The Visitation (6 page)

He looked up at me from the couch. His face seemed so different, so tranquil, when his mouth wasn’t moving. “You seem bitter.”

Well, I could let this young buck start counseling me or I could get back to my journaling. “Thank you for coming to visit. I’m pretty tired.” I moved toward the door, and to his credit, he followed my cue.

THUS ENDED MY FIRST MEETING
with Kyle Sherman. I did not go out of my way to encounter him again, but it happened on several occasions anyway, either by God’s hand or by Kyle’s. As I’ve mentioned before, Kyle has no fear of thin ice.

That’s one reason—among the others—that I accepted his invitation to go with him to the next morning’s ministerial meeting. It was the first time I’d taken him up on any invitation to do anything, but I knew those ministers. If Kyle stepped out on thin ice this time, he was sure to break through, and there were sharks waiting below to eat him alive.

K
YLE PICKED ME UP
a little before ten the next morning and we rode together. In a town the size of Antioch there isn’t much time to discuss anything while on the way somewhere, so I found myself talking fast.

“Morgan Elliott’s the only female minister. She used to copastor the Methodist church with her husband, Gabe, but he was killed in a car wreck three years ago. Nice gal. I wouldn’t call her a liberal, but she’s definitely not a fundamentalist, either.

“Paul Daley’s a kidder, and he likes being Episcopalian as much as you like being Pentecostal. He’d genuflect at a light pole if it had a cross piece on it.

“Al Vendetti is as Catholic as the Pope himself. His father was Catholic, his father’s father was Catholic, his oldest sister is a nun in Philadelphia. I got into a religious argument with him once and he finished it in Latin. But listen, you respect him and he’ll respect you. You get yourself into a scrape he’ll be the first one there, and besides that, he plays a mean first base on the softball team.

“Bob Fisher’s Southern Baptist, so he’s sound and solid. Just don’t get into a doctrinal dispute with him. He doesn’t like being disagreed with.”

There was no more time. We had arrived at Our Lady of the Fields.

Thanks to the underground spring that had undermined the old church, Our Lady of the Fields now had one of the newest buildings in town. It was sand-colored brick, traditional with its tall spire and arched, stained-glass windows. It sat on a solid foundation ideally located on the main thoroughfare through town. Father Al always posted the title of his sermon on the illuminated, covered sign that sat in the front yard.

As Kyle pulled into the parking lot, I recognized some of the cars already sitting there. “That’s Morgan Elliott’s Jeep Cherokee. And I think that Ford belongs to Sid Maher, the Lutheran pastor.” There were plenty of other cars, including Nancy Barrons’s Volvo and Brett Henchle’s squad car. This meeting of the Antioch Ministerial was going to be unlike all the others: well attended. I kept telling myself I was only a visitor now, but that didn’t take away the tremors deep inside me.

We walked along the sidewalk toward the front door.

“I haven’t been in too many Catholic churches,” Kyle said quietly.

“I’ve only been here once, for a funeral,” I admitted. “I don’t know that the ministerial’s ever met here. But Kyle . . .” I stopped, he stopped. I had to get this said before we went in. “I’m never going to tell you to compromise your convictions. But remember what the Bible says about being sly as a serpent and harmless as a dove.”

He wasn’t quite getting my message, I could tell. He gave me a suspicious look. “What do you mean?”

“I mean . . .” Suddenly I found it hard to form an answer with him looking at me like that. “I mean, there’s a time to speak out and there’s a time to just listen and, you know, stay cool.”

“Stay cool?”

Something else came to mind. “With this bunch, it’s easy to get into a discussion that just goes around in circles, and take it from me, if you really want to go around in circles, it’s best to find a merry-go-round somewhere, you follow me?”

“A merry-go-round.” Now the look in his eyes had to be something he normally reserved for Mormons at his front door.

“Think of it as two gravel trucks going opposite directions on a one-way street. Sure, one of them is wrong, but both of them are going to get smashed when they hit, right?”

“You’re not telling me to compromise?”

“No. I’m just telling you to be wise. Be discreet.”

He thought about that a moment, and finally—
finally—
he relaxed and smiled. “Okay, Travis. I gotcha.”

“All right. That’s all I’m going to say.”

The brass handle on the big paneled door yielded, and the door opened. There were two other men in the foyer, and the moment I saw them, I thought I’d seen everything. Howard Munson and Andy Barker were standing on either side of the sanctuary door, peering into the sanctuary like two kids sneaking a peek at something forbidden. They turned as we entered and recognized me at once.

“Travis!” said Howard, the older one with the balding head and wire-rimmed glasses. He offered his hand. “Great to see you again!”

I introduced him to Kyle and told Kyle how he pastored the Gospel Light Pentecostal Tabernacle over on the southeast corner of town, that little white chapel near the grain elevators.

Howard introduced Andy, a young wheat farmer with stern-looking eyes even when he smiled. Howard said nothing about the small, independent Bible study Andy led in his home, a little group that had split off from Howard’s church over a dispute about— well, about Howard. I didn’t tell Kyle about Howard having a strong, negative opinion about every other church but his own, but Kyle may have noticed my surprise to see these two together and within the walls of a Catholic church. Of course, neither had actually gone farther than the foyer.

Howard looked through the sanctuary door again, shook his head in pain and disgust and muttered to us, “Incredible. Just incredible.”

The sanctuary was a comfortable, intimate place that could seat, I figured, about a hundred worshipers. It was warmly colored, with dark wood pews, red carpet runners down the aisles, and brass fixtures. The crucifix was in its traditional location, on the front wall above the altar, illuminated by a ceiling-mounted spotlight.

There were at least twenty people occupying the pews toward the front. Some were kneeling, some were sitting, all were looking steadfastly at the crucifix. I recognized the couple I’d seen at Judy’s the night before sitting right on the aisle.

“They’re waiting for the crucifix to cry again,” Andy whispered.

“Incredible,” Howard repeated, shaking his head again.

The ladder Arnold Kowalski had used to reach the crucifix was still where he’d left it, and now a man sat next to it reading from a psalm book.

Howard leaned close. “That’s some kind of lay assistant sitting up there. I understand if anything happens, he’s there to maintain order and assist people climbing the ladder.”

What was I feeling? Awe? Foreboding? Even in my skepticism, I couldn’t escape the fact that, real or imagined, nothing like this had ever happened in Antioch.

“Where’s the meeting going to be?” I asked.

“Uh . . . I think in the fellowship hall.”

I could tell Howard didn’t want to go into the sanctuary. He asked in a whisper, “Is there another way to get there?”

I pointed toward a door at one end of the foyer. “I think it’s through there.”

We went through the door and down a hall to a sizable, multipurpose room. Most every church has such a room for wedding receptions, potlucks, and socials. At one end was a large pass-through into a commercial-sized kitchen, and coffee was available on the pass-through counter. Four folding tables were arranged in a square in the center of the room, and already the other ministers were mingling.

“Hey Travis!” Sid Maher, the Lutheran pastor, stepped up to shake my hand, and I introduced him to Kyle. He was tall, dark-haired, and bespectacled—a likable guy. His burden for unity among the pastors made him even easier to get along with, and he was glad to see me—with caution. “We’re going to be sharing information and concerns, but I don’t think we’ll need to debate anything.”

“I just came to listen,” I told him.

He smiled and patted me on the arm, then turned to Kyle. “You have some tremendous shoes to fill.”

“I think he brought a pair of his own,” I quipped, and Sid laughed.

We helped ourselves to some coffee.

Burton Eddy stepped up to introduce himself. He was short, with black, horn-rimmed glasses, and wild brown hair. He pastored the local Presbyterian church and was, to put it mildly, a liberal. “Welcome to the booming metropolis of Antioch!” he told Kyle in his whiny, sneery voice. “How’s the church going?”

“We’re taking this town for Christ,” Kyle announced unabashedly.

Burton gave him a fatherly pat on the shoulder. “You’ll get over it.” Then he turned to me. “Travis, I never got a chance to extend my condolences to you. Marian was a saint if ever there was one.”

“Thank you. You’re right.”

He laughed. “On
that
we can agree!” He looked around the room, checking out who else was there. “And I trust we’ll strive for consensus on other matters today?”

“I’m just here to listen,” I repeated.

He gave me the same pat he’d given Kyle. “Good to see you.”

Sid Maher was chairman of the ministerial and was taking his place at the center of one table. Kyle and I were headed for the table when a big-framed man with heavy jowls came up to greet us—effectively blocking our path to the chairs. He spoke to Kyle first and didn’t even look at me. “And you must be the new minister at the Pentecostal Mission church.”

“That’s right,” Kyle said boldly, shaking the man’s hand. “Kyle Sherman.”

“Armond Harrison,” the big man answered. “Pastor of the Apostolic Brethren.”

Kyle hesitated—digesting the church’s name, I figured—before saying, “Okay.”

“I understand you’ve brought a guest today?”

Kyle hesitated again.

“He’s talking about me,” I told him.

“Oh! Yeah, sure. Travis and I are together.”

The big man weighed that for a moment and then gave a slow nod. Then he moved in closer—so close that Kyle had to shift his weight backwards—and peered at Kyle through his thick bifocals. “Of course, you were aware that this meeting is just for the ministers.”

“I’m only here to listen,” I told him in as pleasant a tone as I could muster.

“And Travis is my guest,” Kyle confirmed.

Armond Harrison directed only the briefest glance at me, then spoke to Kyle. “I suppose each minister is free to bring a guest.

Nice to have you here.”

He turned away as Kyle and I took our places at the table.

“What was that all about?” Kyle whispered while trying not to look like he was.

“It’s a great story,” was all I said, sitting down. With one discreet glance, I saw Armond Harrison settle like a sinking ship into his chair directly across the square from me. He caught my glance, and his narrowed eyes sent a clear message back. It was just like old times.

Sid opened the meeting with a prayer and then made some opening comments. He thanked Al Vendetti, sitting to his immediate left, for opening Our Lady’s facility to the other ministers—I think we all nodded in agreement except for Howard. “It’s the first time we’ve ever met here, which is one historic note. The other might be the large attendance.”

We laughed politely. I counted ten ministers. Nancy Barrons, Brett Henchle, and I brought the total attendance up to thirteen.

Nancy had her notebook ready; Brett sat next to her, looking ill at ease and out of place in his uniform. Sid acknowledged their presence but only glanced at me and nodded.

“So . . . now . . .” He looked around the table. “If we can go about this in a somewhat orderly fashion, why don’t we recap what we know so we all have our information straight? Al, perhaps you could start?”

Al Vendetti was dark and Italian, in his forties, with his Philadelphia roots easy to guess in the way he talked. He cleared his throat, quickly caught everybody up on what had happened to Arnold Kowalski, and then explained the people now sitting in the sanctuary. “We have pilgrims in town. One couple came from Moses Lake, three came from Seattle. There are some from Spokane and some from Ritzville. Word’s getting around, and they’re here just to wait and watch.”

He looked at Paul Daley, the handsome, bushy haired rector of St. Mark’s Episcopal, who took the floor. “Yes, I was telling Al that I’ve gotten some inquiries as well, mostly from Episcopalian friends on the west side who got wind of this somehow. Not being Catholic, I don’t know what to tell them so I refer them to Al.” Then he added with no change in tone or facial expression, “But they do seem fascinated that this time it’s
Jesus
crying and not Mary.”

Al realized Paul was teasing and laughed. “In any event, we’re still investigating, and so far we’ve found nothing happening here contrary to faith and morals.”

Sid gave the floor to Morgan Elliott, who began a recap of the whole incident with Sally Fordyce. As we listened, I couldn’t shake the image I still had of her being a flower child of the ’60s, maybe even a singer in an acid-rock band. Her silver-streaked hair was wildly curly and hung past her shoulders, she wore roundish, wire-rimmed glasses on loan from John Lennon, and her voice had a Janis Joplin rasp as if she’d been born perpetually hoarse. “Sally hasn’t tried to embellish her story at all. I’m not even sure it would have gotten around town except for the other things happening. Bob . . .” She looked across the table at Bob Fisher, pastor of Antioch Baptist. “You were telling me about someone in your church?”

Bob Fisher, short and solidly built, eyed the gathering grimly as he related, “It’s a member of my congregation who prefers to remain nameless.”

Morgan piped up, “But you did say it was a
man?”

She got a smile out of him. “It was a man.”

“Just wanted to underline that little detail.”

We all chuckled again, and the laughter took some of the edge off the discussion.