Opposites

 Who was this man on the Judean hill, and who opposes him? Perhaps he could be described in one manner by examining some reactions to what he was teaching.

One doesn’t venture far into a study of the Sermon on the Mount without encountering the word Christology. Simply stated, it means the branch of Christian theology relating to the person, nature, and role of Christ, the Galilean.

With many writers it isn’t simple a study of the man’s life as presented by the writers of the gospels. It descends further, involving the dialectic between the lessons of the Galilean and the stance of those who reacted those lessons. Those reactions vary.

Author Leo Tolstoy, trapped in an unhappy marriage, found solace in the Sermon. In the words of Alexandre Christoyannopoulos, Greek author, lecturer, and Christian pacifist, Tolstoy, at one point in his life, became horrified at the thought that “that life seemed to have no meaning if death was guaranteed to follow.” He even contemplated suicide before turning to a study of religion. As Christoyannopoulos describes the experience of Tolstoy’s seeking of a meaning to life:

“Then came the breakthrough. He observed that the peasants around him—which as a proud aristocrat he had hitherto overlooked—seemed to approach death with calm and serenity. But why? What was it that helped them remain so serene in the face of the apparent futility of life? Tolstoy realised that what they had was ‘faith’. This intrigued Tolstoy, yet it also gave him hope. So he plunged into the Bible with renewed enthusiasm, in the hope that the meaning of life would finally be disclosed to him – and this time, it was.”

Tolstoy evidently found that the teachings in the Sermon, seemingly so antithetical to harmony and success in life, could lead to a perfect state if followed.

Friedrich Naumann, a German liberal politician and Protestant parish pastor is reported to have said that the teachings of the Sermon were incompatible with capitalism. It’s hard to argue with that.

Consider as well the messages polluting our senses from the current mob of “pray for pay” theologians. If one can call their spewing a philosophy, it is one that cannot be more in contrast and opposition to that of the Galilean.

What government today would last upon a policy of not resisting evil, but forgiving it? Indeed, one might eventually come to regard the teachings of the Sermon on the Mount as a body of righteous teachings employed in a cosmic struggle with the forces of everyday life. Perhaps that is why hear so little of them voiced from either the pulpits or the halls of government.

It has taken a crisis of enormous proportions for us to see, as Tolstoy saw, where power derived from principles such as the Galilean espouse may be found. It is being manifested by those whom the inhabitants of Manhattan skyscrapers would call “America’s peasants.” They are finding peace and meaning to life by tending those whom the Galilean would later call, “The least of those among us.” Their lights are shining so brightly that they drown the howling of the hyenas.

Youth

SUNDOWN IN ZION

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Our hero discovers some things.          

  “So what’s on your agenda today?” Nelson asked as Charlie began clearing the breakfast dishes.

            With an exaggerated gesture, Charlie looked at watch on his wrist. “Oh,” he said, “I think I’ll continue my morning walks. I’ve been including some stretching exercises.”

            “That’s good.” Nelson nodded toward the watch, “New?”

            “You always begrudge me nice things,” Charlie said in a mock falsetto. He laughed. “But yes, bought it yesterday. It’s strange to be living in a time-centered paradigm again.”

            “So you have appointments now?”

            Charlie turned quickly. “What makes you think that?”

            “Man buys a watch, man assumes responsibilities,” Nelson said with a laugh.

            “Just want to document your nocturnal escapades,” Charlie said. Then, resetting the conversation’s coordinates, added, “What’s your day look like?”

            “Believe it or not, I’m going to pay young Martin Barker a call on his home turf.”

            “You’re driving to Hot Springs?”

            “Precisely. Want to come along?”

            Although he tried to hide it, Charlie took an almost imperceptible glance at his watch. “No,” he said. “I may do some more shopping.  And, it’s about time I paid for some groceries.”

            “Suit yourself,” Nelson said. “I’m sure you have some catching up to do with spending money.”

            “You have no idea.”

            With that, Nelson headed for his bedroom and then to the shower. When he had dressed and walked into the kitchen, Charlie was gone. Nelson went to the front door and looked out. Charlie’s car was still parked in front of the house. Nelson shrugged and turned for a final cup of coffee.

            Later he eased his truck onto Interstate 30 and began driving south. His route took him past an area of wetland and then into a corridor mixed with industrial and large-scale commercial operations. Farther on, the landscape turned into a wilderness of fast-food outlets, strip-malls, and gaudy shopping centers. It was a panorama indistinguishable from thousands of settlements spread along the freeways of America. There was nothing unique that might add a touch of local identity to the scene, nothing to suggest that human hands had added a personal signature to any building. Nelson ignored the entreaties to stop and spend, concentrating instead on the thinning traffic.

            Soon, he descended into a scarred area of graveled swamps and crossed a small river. The land rose immediately and he approached the turn that would lead him to Hot Springs. The scenery turned pastoral, the highway framed by evergreens sprinkled with hardwoods beginning to flaunt small buds that promised the coming spring. Soon, the area became hilly and the road curved to accommodate the geology. Nelson slowed as if to enjoy the ambiance and soon covered the distance remaining into the city.

            The central business district in Hot Springs was in magical contrast to the commercial corridors of Interstate 30. Here, magnificent buildings, some of them lovingly restored, lined streets festooned with greenery and evoking times long past. Traffic inched along Central Avenue so Nelson was able to study the grandeur that cities could be. A Magnolia-lined section of the street graced a row of beautiful buildings that once served as bathhouses. A grand, vacant building perched atop an adjacent hill, keeping watch on the scenes below. At the end of Central Avenue, a fountain allowed Nelson to navigate to his left and he saw the Arkansas School of Math, Sciences, and the Arts. The facility was located in what had once been a large hospital and stood like a castle, in this case a castle armed with young scholars protecting the helpless with knowledge and understanding instead of arms.

            He eased onto Whittington Avenue and proceeded past the school campus. Whittington soon divided into a couplet surrounding a slender park. Nelson followed for a short distance, then parked his truck and waited. He punched numbers into his cell phone and listened. In a moment he spoke into it, “Here at the appointed spot.” After a pause, he said, “Right.”

            Before he could place his phone into his pocket, it buzzed, announcing a text message. He looked at the tiny screen. A short message read, “Not tonight. Ghosts.”

            Nelson stared at the screen, then typed, “Ghosts?”

            Directly the screen lit with the message, “Ghosts of passions past. Don’t ask.”        

            He nodded and typed, “Be safe.”

            A final text read, “The safe shall inherit the sanctuaries of the sane and somnolent.”

            Nelson placed the phone in his pocket and opened his truck door. He stepped outside and walked across the street to a bench facing the street and sat. He examined his surroundings, nodded and waited. Ten minutes later, he saw Martin Barker and a stout, middle-aged woman walking from the direction of the school campus. Martin was dressed in casual school attire, carried a small briefcase, and evidently enjoyed the company of his companion. They alternated between serious conversation and shared jokes until they reached Nelson. He stood. “Hello Martin.”

            “Mr. uh, Gideon, meet Dr. Doris Bethune, my advisor. Seeing confusion in Nelson’s face, he added, “We must leave the campus in groups of at least two.” When Nelson continued to look without speaking, Marin said, “I really didn’t want to bring another student, so we signed out to take the air along Whittington and discuss an upcoming chemistry project.”

            I’m pleased to meet you, Dr.,” he said extending his hand.

            “Likewise,” the other said. When Nelson said nothing, she said, “I was Abbey Stubblefield’s advisor too.” Then she winked at Nelson. “Martin has told be about you, and if you can catch the son of a bitch, or sons of bitches, that did that awful thing to her, you’ll be, as my students say, my best friend forever.” She smiled, “Or however it goes.”

            Martin and Nelson both laughed, and the three sat.

            Martin broke the silence. “So what are you finding out?”

            “Bits and pieces,” Nelson said. He smiled. “Do they teach you about ‘Black Holes’ here?”

            Dr. Bethune laughed. “Are you kidding? Some the students call our school ‘The Black Hole,’ in their more irreverent moments,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

            “The black hole in Armistead Country seems to be this mega-church in Connerville,” Nelson said. “Everything seems to be drawn into it and nothing can escape.”

            Martin leaned forward. “Including Abbey?”

            “I’m working on that,” Nelson said. “By the way, did you know I’m a deputy of the Armistead County Sheriff’s Department now?”

            “Oh yes,” Martin said, “Dad already told me.

            “Gossip Central is on the job,” I see,” Nelson said.

            “Don’t say anything in front of Mrs. Matterson, Sheriff Love’s receptionist, that you don’t want Dad to know,” Martin said. “She and Dad go way back.”

            “That’ good to know,” Nelson said. He turned to Dr. Bethune. “Can we talk freely and openly here?”

            “I’m on your side. Totally.” Dr. Bethune said, flashing a soothing smile.

            Martin said, “There’s some reason you’re here, isn’t there?”

            Nelson drew a breath. “I need a some straight answer,” he said.

            “About what?” Martin sounded defensive.

            “There are people,” Nelson said, “and I want to phrase this carefully, people who claim Abbey may have been mixed up with the wrong crowd.”

            Dr. Bethune stiffened. “And what crowd might be?

            “Please understand,” Nelson said, “I’m not saying this, but we need to resolve it and put any claims to rest.” He paused. “Some claim she may have been mixed up with gangs in Little Rock.”

            Martin and Dr. Bethune looked at on another, heads shaking. Then Dr. Bethune said, “And what evidence have they to support such an obnoxious thesis?”

            “Very little,” Nelson said. “There is the method of her murder but that doesn’t pass muster for me.”

            “Why not?” Martin said.

            “Timing, location, need for planning,” Nelson said. “It all sounds more like someone delivering a message more than a gangland murder, from what I know of gangs.”

            Martin stood, walked two steps, and turned. “Anything else?”

            “She seems,” Nelson said, “to have had a nickname that some find suspicious. Her parents know nothing about it.”

            Dr. Bethune spoke, “A nickname?”

            “A nickname,” Nelson said, “She was supposedly wearing it as a necklace when she was found.”

            Dr. Bethune flashed a brief but noticeable smile. “And that nickname was?”

            “Poison,” Nelson said. “seems she called herself Poison.”

            At this point, both Martin and Dr. Bethune broke into peals of laughter. Nelson looked on it confusion. As the laughter subsided, they looked at one another shaking their heads.

            Nelson was more confused than ever. He waited as the merriment continued, gradually becoming annoyed. They finally stopped.

            “The PE Club,” Dr. Bethune said. “That darned PE Club.”

            Martin looked at her, surprised. “How do you know about the PE Club?”

            “Martin,” Dr. Bethune said, “we know everything that happens on our campus. You students have been led to believe for your entire lives, that you are smarter than everyone else.
 She chuckled. “But believe me, you ain’t that damned smart.”

            Martin sighed. “Then you tell him.”

            Dr. Bethune turned to Nelson and smiled. “What do you know about the periodic table that forms the basis of modern chemistry?”

            “Very little,” Nelson said.

            “Then you may not know what element is characterized by the letters A and S.”

            “Afraid not,” Nelson said.

            “The element known as ‘AS’ is arsenic,” she said. “Ever heard of it?”

            “Poison,” he said. Understanding flowed over his face like sun lighting a hillside. “Abbey Stubblefield, … AS, …Poison.”

            “There’s a little secret club at our school,” Dr. Bethune said, “of course I know nothing about it you understand, but it comprises a small group of miscreant geniuses that is responsible for a great deal of good-natured mischief.” She looked at Martin. “It’s even rumored that it is the group that, from time to time, orders material from the Discovery Institute, that paragon of right-wing, science-denying bullshit, and has it sent to me.”

            Marin looked at his feet. Dr. Bethune looked at him and said, “Am I missing anything, Maghead?”

            Nelson again showed confusion. He looked at Martin. “Maghead?”

            “Magnesium,” Martin said. “Periodic table symbol ‘MG,’ an element used to make material that is light and tough.”

            “I’m a little familiar with it,” Nelson said, “It’s gotten me into and out of trouble a few times.” He thought for a moment. “But what does the ‘G’ stand for?”

            Martin balked. “Oh go ahead and tell him, “Dr. Bethune said, “or I will.”

            “Galloway,” Martin said, “but don’t ask me why.”

            “Why?” Nelson said, smiling.

            “Tell him,” Dr. Bethune said. “Remember the Discovery Institute.”

            “Have you ever heard that name before?” Martin said after a pause.

            “There’s a place east of Little Rock with that name,” Nelson said, “a place where truckers congregate.”

            Martin looked both ways and said, “That’s where I was born.”

            “There’s a hospital there?”

            “No,” Martin said, “but lucky for me there was an ambulance crew stopped there the day I was born.”

            “I’m confused,” Nelson said.

            “The story is that, when Mom called Dad and told him her time, my time, had come, he started home to get her but got distracted watching a truck that had caught fire and was burning on one of the farms.”

            “A truck burning?”

            “The sort of thing that passes for entertainment in Armistead County,” Martin said. “So Dad didn’t make it quite to Little Rock before I announced my arrival. Lucky for us, an ambulance crew was eating lunch at the truck stop.”

            “And …?”

            “And here I am. Mom was so mad after she found out the reason for the delay, so they say …” Martin shrugged, “that she listed my middle name as ‘Galloway’ so Dad would never forget it.”

            Nelson leaned back on the bench. “Poison and Maghead,” he said, shaking his head. “Then the part about being associated with a gang is true,” he laughed.

            “I gave Abby that necklace,” Martin said. “I’d like to have it back when they get through with it.”

It's hard, yes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No.

Interactions

Sundown in zion

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Our hero wanders the Earth

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What sort of things?”

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

“Oh,” Clifton said. “That bunch.”

“You know them then.”

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

“And?”

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

“Meaning?”

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

“But they work for a church?”

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

“They don’t work for the church?”

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

“How did you know I was there?”

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

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

“My opinion?”

“Your opinion.”

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

“And what is that supposed to be?”

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

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

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

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

“Are they good at it?”

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

“The rest?”

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

“The girls don’t like it there?”

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

“Of drug addiction?”

“Mostly.”

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

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

Nelson looked confused.

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

“Weight control?”

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

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

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

“No idea,” Nelson said.

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

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

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

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

“Who are you, Mister?” Clifton asked.

“Nobody,” Nelson said.

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

“I know,” Nelson said.

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

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

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

Nelson blinked. “You never remarried?”

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

“Not me,” Nelson said.

“Why in the world not?”

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

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

            “I’ll keep looking,” Nelson said.

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

            “You don’t like these folks?”

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

            “Good people.”

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

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

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

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

            “Remember what?”

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

            Nelson said, “So that was important?”

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

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

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

He followed.

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

Acceptance

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More righteous than the pharisees. Yeah. 

Duty

sundown in zion

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

 Our hero runs into a local acquaintance 

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

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

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

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

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

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

            “Charlie?”

            “He hasn’t told you?”

            “Told me what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            Nelson said nothing, just looked at Sam and nodded.

            “No,” Sam said.

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

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

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

            “That sounds just like him,” Sam said.

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

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

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

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

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

            “And that is?”

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

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

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

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

            Nelson waited.

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

            Nelson leaned forward with interest. “And?”

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

            “That’s all she said?”

            “As I remember.”

            “Have you told anyone about this?”

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

            “Probably not,” Nelson said.

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

            “Thanks,” Nelson said.

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

            “I seem to remember something about it.”

            “What kind do you use at present?”

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

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

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

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

            “Oh?”

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

            “That’s all?”

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

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

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

            “We had breakfast together.”

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

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

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

            “The battery gave up?”

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

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

            “You’d do that?”

            “Sure,” Nelson said.

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

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

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

            “Did you like it?”

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

            “Why was that?”

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

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

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

            “Then it was an all-white town?”

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

            “What do you mean, drug them?”

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

            Nelson looked at him, but said nothing.

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

            “How so?”

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

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

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

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

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

            “Why not?”

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

            “I see,” Nelson said.

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

            “What is?”

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

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

Change

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

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

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

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