The Visitation (41 page)

I don’t suppose that young man thought of such things at the time.

When I embraced the pastor, I wasn’t thinking of such things either.

But I think Marian knew it all along.

IT TOOK MY SISTER,
Rene, to hit us over the head with it. She’d been hitting me over the head with her big sister wisdom ever since we were kids, so she had no qualms or hesitations. She came to visit us in the spring when we’d been at the Cathedral for ten months and been members for six. When we took her to church with us on Sunday morning, it was the first time she’d ever been there.

We got to the sidewalk at our usual time, but for some reason the main sanctuary filled up before we could get in. The ushers, standing in a long, tight line like traffic cones, directed us downstairs into the overflow room where the television was set up. We and three hundred other people went through the Sunday routine in front of that tube, worshiping, greeting one another, saying things to each other, asking the stranger on either side a personal question about their spirituality, hearing the message, and then getting out of there, walking along another line of living traffic cones. Rene wasn’t much of a participant that morning. She just sat quietly, listening, observing, and being a courteous guest.

Sunday evening, she didn’t become difficult, but she did ask with wonder, “You’re going back there
again?”

I knew Rene wasn’t an avid churchgoer. Our strict, church-first upbringing seemed to have had the opposite effect on her. “Well,”

I said, “it’s how we do things. It’s part of our covenant with the Lord and with our local church body. If the man of God is sharing the Word, it’s our duty to be there.”

She looked horrified, but said nothing.

She came with us to the Sunday night meeting, and this time we got into the main sanctuary but had to sit up in the balcony. I was a little nervous because she was new and hadn’t had a chance to learn the balcony rules.

“Make sure you keep your purse tucked under your seat,” I instructed her, talking close to her ear so she could hear me over the worship music. “We have to keep the aisle in front of us clear.”

We managed to find some seats at the very front of the balcony. Uh-oh. There were a
lot
of rules here.

“Uh, make sure you keep your Bible beside you, not on the railing.” She moved down the pew ahead of me toward the wall.

“No, don’t sit there, you’ll block the television lights. And don’t touch the brass railing; the fingerprints dull the shine.”

She sat down slowly, looking at me and giving me time to stop her in case that was a wrong thing to do. I nodded to her that it was okay.

An usher hurried up. “Pardon me, we’re trying to keep this row clear.” There were already thirty people moving down the row behind us. He called to them, “We have to keep this row clear, folks. Sorry.”

We backed all the way out and found the next row up. It was a thirty-foot pew and there were enough bottoms to far exceed that capacity. Rene sat across the aisle from us and got out her pen to jot something down. I tried to warn her, but—

Too late. An usher tapped her on the shoulder. “Excuse me. We can’t allow fountain pens in the balcony.”

She put her pen down, stroked her forehead a moment, and then looked up at the usher. The worship singing was full and spirited, but I imagine half the balcony could hear her question. “Is there anything
else
I’m not supposed to do? Do you have a
list
I can read? Is there a
class
I can take? Is there
any
way I can save you the trouble of harassing me!?”

I had seen people get booted out of the balcony before. I started to cross the aisle.

A second usher stopped me, his hand on my chest. “Sir, please sit down. You’re disturbing the service.”

I sat down. My sister was going nose to nose with an usher and about to be removed, and I sat down. Marian gaped at me. “What are we
doing?
Rene’s in trouble!”

Rene was gathering her things. “Travis, I’m leaving!” She stood and waved to the people in the balcony. “Good-bye, everyone! Happy churching!”

Marian and I got up.

An usher held up his hand at chest level in front of us. “Please sit down—”

Marian maintained a mature dignity and poise. “Stand aside,” she told him, “or I will scratch your eyes out.”

He stood aside. Marian followed Rene and I followed Marian, cringing to think how grieved the Holy Spirit must be.

We tried to keep up with Rene as she stormed down the sidewalk, heading for our car in parking area two. Knowing Rene, I was aware she’d been patient to the point of sainthood, but now her time had come. She’d seen it all, heard it all, digested it all, and she was ready to comment. “Why, oh
why
do you subject yourselves to this?”

“Well, it’s a big church in a big city—” I started to say.

“That is religious, God-tripping, cockamamie—” I won’t complete her full description of my excuse. “Have you lost your mind? That’s not a church, it’s a Christian factory!”

“They have to control— ”

She stopped and looked back at the building, pointing. “Do they even know who you are?”

“Well, it’s—”

“Do
they? Does anyone at that church know who you are?”

Marian answered, her own pain showing, “Not really!”

“You say it’s your church home. Does it know when you’re home? Does it even care?”

I tried to shrug it off. “You get used to it.”

“NO!” She grabbed my arm, on the verge of tears. “Don’t get used to it, Travis! Don’t you ever get used to it! Don’t let them do this to you!”

We went back to our little apartment, had soup and sandwiches, and talked until close to midnight. To summarize the whole evening, we were hit soundly over the head by an outsider who still had eyes to see. We broke down and wept, finally getting in touch with the pain we’d been trying to suppress for ten months. We concluded that the Cathedral did not attract people like Rene, and accepted the truth that the Cathedral could never hold much attraction for us either.

We never went back.

But more than a year later, we continued to receive a monthly calendar and letter from Pastor Dale Harris, telling us how much we were loved and how he appreciated our continuing participation and support.

WE FOUND ANOTHER CHURCH,
also well spoken of, and were astounded and relieved to find that there was nothing seriously wrong with
us—
we weren’t in the wrong; we were just in the wrong
church
. We met the pastor the first Sunday and he remembered our names the next Sunday. We could easily join conversations with people just like us and made friends immediately. We got to know the pastoral staff the way people get to know people, and we didn’t even need nametags!

And we could serve! When the pastor announced they needed help carrying in folding chairs, we leaped at the chance and just about cried from the joy. Next we handed out bulletins at the door and welcomed people coming in. I got out my banjo and helped with the worship at our Wednesday night home group meeting. Three months later, I was leading a home group myself.

So we grew in the Lord. We learned, we matured, and when we finally left Southern California, we had made friends for life. After the Cathedral, it was surprising how easy it was.

I DON’T CONSIDER MYSELF SCARRED
or wounded by the Cathedral of Life experience, but I admit I picked up a few quirks. I never believe anything just because a big-named Christian leader says it. I never do anything I don’t want to do just because a pastor, presuming to be the voice of God, tries to coerce me with guilt or threats. I no longer respond to visions God gives to others about what I should or should not do, think, or be.

And since the Cathedral I have never, and will never again, turn to someone and say something the pastor tells me to say. Never.

W
HEN I TOLD THEM
about my telephone encounter with The Cathedral of Life, Morgan and Kyle laughed, then apologized for laughing and offered to help me out with airfare to L.A. So with teeth gritted, I called the Cathedral one more time, got bounced all around the premises by secretaries and answering machines, and finally—miracles still happen!—got an appointment to see Associate Pastor Norm Corrigan on Tuesday, June 9, at ten in the morning, for one hour.

Tuesday, June 9, at nine-thirty in the morning, I was there, dressed in suit and tie and ready to go nose to nose.

The new building was spectacular. Stone, brick, and acres and acres of tinted glass. Fountains, walkways, trees, shrubs, and tons of beauty bark and lava rock. Inside, miles of rich carpet and fine woodwork. Sitting areas the size of major hotel lobbies. Fine furniture, high ceilings, and massive chandeliers. A huge brass plaque bearing the names of all those who gave ten thousand dollars or more to the building project.

The receptionist in the front lobby sat inside a circular reception desk the size of a ten-person hot tub. She pulled out a map and traced a route for me to follow to the administrative offices. I thanked her, and holding the map before me, set out.

I took a brief side trip to peek through one of the ten rear sanctuary doors. The sanctuary reminded me of some of the finer performing arts centers around the country. It was capacious, high-tech, and very, very nice.

I moved on, guided by the map, walking down one hallway, then making a right turn into another, fascinated by the mixture of emotions and attitudes churning within me. On the one hand, I felt dazzled and excited. What a success story! On the other hand, I still had a chip on my shoulder: If anybody tried to play the bureaucrat or hassle me I wasn’t going to take it. Was anyone going to recognize me? My eyes darted about, looking for familiar faces or pictures on the wall to tell me who was still there. How about the usher who harassed my sister, Rene? Hopefully he’d let me read the list of
don’ts
for this building before asking me to leave. I wondered if Miles Newberry was still there, still teaching the Young Marrieds Sunday school class. It would be the Middle-Aged Marrieds by now. I envisioned the logo: the letters MAM resting in an empty nest.

And what if I actually bumped into the pastor of this place? What would I do? What would I say?

The answers that came to mind betrayed my attitude:
You’ll never bump into him because he gets in and out of here through a secret tunnel. Even if you did see him, he’d be flanked by at least two associates and on his way somewhere important.

I rebuked myself, asked the Lord’s forgiveness, and pressed on.

I could see a wall of glass at the end of this hallway, with two glass double doors and an office space beyond. As I approached, I could make out the bold gold letters on the glass: “The Offices.”

I went through the doors. Beyond the reception desk were six office cubicles and six secretaries, and beyond the cubicles was a hallway with lots of dark cherry doors on either side. I told the receptionist who I was and with whom I had an appointment, and she directed me to a long, overstuffed couch where I could wait.

From where I sat, I could see down the hallway with the dark cherry doors and make out some of the brass nameplates. The names I could read I didn’t recognize. It had been almost twenty years. As for those big, double, paneled doors at the end of the hall with their own secretary sitting at a desk nearby, they could only belong to the man who was unavailable for telephone calls and would take three months to see if I made an appointment: Pastor Dale Harris.

I held a black leather valise in my lap. It contained every scrap of information I possessed about Brandon Nichols, alias Herb Johnson, alias . . . whoever he claimed to be when he had been here.
If
he had been here. That was still a strong hunch, but not a certainty. This whole visit could turn something up, or it could end up a waste of dwindling time and scarce cash.

I still had fifteen minutes until my appointment—fifteen minutes and another hunch that might expedite my visit. There was a water fountain between the hallway and me. I rose casually from the couch, helped myself to some water, and then walked casually down that hall past all the closed cherry doors. Most of the names were new. Richard Drake. Ben Montesque. A few others. Ah, here was Norm Corrigan’s. I kept walking. Miles Newberry! He was still around!

Then I stood before the desk of Pastor Harris’s pleasant, middle-aged secretary. She looked up.

“Can I help you?”

“Hi. I’m Travis Jordan from Antioch, Washington. I have an appointment with Norm Corrigan in fifteen minutes.”

She indicated the couch I’d just come from. “If you’d like to take a seat, Pastor Corrigan will be right with you.”

“Oh, I’ve already checked in.” I opened my valise. “I thought while I was waiting I might see if you could help me out.” I read the name plate on her desk. “Uh, Mrs.—or is it Ms.?”

She smiled. “It’s Mrs.”

“Mrs. Fontinelli, a man has come to our town who, in certain ways, is claiming to be Jesus Christ.” That raised her eyebrows and, I hoped, piqued her interest. “We’re trying to find out who he really is, and by certain hints he’s dropped we think he may have attended this church at one time. Have you been here at the Cathedral for very long?”

“Ten years or so.”

I handed her a photograph of Nichols/Johnson. “Have you ever seen this man?”

This gal would never win at poker. Her reaction was so strong you could read it a mile away. “Um . . . my word.” She looked down at her desk and would not look up at me. This was one of those silent, awkward moments, but it gave me time to consider: If Pastor Harris’s secretary instantly recognized one face out of thousands and had such a strong reaction, that said a lot.

“I take it you’ve encountered this man before?”

“Yes.” She volunteered nothing beyond that.

“Have you been Pastor Harris’s secretary for very long?”

She seemed glad I asked her a question she could easily answer.

“Oh, um, five years.”

“And was it during that time that you encountered this man?”