Facts and Fear

When I was eleven, my father landed me a summer job on a milk truck. Sainted mother roused me at 1:00 a.m., the driver would pick me up, and for ten hours, with a break for breakfast, we would roam the dark streets of Pine Bluff, Arkansas.

There were mean dogs and dim hallways, but the most terrifying spot was a block east of Main Street, a Catholic church complex. I would walk down an unlit alley, scoot under a broken fence slat, cross a yard, put two homos, i.e. bottles of homogenized milk (more innocent times), on the back porch, pick up two empties, and run like the devil was after me. It wasn’t the devil I feared. It was the thought of running smack dab into a nun in that dark and fearsome place.

I don’t know from where the fear arose. I had never seen a real nun. Maybe I had heard hyperbolic tales from my Catholic pals. Anyway, I trembled at the prospect until one morning our truck broke down and we didn’t make the church until dawn was breaking. The creeping light comforted me, and I walked bravely through the fence and into the yard. As I turned toward the porch, there stood, a few feet away … a nun reaching for the milk. I can’t describe her except to say that she had the most beautiful and comforting face I had ever seen. She smiled and that smile lightened my “postage stamp world” so much that the humbled sun halted its feeble progress for a second or two. I smiled back, took the empties, and strolled back to the truck, never to fear that spot again.

Facts and reality can cure fear. Perhaps they could cure hate as well, if we would only look.

May I Be Your Neighbor

While watching a film based on the life if the late Fred Rogers, yes “the” Mr. Rogers, I couldn’t stop thinking about the Sermon on the Mount. From what we know of films and biography, few modern Americans lived a life more in harmony with those words attributed to the Galilean some 2,000 years ago than that simple television star of modern times.

As for us mere mortals, living these demanding scriptures is difficult in the Facebook age. Just look at the first examples following the glorious Beatitudes.

“You are the salt of the earth. But if the salt loses its saltiness, how can it be made salty again? It is no longer good for anything, except to be thrown out and trampled underfoot. (5:13 NIV)

“You are the light of the world. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden. Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house. 16 In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven. (5:14-16 NIV)

These constitute the famous “salt and light” sections of the Sermon. They fall directly upon the listeners and reflect precisely what the Galilean expects of his followers. They have garnered much attention and analysis over the years, including opinions regarding just how much light a household lamp of the era produced. We shan’t go into such detail here. Suffice it to say that he expected much from us.

Salt is a strange analogy, carrying a dual function in our physical world. It forms both a necessity of life and flavor to what may be a bland or troublesome existence. What if we viewed ourselves in this manner? How would we act if we truly felt that every moment of our waking life might bring continued hope and a blessing of seasoning to a troubled soul? Do our posts on social media, for example, reflect such a sublime responsibility?

Similarly, do we post items in order that our light may “shine before others,” and reflect our good deeds? The same source quoted in the Sermon also cautions us about judging others, so we had best limit our analysis conclusions to our own actions and leave others to their own thoughts.

Let us just conclude that these are troubled times and the strictures of the Sermon pose huge challenges in compliance. One man made the effort, though, and there are countless others we could name who have risen to the challenge. In selecting names, we would surely fail in the test of inclusion, so let us rest content with the one life mentioned at the beginning.

The Galilean gave his followers a “rough row to hoe,” as they say in my part of the country. They don’t pose the easiest path to follow. Maybe as a beginning effort, we can stop short of saying, “What would he do?” As a more achievable effort, we might just say, “What would Mr. Rogers do?” He sure made it look easy.

Missing

Sundown in zion

Chapter thirty-seven

            The weekend passed. Nelson arrived home early on Monday morning. Charlie was not there, and there was no indication as to whether he had left early or that he, too, had spent the night away. Nelson reviewed the kitchen and smiled as he started to make coffee. Outside, the stormy weather had passed and the day promised to be a fair one. While the coffee brewed, he showered and dressed. He sat enjoying a cup of coffee when his cell phone rang.

            He answered and said, “Fine. I got home fine. No, I haven’t left yet.” He listened and said, “Going to interview the missing girl’s mother.” He listened again. “No. Out in the county, but she attends Connerville High.” In a moment, he laughed and said, “Maybe she didn’t mention that fact to a lot of her classmates. I’ll ask.” He listened longer. “No,” he said. “Don’t make it a research project. I just want to know what sort of reputation the place has in the medical community.” He nodded. “Some of your colleagues must have heard stories about the place.” He listened again. “That’s would be fine.” This time he smiled and opened his eyes wide. “You are a bad girl,” he said. “Sure I’ll be over. What man could resist an offer like that … oh yes, I did too, very much. Tonight … I promise.” He punched the phone and put it in his pocket, shaking his head and smiling.

            The morning drive took him to a semi-rural area on a state highway south of Connorville. The terrain comprised a mixture of pastures dotted with decrepit and long-abandoned milking barns with fairly new houses laid along the right-of-way, each with its own driveway jutting like escape routes toward the highway. Yards were manicured and most had fishing boats parked alongside. The scene was one of strict conformity created by those seeking the individuality of country living.

A worn and faded sign announced the entrance to the development Nelson sought. The street leading into the subdivision lay in deplorable condition. Nelson dodged pothole after pothole until he reached the proper address. It was a modest home with a brick façade. The drive led to a garage, the front of which extended beyond main structure and welcomed at least two vehicles. A late model Nissan Altima sat on one side of the drive and Nelson parked beside it.

            As he approached the front door, he retrieved his ID from his pocket. He knocked, stepped back, and waited. He heard soft footsteps and the door opened to reveal woman wearing a white blouse and dark pants. Her brunette hair was expertly fashioned and her makeup was sparse, but effectively applied. She wore dark-rimmed glasses that set off her olive complexion well. She was apparently dressed for work. She examined the ID that Nelson extended toward her as he introduced himself. After comparing his face with the one on the ID, she said simply, “Rose Thompson, please come in.”

            Nelson followed her into a living room decorated with tasteful, but worn furniture. A large cabinet contained a collection of trophies, most for swimming although including some for track, basketball, and tennis. Nelson stood before the cabinet and nodded in admiration. “Someone is quite an athlete,” he said.

            “They all belong to Bridgette,” Rose said. She ushered Nelson to a couch. She pointed to a photograph of a young girl on an adjacent table. “That’s my most recent picture of her.”

            “She’s beautiful,” Nelson said studying the portrait.

            Rose beamed. “I think she takes after her dad,” she said as she pulled chair to a position facing Nelson and sat. “He died in Iraq … six years ago.”

            “I’m sorry for your loss.” Nelson said.

            “He was one of the last,” she said. “We thought it was just peacekeeping at the time, but some suicide bomber thought otherwise.”

            When Nelson didn’t speak, she continued. “I understand you know something about war.”

            Nelson still didn’t speak, only looked at her with a questioning gaze.

            “I checked on you,” she said, “after you called. Sheriff Love and I have become good friends within the last month.”

            “I’ve some military experience,” Nelson said, “but I can’t imagine losing a father or husband.”

            “It’s been tough,” she said, “but we manage. I have a good job, and thanks, by the way, for coming early. I told the guys I would be in by noon.”

            “The guys?”

            “I work for a law firm in Little Rock as a paralegal. It’s a fairly laidback place.”

            “Thank you for seeing me,” Nelson said. “I won’t take long.”

            “I’ve pretty much told the Sheriff all I know,” Rose said. “And that isn’t much. Bridgette simply disappeared and I’ve not received a word from her … nothing at all.”

            “She disappeared from the Ransom Center, as I understand it,” Nelson said.

            “Just vanished, three days before she was to come home.”

            “How did they discover she was gone?”

            “When she didn’t show for breakfast one morning. She had been allowed to move into what they call ‘The First Class Suites.’ That’s separate living quarters, a private room, for those who respond well in treatment—sort of a reward.”

            “So she disappeared during the night?”

            Rose shook her head. “We don’t know. Bridgette usually went out running in the morning. She’s tough and fit, like her dad.” She gestured at her body. It verged toward being full. “Not like me at all.”

            Nelson stuck to the conversation. “So she may have gone out exercising?”
            “Maybe,” Rose said. “Along with the separate quarters, those in the First Class Suites are allowed a great deal of freedom. They can even leave the premises for short periods.”

            “No one saw her?”
            “No. Early rising and ‘before-breakfast runs’ aren’t that common at the Ransom Center.”

            Nelson considered his next question carefully, then spoke. “I understand from the reports, that she was at the Ransom Center on account of drug abuse, a somewhat mild case.”

            “Mild but getting worse,” Rose said. “She sprained a muscle while over-training for her swimming competition and the doctor prescribed painkillers. I’ve always suspected they overdid it a bit at the school’s request so she could resume training for her other sports as quickly as possible. When her injury healed, her addiction didn’t and some kids at school started slipping her drugs. She apparently thought they improved her performance. Anyway, I found out, confronted her, and we had a row. Her dad’s parents stepped in and agreed to fund her treatment. That’s how she wound up at the Ransom Center. I couldn’t have afforded the cost.”

            “And she responded well to treatment?”

            “Yes,” Rose said. “They were able to make her see what an addiction could cost her, including her only chance at college. She can be extremely determined when she wishes. She weighed the facts and opted in favor of education.”

            Nelson nodded.

            “She wants to be a teacher, actually a coach. So she’s been applying to schools with a scholarship program for sports.” She looked toward the awards. “She excels in several but swimming is her real passion.”

            Nelson said, “As I understand it, that’s how she became friends with Abbey Stubblefield, the girl found murdered.”

            “That’s really why you’re here, isn’t it?”

            “That’s what started me off,” Nelson said, “but your daughter’s disappearance becomes more in tandem with the murder each day.”

            Rose thought, and then said in a soft voice, “It’s odd, isn’t it? I mean the two of them becoming friends. This area isn’t exactly known for racial tolerance. Racial mixing is just below child molestation or skipping church in terms of unacceptable behavior around here.” She clasped her hands in her lap. “Bridgette suffered for the friendship. I would have taken her out of this school system, away from the taunts and snide comments, had I been able to afford it. She took after her dad, you know.”

            Nelson didn’t answer and she continued. “He didn’t have a prejudiced bone in his body. We didn’t know about the area when we left the University of Arkansas. Jeff had just gotten his engineering degree with his military tuition credits and I had been accepted into law school in Little Rock. We bought this house because it was close to the grandparents and then we found out about the prevailing culture. We had planned to move when our careers took off.” She stopped, reached into her purse, and pulled out a handkerchief. She sniffed once and dabbed at her eyes. “Then he got called back up, and … here we are. Here I am at least.”

            “Was Bridgette ever threatened because of her friendship? With Abbey Stubblefield, I mean.”

            “Threatened?” Rose appeared puzzled and thought. “No, not threatened. Just the taunts and spiteful comments that teenagers are so good at. ‘N-lover’ and such. She ignored them. The coaches kept them to a minimum because of her contributions to the teams and Bridgette is a strong person. It would take more than snide comments from Connorville rednecks to unsettle her.”

            “As I understand it,” Nelson said, “Bridgette never attended that large church in Connorville.”

            Rose leaned back in surprise. “The so-called ‘Tabernacle’? Lord no. We’re not a churchgoing family. Why do you ask that?”

            “Her friend Abbey made a couple of trips there before she was murdered,” Nelson said. “What I’m finding so far suggests that Abbey may have been trying to find out what happened to Bridgette.”

            Rose slanted her head into a quizzical pose, then said, “Well she wouldn’t have found out there. Bridgette won’t go near that place. She made us research the connection between the church and the Ransom Center before she would even consider being treated there.”

            Nelson’s face snapped to a position of attention. “And what did you find?”

            “Very little connection,” Rose said. “The place employs advanced psychological and medical practices. No religious bullshit at all.” She reddened and paused. “Excuse my language.”

            Nelson laughed. “Trust me,” he said. “I’ve heard worse. But you are satisfied the center is legit?”

            “The guys I work for had it checked out through some connections they have. The place is as separate from the church as it can possibly be.” She stopped and thought. “There is one connection. Those hoodlums, the ones that hang out at the church, help provide security from time to time.”

            Nelson nodded. “The Soul Warriors?”

            This time Rose laughed. “Your words. Not mine.”

            Nelson moved as if preparing to leave. “Mrs. Thompson, I appreciate your taking the time to talk with me, and I know you have been through this before. But is there anything, anything at all, that you have recalled, since you last spoke with the Sheriff, that might shed light on Bridgette’s disappearance, or Abbey’s murder?”

            Rose took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “No,” she said, but stopped. “Maybe,” she said. “It’s probably nothing, but if you have a moment …”

            “I do.”

            Rose stood and walked away. She disappeared down hallway and was gone for several minutes. When she returned, she held a single sheet of paper, torn from a writing tablet. She sat and held it toward Nelson.

            “I clean Bridgette’s room every night,” she said. “I want it to be clean-smelling and spotless when she comes back. Two nights ago I decided to put a tablet of paper into a bookshelf when this fell out. I had never seen it before.” She motioned for Nelson to take it. The page was half-filled with beautiful cursive handwriting that flowed gracefully until the last sentence, which had been obliterated with a sharp line. “It’s Bridgette’s handwriting,” Rose said. “I would know it anywhere. She got a ‘B’ in handwriting in the third grade and was so appalled that she has practiced 30 minutes or so each night since. She’s that stubborn. She never got less than an ‘A’ in penmanship afterwards. This was the second page of a letter,” she said, “so I can’t tell you for certain who the recipient was. She evidently decided to change something, so she started a new page.”

            Nelson read:

            “As for whether or not two people in love should attend college together, I don’t think so. The hormones and all that.” An emoticon resembling a smiling face followed. “Now if the colleges were far enough away to allow the couple to enjoy one another infrequently (and, as Rodney Dangerfield once observed, that’s one word and not two) …,” Another emoticon followed. The writing then resumed, “I could see that there would be no harm, perhaps even a therapeutic value in easing the stress of advanced academic study. That is something that the two would have to decide between themselves. I know that you would be mature and analytical enough to make the right decision but as for the other person involved ...” Here the writing stopped with a sharp line reversed through the sentence.

            Nelson looked at Rose. “And you don’t know for whom the letter was intended?”

            Rose shook her head. “You speak the language well for a deputy,” she said, “and no, I can only guess who she ..., to whom she sent it.”

Cause and Effect

As inspiring as the message of the Sermon on the Mount is, we are at last forced to consider why the crowd came to hear it. We should also consider its lasting effect. Neither will cheer us on this bright Sunday morning.

The disciples came because it was their duty. The Galilean had chosen and assembled them soon after he withstood his temptations. It seemed their duty, more or less, to sit near him on that Judean hill. Followers follow.

As for the crowd, we don’t know. Their motives may not have withstood detailed scrutiny. Matthew reports that, after choosing his disciples, the Galilean:

“… went throughout Galilee, teaching in their synagogues, proclaiming the good news of the kingdom, and healing every disease and sickness among the people. News about him spread all over Syria, and people brought to him all who were ill with various diseases, those suffering severe pain, the demon-possessed, those having seizures, and the paralyzed; and he healed them. Large crowds from Galilee, the Decapolis, Jerusalem, Judea and the region across the Jordan followed him.” (4:23-25 NIV)

There’s the rub. Even in today’s society, it wouldn’t be hard to draw a crowd by performing miracles, especially ones aimed at curing medical malformities. Sadly, one can draw crowds in modern society by simply promising miracles. Our most intriguing example is of one who expands this theory to the maximum. He promises miracles, fails to perform them, and uses lies (false witness) to disguise the failure to his true believers. Further, when science offers a miracle-like solution to an epic problem, he disparages the very actions need to make it work. His followers make disobedience to truth a bedrock act of acquiescence. Paraphrasing a line from an epic American film, they scream, “We don’t need no stinkin’ facts.”

That brings us to the question of loyalty. As for the Galilean, it seems to have been, at least in contemporary measure, what some describe as “a mile wide and an inch deep.” Some of the same folks who gathered with great hope on the Mount, may have been in the crowd that screamed for the Galilean’s blood when it appeared that his miracle-performing days were over.

Contrast that with our modern example whose followers seem not only unphased by his shortcomings but virtually emboldened by them.

“What does it mean” we might ask ourselves. Is there some hidden genetic trigger that guides us more fervently to greet, avarice, hate, and destruction than to the opposite attractions of love, peace, forgiveness, and righteousness?

Does it mean the virtues expressed in The Sermon are no longer pertinent in American life? After all, those prophets who call themselves “evangelicals” never mention The Sermon and seem, by all their actions, to eschew the very notions expressed in the Beatitudes. They turn instead to the cruel dictates of the older biblical texts. They even form cruel nicknames for the dwindling group of believers who still find “The Blessings” exalting.

What would we say if, somehow, the Galilean were to ask us, in modern parlance, to “review” his most famous sermon?

Perhaps it would be a good idea for each of us raised in a Christian culture to spend some time pondering that question.

Memories

Sundown in zion

Chapter 36

            Nelson drove to the city limits of Connorville where he saw a pleasant farmhouse located just inside the city and a part of a large area of pastureland extending into the county. The land around the farmhouse had once been beautifully landscaped, but now appeared to be nurtured by one not talented in the art of pruning. The care was apparent, the effects not striking, like the results of a husband’s dressing a once fastidious but now helpless spouse. He continued to the far extent of the farm on which a smaller house, evidently unoccupied, stood. Nelson saw the glint of an automobile windshield from a concealed place behind the house. He pulled into the drive, drove the length of the drive, turned, and parked behind a Connorville Police cruiser. Sergeant Ralph Patterson stood behind it. Both vehicles sat beyond the view of those on the main highway.

            The sergeant held a large manila envelope in his left hand and held it to his side as he extended his right to shake Nelson’s. “Thanks for texting me,” he said. “I was already in the vicinity and this worked out well.” He smiled and added, “I hope you understand the need for secrecy.”

            “I do,” Nelson said.

            “It’s always better in Connorville if the right hand doesn’t know what the left is doing,” Patterson said. “I keep my own counsel.”

            “That’s a good practice anywhere,” Nelson said. “Even team members need to know only what concerns the mission.”

            “I’m not sure what the word ‘team’ means in our police department,” Patterson said. “I think it means different things to different folks.”

            “Wouldn’t surprise me,” Nelson said. “Not a bit. Were you able to find much?” He nodded toward the envelope.”

            “What they had in Saline County,” Patterson said. “They are first responders to runaways from the Ransom Center. They usually make an investigation and record it as just that, a runaway.”

            “Do they ever catch one?”

            “Not the police,” Patterson said, “although the so-called ‘security force’ at the center caught one last year.”

            “I think I may have heard about that one,” Nelson said, “if it involved a young girl sent to the center because of an eating disorder.”

            “That’s the one,” Patterson said. “Seems she was just craving a cheeseburger, or maybe two cheeseburgers. They found her at a local diner with crumbs on her face.” He smiled.

            “You have records on the ones they didn’t find?”

            “Four over the last year and a half,” Patterson said.

            “Anything else?”

            “Some notes I jotted down,” Patterson said. “I happen to know some families who sent their kids to the center. Since you are interested in it, I checked and a couple of them are willing to have the kids talk to you about their experiences there. One is the cheeseburger gal.”

            “Are there many successful experiences?”

            “In some cases, yes. In fact, the center seems to have a good success rate, for a church-funded facility.”

            “Interesting,” Nelson said. “I’ll contact the families and set up interviews.”

            “So you think the Ransom Center connects in some way to the death of the young?”

            “I’m not sure.”

            “But you believe in connections?”

            “I believe in gravity,” Nelson said, “the attraction of one thing to another. It’s how we located enemy hideouts in my last profession.”

            Patterson looked confused.

            “The top dogs don’t show themselves except when nobody is looking,” Nelson said. “But they have to eat and,” he paused, “satisfy other needs and urges. So gravity takes over. Then it’s just a matter of following the donkeys, girls, and young boys.”

            “Young boys? Going to join up?”

            “Sometimes,” Nelson said. “Not always. But more to our point, our magnet is the group called the Soul Warriors and the places they hang out.”

            “That would be the church and their hunting club,” Patterson said, “when they aren’t helping at the Ransom Center.”

            “That’s where I’m starting,” Nelson said, raising the envelope Patterson had brought. The clouds were gathering for another spell of rain. Nelson tossed the packet into his truck and turned. “Thanks, and Sheriff Love says I can trust you.”

            “As much as you should trust anyone around here,” Patterson said, “and I wouldn’t make a habit of it.”

            “I won’t,” Nelson said, “and thanks again.”

            The two men shook hands and Nelson waited while Patterson eased the patrol car onto the main road and disappeared. He opened the packet, examined the papers and then walked to his truck and sat in the cab with the door open. He took his phone from his pocket and began making calls and writing notes.

            Nearly 30 minutes later, Nelson drove his truck from behind the house and drove back into Connorville. Reaching the city limits, he consulted his notes and began a twisted route to a new subdivision on the north side of town. He turned into the only entrance and followed the street until he reached a cul-de-sac, whereupon he turned and drove to the last house on the right. He parked his truck in the drive and walked to the door. Before he could ring the doorbell, the door opened and a tanned woman wearing a tennis outfit stood waiting. “Are you the deputy?”

            “Gideon Nelson, Mrs. Anderson,” he said, extending his ID. “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”

            “You’re lucky,” she said while examining his credentials. “Bonnie Sue is a bit under the weather today. Nothing major, just enough to stay home. Sorry for how I’m dressed but you caught me leaving the club. My tennis date was rained out.”

            “No problem,” Nelson said. “If I could just speak to your daughter a few minutes, I’ll be on my way.”

            “Come in,” she said. “May I get you a glass of tea or soft drink?” She had started into the foyer but turned and eyed Nelson carefully. “You don’t wear a uniform?” Her eyes settled on his biceps.

            “I’m on special assignment,” he said. “Some people find the uniform off-putting.”

            She smiled. “I would imagine you look good in a uniform,” she said. She turned and as she did, she threw her head back, spreading her long, brunette hair, evenly across her shoulders. She was well-shaped, perhaps in her early forties and her smooth, shapely legs moved effortlessly beneath her shorts. She walked with a brisk, business-like, pace that made her breasts rise and fall beneath her top with seeming enthusiasm. Nelson followed her into the living room where a young girl, apparently the woman’s daughter, sat on a couch waiting.

            “Bonnie Sue,” the woman said, “this is the deputy I told you about. He wants to talk to you.”

            The girl didn’t speak, only lowered her eyes and stared at the floor as if deciphering a puzzle printed on its surface. She was in her teens and substantially overweight. She wore a too-large pullover advertising the Connorville Cougars athletic team. She wore sweatpants that fit tightly on her flabby legs. She work a pair of black tennis shoes, the laces untied and spread out on the floor. She had reddish hair and freckles mixed with signs of acne across her face. Her hair appeared to have been fashioned at one time, but lately unattended. She began to busy herself with a loose thread on her pants.

            Her mother motioned for Nelson to take a chair opposite the couch and she sat beside her daughter. She punched the child gently with her elbow and said. “Straighten up and say hello to our guest.”

            “’Lo,” Bonnie Sue said without raising her eyes.”

            “Hello,” Nelson said. “My name is Gideon. I’m with the Armistead County Sheriff’s department.”

            “I didn’t do nothin’,” Bonnie Sue said.

            Of course not,” Nelson said. “That’s not why I’m here.”

            Bonnie Sue didn’t speak.

            “I’m working on an important case,” Nelson said, “and there is a good possibility that you might be able to help me with it. Help me solve a crime.”

            Bonnie Sue looked up for the first time. “Me?”

            “Yes, you,” Nelson said. “I’ll bet you are the type that notices things and you just might have noticed something that could help us with our case.”

            “What case?”

            “The case,” Nelson said, “involves the death of a young girl named Abbey Stubblefield, but I don’t imagine you know her.”

            Bonnie Sue’s eyes opened wider and she looked at Nelson. “Is she the one they found in a ditch shot to death?”

            “Yes,” Nelson said. “She was found in the county so we are investigating it instead of the Connorville police.”

            “I don’t know nothin’ about her except I heard she got killed,” Bonnie Sue said.

            Her mother poked her again. “I don’t know ‘anything’ about her,” she said. “We mustn’t let Deputy Nelson think we talk like rednecks.”

            Bonnie Sue’s eyes dropped toward the floor again.

            “I understand,” Nelson said. “She didn’t go to your school, in fact, she wasn’t even from Connorville.”

            Mrs. Anderson interrupted. “She was colored … black, or whatever they call themselves these days, wasn’t she?”

            Nelson only nodded and kept his attention on Bonnie Sue. “There may be a chance that you and Abbey knew another girl,” he said. “She’s the one I’m here about.”

            This aroused Bonnie Sue’s attention. She looked up again. “Another girl?”

            I think the two of you may have shared some time together in the medical center over in Saline County.”

            Bonnie Sue’s eyes shot down again. “I don’t know,” she said.

            “Her name was Bridgette,” Nelson said. “Bridgette Thompson.”

            This time, Bonnie Sue’s face moved up slowly until she stared in Nelson’s face. “She is so pretty,” she said. “Everybody thinks so.” She stopped and took a breath, then exhaled. “She was nice too.” She blinked. “Even to me.”

            “I can believe that,” Nelson said. “You seem like a nice person too.”

            For the first time during their conversation, Bonnie Sue’s face attempted a smile. “Me?”

            Her mother stirred. “Yes you, silly,” she said. “Now you help the man.”

            The face fell again. “She ran away,” Bonnie Sue said. “That made me so sad.”

            “That’s what I wanted to ask you about,” Nelson said. “Do you have any idea why she might have run away?”

            “No.”

            “Did you talk to her much?”

            “A little.”

            “Did she seem unhappy?”

            This time Bonnie Sue thought before she spoke. She looked up and away and then said slowly, “Why should she be unhappy?” She thought again. “She hadn’t been there long and she was going to get to go home.” She said the last with almost a sense of pride. Then she added, “She is a swimmer, you know.”

            “I know,” Nelson said, “so was the girl who was killed.”

            “Bridgette was going to teach me to swim after we both got out,” Bonnie Sue said. “She promised.” She looked back at the floor and then at Nelson. “She promised she would.” Her eyes began to turn red.

            “Did she ever say why she was planning to run away?” Nelson said, but Bonnie Sue was through talking. Tears began to fall from her reddened eyes and she sobbed softly. Nelson moved his hand as if to reach and comfort her, but drew it back. “I can’t begin to thank you enough for helping me,” he said. “Would it be okay if I tell Sheriff Love how helpful you were?”

            She didn’t answer, but nodded her head almost imperceptibly.

            Mrs. Anderson showed Nelson to the door, and as they reached it said. “It’s so hard being a single mom, especially with a troubled child,” she said. “Dr. Anderson and I divorced five years ago, you know.”

            “No ma’am, I didn’t Nelson said. He thanked her and walked out. She stood with the door open, watching him. Then she turned and said loudly enough, though obviously not intending it, for Nelson to hear, “I goddam told you to answer the man’s questions, didn’t I? But no, you couldn’t pass up another opportunity to embarrass me, could you?” The sound of a slap echoed across the manicured lawn.

            Gideon Nelson got into his truck and left Connorville.

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.