nelson. “She ain’t a bad old gal, as nurses go. But what brings you to see an old beat up man?”

            “Was in the vicinity and wanted to see if you made it through the night. I see you did, you tough old bird.”

            “Don’t make me laugh,” Clifton said. “It hurts too much.”

            “If it helps your healing,” Nelson said, “I think the boys that did this to you won’t be around to do it to anyone else.”

            “You didn’t …?”

            “No,” Nelson said, interrupting him. “But I’m pretty sure they aren’t around anymore. I think they ‘lit out for the territories,’ as Huck Finn would say.”

            “Who the hell are you, Mister?”

            “Just a poor avenging angel trying to make an honest living.”

            “You make me laugh one more time and I’m calling Nurse Goodbody. I think she kinda likes me and I think she could whip your ass, mean as you are.”

            “I think so too,” Nelson said. “I suspect she pulled a double shift just so she could be the one taking care of you.”

            “I’ve warned you for the last time about making me laugh.”

            “You said the boys who did this to you wanted to know about me,” Nelson said. “Did they seem to want anything else?”

            A long silence followed. Then Clifton spoke with some surprise in his voice. “They did keep asking what you knew about that girl.”

            “Abbey Stubblefield?”

            “Who?”

            “The girl who was murdered.”

            “No,” Clifton said. He thought with apparent effort. “They didn’t mention her.”

            “Who then?”

            “That Bridgette girl. The one who used to make then men’s eyeballs pop out when she sashayed through the diner.”

            “The one who ran off from the rehab center?”

            “That’s the one.” Clifton’s whole body seemed to sag. “Now Mr. …” he said.

            “Gideon.”

            “Now Gideon. I’m too tired to talk anymore. Besides, I think Nurse Goodbody shot me through with truth serum and I might tell you something about myself that I don’t want you to know.” He closed his eyes.

            “Rest my friend.” Nelson said, patting Clifton’s arm. “I’ll be back.”

            As he reached the door, he met Christina Lopez. She looked him over and said, “I was just coming to chase you off.”

            Nelson smiled. “He did that himself.”

            “Independent old cuss, ain’t he though? ” Lopez said.

            “Appears to be,” Nelson said. “You’ll take good care of him?”

            “Hon,” she said, “I took care of a husband for 20 years with him laying up drunk. Then I kicked him out and I’ve taken care of people who deserved it since. I can take care of one more.”

            “I suspect you can,” Nelson said. “He’s lucky to have you.”

            Lopez beamed, “Get out, you sweet-talking white devil,” she said. She winked at him and hurried into Clifton’s room.

            As he was walking back to his truck, Nelson’s cell phone rang. He found a bench, sat, and answered it. He nodded his head and said, “Fine Sheriff. I’m doing fine.” He nodded again. “Found out some mildly interesting things. But, let me ask you something.” He paused. “I’ll get back to that but first, back in your Marine days, when you went on patrol, did you ever use the ‘column to skirmishers right’ formation?” He stopped. “I know it was a long time ago, but think back.” He listened again, “Good, now you know it kept you from perhaps missing a target off to your right while you focused on what lay ahead, correct?” He listened. “I do have a point. I think we may be missing something off to our right. Yes I think it is important, or at least I get that feeling. Okay. Then tell me, do you still stay in touch with Sergeant Patterson over at the Connerville Police Department.? Do you trust him? Good.  Now can you do something for me?”

            Nelson drove home slowly. Following a long-established routine, he approached his house from a circuitous route. At one point, it took him past a well-maintained craftsman-style home located on a quiet street four blocks from his own. Something caught his eye, and he stopped. Charlie’s car sat in the driveway of the house, parked behind a late-model Toyota Prius. Attached to the back of Charlie’s car was a bicycle-carrying rack made to transport two units. Nelson stared for a moment, then laughed to himself. “I’ll be damned,” he said.

            He was sitting in the porch swing having a drink when Charlie came home. He parked his car behind Nelson’s in the driveway. It still had the bike racks attached. Charlie eased from his car and stood straightening his clothes and checking himself. Then he joined Nelson on the swing. Neither man spoke for a minute. Nelson broke the silence.

            “Saw a car that looked a lot like that parked a few blocks from here,” he said. “It must be a popular model.” He raised his drink and took a slow, deliberate drink, a move certain to maintain an easy flow of conversation.

            “Notice anything new about it?” Charlie said, staring at the street.

            “Did you wash it?”

            “Fuck you,” Charlie said.

            “Want to tell me about her? I know what she looks like. I’ve seen her walk by and smile at you too many times.”

            “Her name is Angela Masterson.”

            Nelson said nothing.

            “You already know how I met her.”

            Nelson nodded.

            “She’s a consultant. Learned GIS in the Air Force and works on her own now.”

            Nelson said, “I suppose that’s why she walks by at odd times.”

            “Yes, she sets her own hours. That’s map making and such—GIS is”

            “I know. They always had GIS people on the ships that deployed us,” Nelson said. “They’ve gotten me into and out of trouble on many an occasion.”

            “How’s your girl?” Charlie said.

            “If you mean Tina, I don’t think she would give you an ‘A’ for calling her that, ‘my girl’ I mean. So yours likes to ride bikes too?”

            “What was your first clue?”

            The two warriors carried on like that for a while, taking turns verbally probing and counterpunching. Night began to creep upon the urban landscape like a traveler feeling his way in unknown territory. Nelson withdrew first from the skirmishing.

            “I think I may go for a ride,” he said as he finished his drink.

            “I think I’ll freshen up a bit and go for a walk,” Charlie said, standing to yawn and stretch.

            From over the park, two stars appeared and began to sparkle at one another, seemingly amused at the human comedy unfolding below.