Pieces of Hate (33 page)

There was a long moment of silence, then:

“He’s spreading his sinfulness!” Deanna Furst shouted.

“He’s selling it!” Karen Potter shouted. “He’s handing it out to people who don’t know any better!”

“Then it’s your job to tell them better!” Pastor Freeman shouted back. “It’s not your job to decide what they can read! That’s not why God put you here! That’s not what God wants you to do for Him!”

“How do you know?”

“I know because the entire Bible — from beginning to end — tells me so! And it tells you so, too, so you should feel ashamed, by your behavior here today. All of you should feel ashamed! Every single one of you!”

Voices rose then, angry voices accompanied by angry eyes. The voices shouted at him bitterly, angrily, as if he had insulted them personally, as if he had said foul things about members of their family.

“I’m terribly sorry if I sound angry. I certainly don’t mean to. Many of you don’t even know me. I’m Pastor — ”

“We know who you are, Pastor Freeman.” It was a deep, unfamiliar voice, rich and full, and the speaker stepped forward, shouldering his way through the crowd. “We’ve heard all about you.”

He was of average height, but still imposing, with a barrel chest and a large belly that filled out his dark suit. His greying hair was balding on top and he wore a pair of large-framed tortoise-shell glasses. A waddle of skin hung beneath his chin and jiggled as he moved. He clutched a Bible at his side and he did not look pleased. His eyes were stern and his mouth was a straight line across his fleshy face.

“I’m Reverend Perry Wickes from the Celebration of Christ Church across town, Pastor Freeman,” he said, “and I must say I’m very disappointed in you. I could understand some church members not wanting to participate in a protest like this. In fact, I always expect a few to stay away. But you? A pastor? The leader of your congregation? I don’t understand it, and I think you’ve failed your church.” He paused, his eyes glaring, jowls trembling with anger. “And your God.”

“I’m sorry to hear that you think that of me, Reverend. But for me to support this, I would have to go against my beliefs. Against what I believe my God wants me to do.”

Reverend Wickes pointed a stiff, meaty index finger at Pastor Freeman and bellowed, “Then you are not a man of God! You are a friend of darkness!”

In spite of himself, Pastor Freeman nearly laughed out loud at the melodramatic accusation, but before he had a chance, there was a stir in the crowd as three people rounded the corner of the bookstore and came down the sidewalk.

The first was a very large muscular man who did not look terribly friendly. The second, a beautiful woman in her thirties who was holding the hand of a man Pastor Freeman recognized immediately from the pictures on his book jackets: James K. Denmore. He looked very youthful — though he was thirty-eight — and very vulnerable, with a pale, childlike face and wide, curious eyes. He was tall and slender with long, thick brown hair and a mustache. He certainly did not appear to be the evil monster Pastor Freeman’s congregation had made him out to be.

As Denmore and his companions approached, the crowd turned to them and held their signs high as they began to shout at him.

“Pornographer!”

“How would you like your child to read what you write?”

“Your books are satanic!”

“Immoral!”

“Perverted!”

Denmore seemed to take the shouting in stride, though his brows curled downward above his eyes; he had obviously encountered it before. The woman beside him did the same. But the large man — probably a bodyguard, Pastor Freeman decided — quickened his pace and moved forward.

That was when a large white van with the call letters of a local television station painted on the side came to a stop, double-parking in front of the bookstore.

“Oh, no,” Pastor Freeman breathed, rolling his eyes.

The shouting grew worse as the burly man moved forward quickly, holding out an arm to clear a path for Denmore and his companion. Pastor Freeman could not believe the things he was hearing from members of his congregation — from any of the people around him, for that matter. He prayed silently and quickly for the strength to resist the burning anger rising in his chest, but he couldn’t do it. He stepped forward, held up both arms and shouted, “Stop! Stop this! This is wrong! This is — ”

Reverend Wickes stepped forward quickly and slapped a hand onto Pastor Freeman’s chest, pushing him backward as he growled through clenched teeth, “Stay out of this. You’re no part of this. You have no business here.”

“I have a lot of business here, and I’ll thank you to take your hand off me.”

“Some of your people told me about your little show in the pulpit this morning and I think it’s shameful. But they think it’s bad enough to start a campaign to have you ousted from the church — and after only two months as their pastor. No, Pastor Freeman,” he chuckled coldly, “you have no business here!”

As the shouting continued, their eyes locked for a long moment. Then Pastor Freeman said, “I don’t live my life according to your opinion, or according to popular opinion. I live it according to God’s opinion. You do what you feel is best for your congregation — ” He pushed Reverend Wicke’s hand from his chest. “ — and I’ll do what I feel is best for mine.”

Pastor Freeman turned away from him, unconcerned about what his reaction might be, and turned back to the crowd, which was still shouting epithets at the approaching writer.

Denmore walked into the crowd with his head held high, trying, unsuccessfully, to smile, his hand still holding the hand of the beautiful woman with him.

“Stop this!” Pastor Freeman shouted. “You have no right to judge this man! Even Christ Himself said He could not judge others! Only God has the right to judge us!”

Denmore froze as he walked into the path that his bodyguard had opened in the crowd and turned to Pastor Freeman with a look of surprise on his face. He smiled, and his smile was a warm and pleasant one.

“Thank you very much,” he said to Pastor Freeman. “I really appreciate that. Who are you?”

Pastor Freeman — rather surprised himself — returned the smile and reached out his hand to shake as he said, “I’m Pastor Gil Freeman.”

Denmore raised his hand to shake then stopped halfway, shocked. “Pastor? You’re a pastor?”

Pastor Freeman nodded.

“And you’re defending me?”

The crowd fell silent, waiting for Pastor Freeman’s response.

As they shook hands, Pastor Freeman thought fast, praying for the right thing to say. “I don’t agree with what you write. But you’re a human being just as I am, and my beliefs make me no better than you . . . and I don’t think you should have to undergo the treatment you’re getting today. I hope you’ll forgive these people for their behavior.”

Denmore’s smile broadened into a grin and he said, with great enthusiasm, “Thank you. Thank you very much! You’re a good person, Pastor, a very good person, and it’s very nice to meet you.” He grinned at Pastor Denmore a moment longer, then turned and headed into the bookstore again.

The crowd broke into a loud burst of accusations and denouncements aimed not only at the writer but at Pastor Freeman as well.

As Denmore and his friends left, he found himself surrounded by hateful faces, burning eyes, mouths with lips pulled back over teeth that snapped up and down as bitter words were shouted; knuckles were white as they held their signs, pumping them up and down again and again. Pastor Freeman realized with a tingle of fright that many of those snapping, sneering faces were directed not at Denmore . . . but at him.

Suddenly, Reverend Wickes appeared before him and his large, fleshy face consumed Pastor Freeman’s field of vision, pearls of sweat clinging to the red-splotched, trembling cheeks.

“Well?” he barked. “Do you still want to stay here? Where you’re not wanted? Where you don’t belong?”

“I’m not going anywhere, Reverend.”

Half his mouth curled into an unpleasant smile. “Maybe not right now. But we’ll see come Judgment Day.”

A heavy, bearded man stepped out of the bookstore then wearing slacks and a sport coat, and raised a hand, shouting firmly, “Please, could you listen a moment, please!” When things calmed down a bit, he said, “My name is Mr. Bailey, I’m the manager of this bookstore, and I’d like to ask you — no, no . . . I’m telling you that if you do not calm down and clear this doorway immediately I’m calling the police and having you all arrested. Is that understood? Arrested!”

Nothing. They were silent. Only their eyes spoke wordless anger and hatred. Slowly, they began to back away.

Mr. Bailey nodded. “Thank you. But I won’t speak to you a second time. You’re welcome to protest. But if you don’t keep it peaceful, I’ll go straight to the phone.” He went back inside.

Reverend Wickes stepped forward and said to them, “Just spread out for now and hold your signs high. When the people begin coming to see him . . . well, we’ll deal with that when it happens.”

Pastor Freeman stood at the very edge of the curb and watched them as the pit of his stomach burned as if he’d swallowed hot coals.

And they watched him as they paced back and forth with their signs, eyes bitter, mouths twisted angrily, hatefully.

Seeing those faces took him back once again to that morning’s sermon . . .

“The Bible says to resist sin!” Deanna Furst suddenly shouted, standing from her pew. “It says to fight it! It says to ‘take up the armor of God’’ to fight it!”

Pastor Freeman froze for a moment, eyes wide. He was not used to members of the congregation standing up and shouting at him. But he gathered his thoughts quickly and shouted, “No, no, God means for us to take up His armor and fight temptation! The temptation that comes to each and every one of us and tries to drag us into sin! Personal temptation! We have no right, no moral room to worry about the sins of others — we’ve got too many of our own! God did not intend for us to take up His armor simply to disagree with others!”

“But this man, this — this writer,” she spat disdainfully, “is presenting a temptation to others! He is making himself a stumbling block to others!”

As much as he hated it, Pastor Freeman felt hot anger welling up in his chest. He clenched his teeth and pounded his fist on the pulpit as he shouted, “You should not worry about the stumbling block he is being to others! You should worry — and worry hard — about the stumbling block you are being to others by behaving the way you behave when you exhibit the absolutely savage behavior you’ve exhibited in the name of God at these reprehensible protests which you insist on holding again and again!”

Deanna Furst remained standing, her lips pressed hard together and her fists clenched at her sides.

Madison Kent shot to his feet suddenly and shouted, “How can you condone what that man writes?”

“I do not condone what that man writes!” Pastor Freeman shouted back. “But I do not condemn that man, either!”

“But what he writes is polluting minds!” Kent responded, his fists clenching as well.

“If that’s so, then he is polluting minds that are choosing to be polluted! Your job is to reach those minds first, to show them the Christian love you were put here to show others, to introduce them to Christ and what He represented, that’s what you’re supposed to be doing! You’re supposed to live your beliefs to others, not shove them down people’s throats! Because even if you stamp out James K. Denmore, someone else will come along who will write the exact same stuff, and there will be just as many people who want to buy his books. Or her books! Because you haven’t tried to reach them! The readers, the people out there! And what will you do there? Ruin the next person? And the next and the next? Would you feel good about that? Would you?”

“Yes!” someone shouted.

And someone else cried, “Yes!”

Then another, and another, until a chorus of “Yes!” rose from the congregation.

“Let me quote from the Bible,” Pastor Freeman said tremulously, trying to control his anger. “Matthew 7:1: ‘Judge not, that ye be not judged.’ In other words, do you want God to judge you as harshly as you are judging James K. Denmore? Because if He did, how would you hold up? Would you do any better than he? Or would you do worse? Because, frankly, I think that if God judged me that harshly, I would not do well at all, no matter how hard I’ve tried throughout my life! I’m just thankful to know that He won’t. Because I refuse to judge others simply by what they do. I don’t know what’s in their minds, what’s in their hearts!”

“But that verse means we shouldn’t judge other Christians!” a voice shouted.

Pastor Freeman’s eyes widened and his brows rose; he was genuinely shocked. “You think it only applies to other Christians? Where does it say that? Do you really believe God was that narrow-minded?”

“He put us here to fight evil!” another voice shouted.

“He put us here to fight the evil that plagues each one of us, individually, our own sins and temptations. Not those of others!” Pastor Freeman shouted.

“You’re a disgrace to your position!” Deanna Furst screamed. “You’re not a preacher, you’re a traitor! You should hang your head in shame for the things you’re saying!”

“I’ll hold my head high,” he said, his voice low and mouth close to the microphone, “because I know that what I’m saying is true. I know that because of what the Bible tells me.”