A New Beginning (14 page)

There were services at church every Sunday evening too, but from the beginning Christopher said that he would not himself speak to the people twice a day.

“I do not want to give anyone cause to tire of me,” he laughed as he told this to the congregation on the evening of his first Sunday as pastor. “I will give you plenty to think about every Sunday morning and will not burden you down with more than can be digested for a week. It is my opinion that most ministers do more harm by the sheer abundance of their words than they do good with the truth contained in those words. Obedience would be far more quickly entered into by their people if all the sermons of the world's clergymen were immediately cut in half—including my own.”

“Amen, Reverend!” called out Uncle Nick, and everyone laughed, Christopher along with them.

“If my words begin to bore any one of you at any time,” he went on, “I beg you to tell me, and I will take my seat immediately!”

He paused, smiling, while everyone settled back into a more serious mood.

“In the meantime,” Christopher continued after a moment, “on Sunday evenings I intend to hear from
you
. We will sing, perhaps more than during the morning service, and we will share together how we are learning to trust God in our lives and how we are learning to call him Father. In other words, I will call upon
you
to share and speak and lead the evening services. If we are to have an active and growing ministry in this church, it will be because we are involved in it together as an entire community.”

That first Sunday evening, we just sang and prayed and a few people shared informally right from their seats—mostly remembrances of Rev. Rutledge, as well as saying how happy they were that Christopher and I were staying in Miracle Springs to take his place.

On Tuesday of the following week, Christopher asked Pa if he'd speak the next time.

“
Me
—preach a sermon?” exclaimed Pa.

“No,” replied Christopher. “The last thing I want from you, Drum, is a sermon. I just want you to share informally. Everyone in this community looks up to you and respects you.”

“What do you want me to talk about?”

“Whatever you like—what it means to you that you're a Christian, how you try to live out your Christianity.”

“I'd have to give it some thought, but I reckon I could do that,” said Pa.

“Sure you can. Anyone who can get up and speak in front of the California legislature can speak to a few dozen of his friends.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“All the more reason. You're older and wiser now.”

“Yeah—says who?” laughed Pa.

But Pa did what Christopher asked, and the next Sunday evening he told the folks of Miracle Springs about his first meeting with Avery Rutledge, how he'd been antagonistic to spiritual things to begin with, but how he and Rev. Rutledge had eventually become good friends and helped build the church together.

“A lot of you weren't here back then,” Pa said, “so I figured you might like to hear about that. It's a lesson that's always stuck with me all these years. Preachers come in all sizes and shapes, just like everyone else. Avery Rutledge, I reckon, was about as different a fellow as there could be from my son-in-law. At first I didn't think I liked him all that well, as I told you—Avery, that is, son,” he added, glancing over with a smile toward Christopher. “But he was a man that lived his faith, and that made all the difference. A man who lives what he believes—that's a powerful man, 'cause people take notice of that, and sometimes it can't help changing them, like it did me.

“That's why I know Christopher's exactly right with all he's been telling us about us needing to
do
what we say we believe. Because if I hadn't seen a man doing what
he
said he believed, I wouldn't be standing up here in front of you tonight. It's that
doing
that makes it come alive for whoever's watching. So listen to what he says. And then pay attention to your
do
, 'cause you never know who's watching your life like I was Avery's. Why, somebody's watching me right now . . . and somebody's no doubt watching you too. Might be somebody we don't even know. But there might be someone standing up speaking their mind in this very church five or ten years from now, telling about how they're walking with God because of what they saw in your life just this last week, or maybe next.

“I reckon that's a pretty sobering thought. To be honest with you, it kinda scares me a little. I ain't even sure I like it. But I don't suppose it can be helped. I looked at Avery and I saw something. Our old friend Alkali Jones was watching me, though I never knew it, and when he prayed with Christopher here to be one of the Lord's men before he died, he told him so, and I tell you it downright flabbergasted me. So whether I like it or not, I can see that's how it works.”

He paused briefly. “When people are trying to be Christians,” he added, “other folks watch—that's all there is to it. So we better pay attention to what we're about.”

Pa stopped again, and this time glanced around, suddenly aware, I think, that he was starting to sound a little like a preacher himself!

“Well, I reckon I better heed what Christopher said last week,” said Pa, “and cut this here sermon in half!”

Christopher stood, came up front laughing, shook Pa's hand and thanked him, and Pa sat down next to Almeda.

“Maybe Corrie and I should have gone to Virginia after all,” said Christopher. “It looks like you had a preacher in your midst and didn't even know it!”

The following Sunday evening, Christopher talked Mr. Henry into sharing with the church about their conversation on anger and leaving the rock beside the road. He didn't want to at first, but eventually he agreed. And after that, whenever he could, Christopher had one of the other men—and sometimes women too—of the community to speak or share. After Pa's and Mr. Henry's example, most were willing to tell a little or a lot about what God was doing in their lives.

An unexpected letter came a week or so later—about three weeks after our decision to stay in California.

A
really
unexpected letter!

It began,

Dear Cornelia and Christopher,

I am sure I am the last person on earth you will expect to hear from.

We quickly turned to the second page to see who the letter was from, and he was right—I was surprised!

I am writing from the Sacramento jail, where I had the good fortune to share a cell with your friend Jesse Harris. He told me all about the time he spent in Miracle Springs, how he went there intent on killing your father and instead became friends with your family. He told me how much your family did for him. And he talks about what he describes as a clean new feeling in his soul from forgiving and being forgiven, and giving himself to God for the rest of his life.

It is like nothing I ever heard before, though now remembering some of our past conversations, Cornelia, I realize that you tried to tell me about God years ago, but I was so selfish and scheming that I never heard what you were really saying. I suppose it takes a run of bad luck sometimes to wake you up to how things really are and to get you to look at the truth as it really is. I guess that's what happened to me. I want you to know that I'm a changed man now.

About a year ago I got myself mixed up with some land swindlers about fifty miles south of here. I didn't know what they were up to, but was just looking to make a few easy dollars, so I agreed to operate their office front in Stockton—which was just for show—while they went out and made the deals. When the thing went sour they disappeared, and there I was in the office looking like it was my scheme all along because they'd gotten me to sign the lease on the office in my own name. I had been framed for the whole thing. Trying to explain things to two federal marshals, I saw immediately how stupid I had been, but it was too late. I've been in jail now for two months waiting for my trial, and with no money to put up for bail.

These last two months sitting here searching my own soul, and then talking with Jesse—well, the long and the short of it is that I've decided to give whatever's left of my life to God too. Jesse's told me what to say and how to pray, just like he did, and I feel a lot better already. I only wish I'd have listened to you earlier, Cornelia, and not acted like such a fool. I'm sure sorry for all the things I did and said to you through the years, and for the way I behaved in San Francisco last year. I want you to know that I'm a changed man.

I'm hesitant to ask, but Jesse says that the two of you are the kind of people who will help anybody, and he told me I shouldn't be afraid to write you. So I decided to take his advice and write and ask if you might consider helping me put up the two hundred dollars in bail money. I know it's a lot to ask. But my trial isn't for three more months, and I know if I could get out, I might be able to find out something of where the men are who got me into all this, which the lawyer says would really help me. You'd get it all back, of course, at the trial. But I'll understand if you can't.

Well, that's about all I have to say, except that I'm sorry again, and thank you for what you did for Jesse, who passed it on to me.

Yours sincerely,
Robert O'Flaridy

I let the two sheets drop from my hand with a sigh of so many different feelings, I hardly knew what to think. Christopher and I were both silent a long minute or two. Robert, whom I had known for fifteen years as Robin O'Flaridy—we'd both worked years ago for the same San Francisco newspaper—and who had pulled so many tricks and shenanigans on me I couldn't remember them all, was the
last
person I'd have expected to hear news like this from.

“I just can't believe it,” I said finally.

“It is exactly as your father said,” added Christopher, “somebody's always watching. And now we come to find out that even Robin O'Flaridy was paying more attention than you thought.”

“It's . . . it's just so hard to imagine,” I said again. “He was just the same as always when we saw him last May.”

“Nobody is outside God's love,” said Christopher, “even those we least expect to be attentive to his voice.”

“What should we do?” I asked.

“It hardly seems coincidental that this comes right after I've been telling the people about the practicality of the Christian faith. So much from my last week's sermon comes right back into my mind. Do you remember what I said Jesus told us to do—lend money when asked, do good, visit those in prison?”

“But doesn't this seem a lot like that woman in St. Louis?” I asked, wanting to believe the best, yet still hesitant. “The one who took your money after you tried to help her?”

“But this is completely different,” rejoined Christopher. “This is someone you know. That woman was a stranger and a con artist.”

“Yes, and I've been conned by Robin before.”

Christopher nodded and it fell silent. I knew he was trying to weigh his own feelings with what I'd said, and trying somehow to balance the two sides.

“So you think we ought to do it?” I asked finally.

“What else can this be,” sighed Christopher, “but the Lord's way of giving
us
the opportunity to see if we really mean what I've been speaking about? If
we
don't obey his words when we have the chance, how can I expect the rest of the congregation to?”

“Do we even have two hundred dollars?” I asked.

“I think we have just about that much left in the bank from my share of the mining work.”

“What about the tithe fund?”

“No,” Christopher replied, “that can only be used for the people of our community.”

We both fell to thinking again for a minute or two.

“What do you think you'll do?” I asked finally.

“I suppose I could wire the money down to the capital,” replied Christopher. “But I think I probably ought to combine both those two commands—lend when asked and visit those in prison. I think I should take the train down there and see to the matter personally.”

“You could visit Jesse too,” I suggested.

“Would you want to come with me?”

“I'm not sure I'm up to a visit with Robin O'Flaridy quite yet,” I replied, “even if he has become a Christian. That may take me a little time to get used to.”

Two days later Christopher left for Sacramento.

He didn't want to be gone over the weekend and had originally planned to wait until Monday. Then he was reminded of his words about the urgency of obedience and so decided to take the very next train. He asked Pa and Almeda and me and Mr. Shaw to take care of the Sunday services. He told us it was all right if we did a lot of hymn singing and said that Harriet Rutledge would be happy to help us with anything.

He arrived back in Miracle Springs the following Tuesday, a little subdued it seemed to me.

“How's Jesse?” I asked.

“He's doing very well. Still not much news about his future, but his spirits are good, and he's telling everyone he meets about the Lord.”

“And Robin?”

“Yes, I saw him too. He's fine. Seemed a lot different than the last time I saw him.”

“You put up his bail?”

Christopher nodded.

I decided to ask no more questions for the moment. Christopher didn't seem in a very talkative mood. I imagined he was tired from his trip.

By the following Sunday he was back to his old energetic self. When that day came, once again he took his place in front of the Miracle Springs congregation to finish the last of the series he'd been doing, which had now been delayed a week.

“We have been considering together what I call my cornerstones of belief,” Christopher began. “In my mind, and in my life's experience, they form a progression, a progression which I believe growing Christians must go through. Not just pastors who think about such things—but all who consider themselves Christians. Though some theologians may disagree with me, I do not find this progression optional. I believe that to grow, one
must
go through each of its successive stages.

“First, we must discover what God's character is like.

“Sad to say, many Christians never really make this discovery, and as a result they live their lives fearing God's wrath rather than learning to trust his goodness. Thus they are unable to grow in their relationship with him, because they are not acquainted with his true personality. How many of you would say you were on intimate terms with me, for example, if you had no idea what kind of person I was? And yet we so easily make that same mistake with God.

“Once we are acquainted with God as our Father, the second stage of the progression, which we considered two weeks ago, is learning to walk with him in daily faith.

“Today we will look at the third and final aspect of this progression—toward what are we walking?”

Christopher paused and took a couple of breaths.

“The question we now want to consider,” he began again, “is this:
What is God's purpose in our lives?
What is it he desires to accomplish? Toward what is faith supposed to point?

“We now find ourselves at what, for me, represents the third cornerstone of belief. And it is just this—I believe that the objective toward which the Father is guiding and leading his sons and daughters, that which he is ‘growing' us to become, is nothing less than Christlikeness of character.

“If we are living trees, that is the fruit the species called mankind is supposed to produce. If we are flowers, that is the blossom that is the end result of being—
Christlikeness
.”

He paused again to let his words sink in.

“That is why it matters so little in one way what we say with our mouths and what we believe in our brains about the many doctrines of the Christian religion. What matters is this:
What kind of people does our Christian walk cause us to become?

“Are we becoming more like Jesus? Then
truly
we are walking the Christian faith!

“Will any of us ever
achieve
Christlikeness of character in this life?” Christopher asked, looking around at us all. “Will we ever fully manifest that fruit on our character-trees? Of course not.

“We can, however, with each passing year, be walking upward on the road of faith so that, though imperfect, Christlikeness will slowly become more evident in our attitudes and our characters. The fruit of Christlikeness
can
grow on these trees of ours, even in spite of the human limitations of imperfection. Not every apple on an apple tree is what we might call a
perfect
apple. But they're all apples, as different as every one might be . . . and they all make great apple pies.

“Such is the goal. This is what ought to define what we call ‘a Christian life.'”