The Veritas Conflict (4 page)

She looked up. “I pray for him every day. How could this happen?” Her eyes bored into those of the gray-haired man opposite her.

He shook his head. “I don’t know. George was in the midst of a spiritual battle; we all knew that. Ever since I married you two, George stood for God against the enemy of our souls. You have endured many attacks over the years. I don’t know why God would allow this, but I do know the enemy must have wanted to destroy him for a long, long time.” He leaned forward, palms up. “Why would this happen now? I don’t know, Laura. I just don’t know.”

Laura gripped Cleon’s hand, and she began to shiver. She remembered the purpose of the meeting George had set out for that very morning. New tears leaked down her cheeks, and she looked up at her pastor with a shattered expression.

“I think I do.”

George stood in awe. The blackness had become shimmering, translucent. All around him were majestic beings—beings with half smiles on their solemn faces, as if anticipating a small child’s reaction to a wondrous present. He wanted to ask what was happening, but somehow he knew. Instead of pain and sorrow, he felt a thrill of excitement.

One giant angel—they had to be angels—stood beside him. He was shining, wings, garments, and face reflecting a greater glory. George noticed with surprising clarity that the angel’s wings were battered and torn, his garments rent in many places. A picture came into his mind of this very being suddenly passing his own still form on the cobblestones of the bridge, and pulling his grandson from the rocketing carriage. He stared at the angel and watched in fascination as tears and bruises began to be healed as light suffused them. The angel stepped toward him and pointed downward.

He looked down and gasped. The streets of Cambridge were fading rapidly beneath his feet. They seemed covered in shadow, under a dark veil. Somehow he caught a glimpse of his wife—how he loved her!—going about some task, singing a
song to herself. He could see her clearly despite the shadow. Her hair was falling out of its clasp, tendrils curling lightly on her neck. His heart ached. His beloved, his best friend. He longed to linger, to say good-bye. Yet he also yearned to keep moving, to set sail for a distant shore.

The cherished sight of his wife faded rapidly, but the ache only increased. What was this? It became like a pounding in his chest as he moved swiftly along a brilliant passageway. Then he realized that the ache was drawing him forward, like a magnet searching for its match. George trembled with the intensity of the pressure in his heart, the anticipation of what he would find. He could hear soft voices, laughter, and snatches of singing. At the end of the passageway reflections of shimmering golden colors played off dimly seen figures, distant mountaintops. George could tell there was a crowd waiting for him, a promise of a joyous reunion, but he couldn’t yet make out any faces.

Except for one. George drew a shuddering breath as he realized this was the face he had been longing to see his whole life. He thought his heart would burst. George found his feet and began running forward. Incredibly, so did the Other. The ache grew and grew, until finally, at long last, George threw himself into the arms of his Savior. He had come home.

Fifteen Years Later…

Cleon Grindley sat in a pool of lantern light, his head bent, intent on the parchment before him. It was the early hours of the morning, but he couldn’t sleep until he had put these words to paper. The silence of the night was broken only by the scratching sound of his quill pen. Line after line, page after page. The thoughts poured from him, and his prayers became fervent as he knew what the Lord was asking of him and of the others involved. From time to time Cleon would look over at the bed, thankful that his wife and infant daughter could sleep even with his lamp lit.

He stretched and rubbed his eyes, then took a sip of water from the glass on the writing table beside him. It took him a moment to notice that the glass was shaking. The sense of certainty, of heavenly revelation, was so strong that he felt he would burst if he didn’t instantly obey his Father’s every directive.

He gathered the papers together in the proper order and sat for a moment, letting the tension subside, replaced by awe. The Lord had given him the plan! After so many years of prayer, he believed he knew the answer to his fathers long and eventually fatal quest. Cleon prayed anew that he would be a good guardian of the mission.

He leaned back in his chair, lifted the parchment, and settled his reading glasses on his nose.

To the honorable gentleman of Trudburry House, Boston

From Mister Cleon Grindley, Grindley House, Cambridge

Dear Jonathan,

Greetings in the name of the Lord! Thank you for your kind regards on the birth of my latest daughter. Eleanor is beautiful, taking after both her mother and grandmother more than me, thank heavens. Please thank Mary Ann for the fine blanket weaving. It is lining Eleanor’s little crib even now.

I have been powerfully influenced by what I can only assume is the voice of the heavenly Father to continue the fight that was begun by my dear earthly father fifteen years ago. As you know, my father counted you among his closest friends and was bursting with eagerness to share with you some “secret plan” on the day he was taken from this life.

Neither I nor my mother had any inkling what the plan was, only that my father believed he had found a solution for “always keeping the name of Christ at Harvard.” He was worried—and subsequent events validate his concern—that the board’s slipping commitment to the cause of Christ would be solidified in policy in years hence. Now that Whelen Pike has long held the position of chairman, most members truly seem ashamed of the name that is above all names. They prefer to run the university like a business, and deem religion “a bit out of place in the guidance of an institution dedicated to higher learning.”

As you know, the inevitable change in the school’s motto occurred after a suitable period of mourning my father—since he was the lone holdout against that travesty. The shield was stripped of it’s banner proclaiming Christo et Ecclesiae. So the earliest motto of Veritas was returned but was given no context, no anchor, no reference to the original meaning that Jesus Christ is the source and end of all knowledge. How anyone can argue that there is truth outside Christ I do not know. My heart aches, and I believe that such a stand has invited a presence into the college that is not of God.

We can already see a change—subtle, but real. Those who do not know Christ feel much more comfortable with the university now, and those who are devout are beginning to feel as if they are somehow keeping their fingers in the hole of a dam. I shiver at times when I walk through the section of Harvard Yard bounded by the presidents office. That area is so beautiful, but Whelen Pikes choice of president makes me cautious, and as I walk the paths my spirit rebels as if under the weight of a thousand hostile eyes.

I know you love the school as I do, and you may be shocked to know that there is now another possible change underway. If you look at your ring, you will notice that the shield carries three books with
Ve-ri-tas
written across their spines. You may know that the shield was designed with the top two books facing up and one turned down, signifying that we are searching for heaven’s truth in all the disciplines but that much knowledge will be hidden from us.

Well, with the miraculous recent advancements in science, politics, and medicine, Mr. Pike and others are talking openly about changing the tenor of that shield. They are proposing to turn
all
the books up. It seems that man has the audacity to challenge God since we now know so much. We have become so proud, to even consider declaring all knowledge open to us! Does it not seem, sometimes, that we are facing a deadly strategy from the enemy of our souls?

I have to believe that my father sensed this coming, with the simultaneous advent of Whelen Pike’s philosophy and the sudden loss of the Christ-fearing board members. (I might add, for no one’s consideration but your own, that I have oft been struck by the mysterious nature of both my father’s death and the deaths of the other board members, especially in such a short space of time. I don’t know if such thoughts have ever crossed your mind.) My father must have known that time, if nothing else, would eventually eliminate his lone stand against the slipping commitment of the board so long as the trustees kept appointing people such as Mr. Pike. All the others would have to do was wait. He was young—only forty-five when he died—but even so, ten or twenty years to retirement would not be a long wait in the general scheme of things. Especially if, as I can’t help but suspect, there is more than just Mr. Pike behind this scheme. (In keeping with our family heritage, we have of course been diligent in intercession for the school—and for Whelen Pike and his family—since we recognize that our battle is not against flesh and blood.)

So what was my father’s plan? I have been praying for the answer to that question for fifteen long years. And tonight I awoke with such a burning in my soul; I believe I know! Thanks be to God!

Through those of us with positions and means in society there is an easy way of ensuring that the name of Christ always remains in force at Harvard University. If not directing the play, as we would all pray, at least prominent
on
the stage. (I cannot imagine a day when Christ would be taken off the stage entirely, but then I couldn’t imagine a day when man would dare to declare that he knew the mysteries of the universe either. I fear the gradual but inexorable erosion of our faith in this country. I realized several years ago that many hundreds of bright young men have graduated from the Harvard from which “Christ and the Church” have been removed. Some have been devout, but not all; and even in those who love the Lord, I have often sensed a dangerous pride at the loftiness of their position. Many of these graduates have gone on to positions of prominence in business and government—often in the governing of our new republic. I worry that bad yeast will corrupt the whole loaf.)

So bear with me, old friend. I am outlining the plan in this letter so that you can pray over the idea before we meet in three weeks’ time. If you consider it right, perhaps you can invite several of your friends—such as Messrs. Rutherford and Crist—to join us. You will know who should be considered once you see what I am proposing.

Cleon was jolted from the letter by his daughter’s nighttime cry. He listened for a moment until he heard blankets rustling, followed by the unmistakable sounds of nursing. He grinned into the darkness, giving thanks once more for his family. Cleon switched pages and glanced through the notes he had so hastily jotted upon awakening. He would have to rewrite the plan more neatly before sending the letter to Jonathan.

He took a peek over his shoulder at his sleepy wife, then stood at the desk and blew out the light. It could wait until tomorrow.

Three Weeks Later…

The angels soared upward from the house in Boston, strengthened by the prayers of the saints. Each warrior knew that at some point the existence of the plan would become known, and the battle would begin anew. But for now, they created an impenetrable shield around this place of peace.

In the sitting room below them, eight elderly men knelt on the floor, each covenanting with the Lord to do his part to keep the name of Christ paramount at Harvard. Their words were joyous, resolved. A sense of anticipation filled the air. A younger man also knelt with his father’s friends, wiping tears from his eyes.

PART TWO
TODAY

In the world it is called tolerance but in hell it is called despair. The sin that believes in nothing, cares for nothing, seeks to know nothing, enjoys nothing, finds purpose in nothing, lives for nothing but remains alive because there is nothing which it would die for.

D
OROTHY
S
AYERS

TWO

C
LAIRE
R
IVERS RACED DOWN THE DRIVEWAY
, her heart pounding. She had watched through the front blinds until the mail truck drove away. There were three large envelopes in the contents of the mailbox. She had seen them—two manila, one white.
O God O God, please…
She was shaking and glad that her mother had stayed in the kitchen, out of sight of the driveway.

She yanked open the mailbox and hauled out the letters, catalogs, advertisements, and … there! She yanked out one of the manila envelopes by it’s corner, stared at it, and made a short sound of frustration at the blur of mail-order prose. One of her favorite catalogs—just not today.

She juggled the stack, and her heart suddenly stopped. A burgundy logo peeked at her. She gripped the corner of the white envelope and pulled it out. It was big.

She ripped it open and pulled out the short stack of papers. Then she was screaming, jumping up and down … and being pummeled on all sides by her mother, her brothers, and even the dog.

Through happy tears Claire accepted their hugs and punches. She finally found her voice and weakly batted at her mother’s arm, grinning. “So much for not watching me!

Her mother wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “Are you kidding, Clairie-bell? You didn’t actually
believe
me, did you?” She hugged her daughter fiercely, rocking her back and forth and murmuring something in a choked voice.

Claire saw a few neighbors peeking through their windows. “Uh, Mom, can we go inside?”

They trooped into the kitchen, and Claire stood, eyes closed, trying not to cry.
Harvard! O God I can’t believe it!
It had been such a long wait. She could scarcely contain the urge to melt from relief right there in the middle of the kitchen.