A New Beginning (13 page)

“I said last week that I did not subscribe to the theory of let the buyer beware. Perhaps I should emphasize that I
do
believe, in our present circumstances, in the theory of let the
congregation
beware! Perhaps my former parishioners were correct in labeling me a radical. I
am
a radical believer in God's goodness, and if you will be uncomfortable with your minister reminding you of it every week, then you will do well to beware!”

Slight laughter filtered around the room.

Everyone knew Christopher was being serious, but they appreciated his sense of humor at the same time, and his ability to point the finger at himself too.

“Well,” he said, “I am also a believer in sermons that go no longer than the point of usefulness. They should be short enough to be digested and acted upon, not so long they will be ignored and forgotten. Therefore, I think I have covered all I intended today.

“Shall we pray . . .”

When he was through, everyone rose, not quite able to believe the service was already over.

It was still fifteen minutes before noon!

The people filed out of the church, shaking Christopher's and my hands and saying all the kinds of things people say to pastors at the doors of churches. But an older man named Mr. Henry stood a few seconds in front of us after he'd shaken Christopher's hand.

“Say, I got some work fer ye, Reverend,” he said, a little hesitantly. “Ain't much, maybe a couple days' worth—I'm digging me a new trench from my stream over toward the house. I wouldn't mind paying ye a fair wage to help me. This old back o' mine ain't what it used t' be.”

“I'd be very appreciative, Mr. Henry,” said Christopher enthusiastically. “When would you like me to start?”

“How 'bout tomorrow mornin'?”

“Couldn't be better,” replied Christopher. “I'll see you over at your place bright and early.”

Mr. Henry hadn't lived in Miracle Springs more than about a year. He had no wife or family and lived alone in a small place a couple of miles from town where he raised some cows and bulls. He was kind of a crusty man who kept mostly to himself, the kind of fellow little children might be afraid of. I imagined him to be fifty or fifty-five, and I didn't really know anything about him. In fact, I'm sorry to say, I'd hardly noticed him before.

Christopher went to his place the following morning and they worked all day together with shovels and picks on Mr. Henry's water line. A little before noon, Christopher told me later, Mr. Henry got real quiet for a while. They'd been talking quite a bit as they worked, and then all of a sudden Mr. Henry didn't say a word. They kept right on whacking away at the dirt and shoveling it out of the trench, but after a while Christopher started to get worried that maybe he'd said something to offend the older man. Before too much longer, though, he realized the reason for the man's silence.

“I ain't hardly been able to sleep a wink since yer last two sermons, Reverend,” said Mr. Henry all at once as he tossed a shovelful of dirt aside. “I reckon I might as well just tell ye 'bout it, though it ain't the kind o' thing I ever talked about to nobody afore.”

“I would be happy if you would tell me about it, Mr. Henry,” said Christopher. “I promise, whatever it is, nothing you say will make me think any less of you.”

“I don't reckon I'm too worried about that. It's just the kind o' thing that's hard fer a man to say, if ye know what I mean.”

“I think I do.”

“Well, the long an' the short o' what I'm tryin' t' git at is just this—my pa was as mean a cuss as I reckon there is, mean through and through.”

As he spoke, Mr. Henry sat down on the ground, feet hanging over the edge of the trench, still holding his shovel but expending all his energy at the moment in thought.

“I don't mind tellin' ye,” he went on, “when I was a kid I hated him. I know it ain't right, but I couldn't help it. So when I was listenin' to what them kin o' yers done to ye, Braxton, I knew jist what ye was talking about, 'cause my pa done worse. I thought about it all week since that story ye told 'bout when you was a kid an' how that blamed grandma an' aunt o' yers wouldn't give ye no lunch. Made me right mad, I gotta tell ye. Made me feel the same sort o' way I do when I think about my pa and what he done.”

“Is your father still living, Mr. Henry?” asked Christopher, still shoveling out some loose dirt a few yards away.

“No, he's been gone fer years now. But like I said, as I was listening to ye yesterday, when ye was talking 'bout God being a father too and how we gotta not let our own past stand in the way o' being able to git ourselves right with God, something dawned on me that I never thought of afore.”

“What was that?”

“Just this—that my pa's dead and gone and he lived his life good or bad, and God's gonna do with him what he wants, in the good place or the bad place. Ain't nothing I can do 'bout none o' that. That's all God's affair—ain't I right?”

“I would agree.”

“The only person I can do something about is me, ain't that so?”

“That's right, Mr. Henry.”

“An' I don't want the good Lord to say to me when he meets me at them pearly gates, ‘Why did ye keep hanging on to all that hate so long when yer life could have been so much happier if ye'd just let go of it?' Ye think that's the kind o' thing the Lord'll say to us when we see him after we're dead?”

“I don't know, Mr. Henry. But I do certainly think it's the kind of thing he says to us now.”

“So ye think it mighta been him sayin' it to me?”

“I'm sure it was.”

“I reckon that's a pretty amazing thing when you stop t' think of it, that the good Lord'd say something to an' old nobody like me. And when I thought o' him asking me that question, Braxton, I got a picture in my mind o' me walking around all my life lugging a great big old rock that weighs half a ton.”

He glanced over toward Christopher, then spoke again.

“That's kinda like what hate's like, would ye say?” he said.

Christopher nodded.

“And that's what I'm doing. But I don't have to, do I? I can let the blamed thing go and let it sit there by the side of the road and then I can keep going my own way.”

“I like your analogy, Mr. Henry.”

“Well, yer a minister, and I don't know what an analogy is. All I know is that maybe if it was the Lord putting that picture in my head, it's likely high time I got rid of this rock o' hate that's been weighing me down. And that's what I wanted to ask ye, Braxton, if you'd tell me what t' do.”

“You mean about letting go of the rock?”

“Yep. I figure you said you done it—you let go o' yer rocks—so maybe you could help me git rid o' this one o' mine.”

“Nothing could make me happier, Mr. Henry.”

“All right then, tell me what I gotta do.”

“Well, the first thing I would say is to forgive your father.”

“How can I do that when he was such a mean cuss? Ain't no way around it. Forgiving him's not gonna make it go away, or make him different than he was or make it so he didn't do what he done.”

“You're right. Forgiving him's not going to change a thing about what happened. All it means is that you've decided not to hold it against him anymore.”

“How's that?”

“You see, when someone hurts you, nothing you do can change the fact of what they did. But you have a choice whether to hold it against them or not. If you hang on to it, then that anger remains inside you. But if you don't, then you just let it go and don't worry about what they did. That's
your
choice and doesn't really have anything to do with what the other person did at all.”

“Seems like it's got
something
to do with it. If my pa hadn't been so mean to me, I wouldn't be mad at him in the first place.”

“Perhaps. But you didn't
have
to get angry. Nobody made you.”

“So yer sayin' I gotta stop?”

“You're the one that said you wanted to leave the rock at the side of the road. You have been holding the past against your father, but now you're going to say that you're
not
going to hold it against him anymore. It's as simple as that.”

“Who do I say all that to?”

“If your father was alive, it might be good to say it to him. But since he isn't, then you say it to God, who is really your Father even more than your other father.”

“What do I say?”

“Something like, ‘God, I forgive my father. I'm not going to hold anything against him anymore.'”

“That's all?”

“After that you ought to ask God to forgive you.”

“Forgive
me
. What fer? It was my pa who done the wrong.”

“You let yourself be angry with him all these years, didn't you?”

“Yeah, I reckon so.”

“That anger is the wrong that
you
did, like I said before. You didn't have to hold it against him, but you did. That was wrong of you. That was a sin both against your father and against God. That's why you have to ask forgiveness for it. That's
your
part of the wrong.”

“Tarnation, Braxton, ye don't give a body much room.”

“You said you wanted to let go of the rock.”

“Reckon I did.”

“Owning up to your
own
share of what needs forgiving is part of how to do it. Getting rid of rocks of anger like you're talking about and forgiving those who have hurt us usually has two halves to it. There aren't too many problems that only have one side to them.”

Mr. Henry sat a long while pondering everything Christopher had said. Finally Christopher put down his shovel, walked over, and sat down beside him at the edge of the trench they had dug.

“Have you ever prayed before, Mr. Henry,” he asked, “—out loud, as if you were talking to God like he was sitting right there on the other side of you like I am here?”

“Don't reckon I have,” Mr. Henry answered.

“Would you like me to help you do that now, so you can get rid of this rock you've been lugging around all this time?”

“I reckon, but it seems a little fearsome.”

“What—talking to God?”

“No, thinking that he's sitting right here with us.”

“He may not be sitting here exactly like we are. But he
is
here, and we
can
talk to him just like you and I are talking. And he likes us to. He wants us to talk to him just like we're his children. He won't scold us for telling him we're sorry for what we've done. It makes him happy when we do. He's not an angry Father but a loving Father.”

“I reckon I'll try it then.”

“All you have to do is say something like this—'God, I forgive my father for what he did to me. I'm not going to hold it against him anymore.'”

Mr. Henry sat silent.

“Would you like to say that?”

“Uh . . . all right. Uh . . .
God, I reckon I want t' forgive my father fer what
he done. I'll try not t' hold it against
him no more
.”

“Good. Now say, ‘And I'm sorry for being angry at my father all this time. Please forgive me.'”

“Uh,
God, I'm asking you t' forgive me fer being angry with my father
.”

“Help me to leave the rock of anger beside the road and go on without it and never pick it back up again.”

“Help me t' leave the rock where it is,
and not t' pick it up no more.”

“Help me to be a good son to you from now on, and to call you my loving Father.”

Again Mr. Henry hesitated. Christopher could tell this was the hardest thing of all for him to do—put the words
loving
and
Father
right next to each other. He waited patiently. At last Mr. Henry spoke again.

“And help me t'
call you . . . to call you my loving Father,”
he said.

“Good, Mr. Henry. Your Father—God, that is—I am sure is very proud of you.”

For the rest of that day and the next, Christopher said he had never enjoyed digging in hard ground so much!

Christopher had no work Wednesday and spent the whole day visiting people. As he said, he paid his first visit to the Gold Nugget that afternoon. Thursday he worked at the freight company, helping Marcus Weber load an order that was going down to Colfax the next day. Friday and Saturday he visited around the town some more, and by week's end neither of us had still heard a whisper from the direction of Mrs. Sinclair or any of the local gossips about where he had gone on Wednesday.

On Christopher's second Sunday as pastor he again took the pulpit.

“Last week I said that we would talk together about the three cornerstones of Christianity as I see it,” he said. “Today let us consider the second of the questions I posed: What comprises the walk of faith?

“Is faith a so-called belief system, or is it what we
do
? Do we live faith with our brains and minds . . . or with sweat and muscles, with hands and feet?”

Christopher paused and waited, but no one spoke up.

“You will probably already know the answer I intend to give,” he said at length.

“I believe in the intense practicality of the Christian walk of faith. Yes, I believe faith is lived out by hands and feet during the six days of our labor, not with our brains on the Sabbath day of our rest.

“Nothing about the Christian walk of faith is abstract.

“Hear the words from Jesus' own mouth. If I can say it without seeming irreverent, how unpious they sound. They do not strike one as the words of a religious teacher, but rather a very down-to-earth and practical man. His instructions were very basic, and nearly all concerned themselves with how we are to
live
. Few of them have to do with the intellect.

“Listen to what Jesus tells us to do—lend money when asked, visit those in prison, don't envy, do good, show mercy, feed the hungry, treat others kindly, pray to your Father in heaven, speak graciously, take accountability for your actions, love your neighbor, do to others what you would like them to do to you.

“Every one of these commands is something we could walk out of this church right now . . . and
do
.

“Does a man or woman come to me with some notion concerning Christianity with no
do
attached to it? I will reply that it is not a ‘Christian' thing at all—at least insofar as we presently understand it. To bring any thought or doctrine or principle under the umbrella of the Christian faith, we must find the
do-ness
of it, or else it is a dead idea that will wither and dry up and blow away in the wind.

“We must not merely find the do-ness with our brains and then satisfy ourselves that we have discovered truth. The whole purpose of our childship under the Fatherhood of God is that we
do
what the Father's children are supposed to do. That's what children do—they do as their good Father tells them.

“We have to find the practical element in
every
Christian idea principle . . . and then
do
it.

“This is called nothing more nor less than
obedience
.

“Obedience is the structural foundation of life within the Father's family. Is God truly our Father? Does he truly love us? Is he truly good and utterly to be trusted?

“What other response can there be, then, than to obey him?

“Do I want to do what I
myself
want, not what someone
else
tells me to do? Such a creed is destined to bring me misery, unhappiness, and ruin. The only pathway to fulfillment lies in willing and joyful submission to the Father's purposes, not those of our own childish fancies. Our destiny as human beings is to be his sons and daughters, not entities of our own independent making.

“Obeying him is the doorway into that destiny.

“Nor must we delay doing what God's children are to do.

“To say, ‘Maybe
tomorrow
I will think about what my Father has told me to do, but today I will disregard his instructions and do what I want instead'—what can this be called other than disobedience?

“Thus, along with Christianity's practicality, I believe that there is an urgency to our obedience. Every opportunity missed is one less step on our parts toward our Father's embrace. I don't know about you, but I want with all my heart to draw close to my Father's love, not keep myself distant from it.

“In spiritual things, friends, there is no such thing as tomorrow. Every moment is
today
.

“Therefore, when your duty as a Christian, when your instructions as the Father's son or daughter, becomes clear—whether it be with regard to a principle straight from Jesus' mouth or whether it be something more personal that you feel him prompting you and you alone to do—waste not a second.

“Where is the first opportunity to
do
that thing? Go, then, and do it without delay. Then, and then only, will
life
from within that truth spring up and blossom within you.”

Christopher paused, this time not to ask for questions, but to catch his breath and focus his thoughts. The congregation waited quietly.

“I said as I began these messages,” he went on in a minute, “that I would be sharing the principles by which I try to order my life. This that I have just spoken, then, forms the crux of the whole. As I indicated, I do not always practice these things as successfully as I pray someday to be capable of. But if my personal creed could be reduced to a single statement, it would be this:
Spiritual truths become reality when lived
.

“These six words sum up the perspective of the man you have called to be your pastor. This is why I say, yet again—the Christian faith is practical, able to be obeyed,
do-
able
, and down-to-earth . . . or it is nothing.

“So what comprises faith?

“Doing what our Father tells us. Living as he has ordained that his family lives. In other words . . .
obedience
to his commands, principles, and instructions.”

Christopher paused, then added the following in conclusion.

“Now I have called Christianity a ‘walk of faith,'” he said, “not a mere religion to whose tenets we mentally ascribe.

“What do I mean by
walk
?

“I mean several things. First of all, we walk with our feet, not our intellects. Faith is something we
do
, not primarily something we
think
. Walking also implies that we're going someplace. A destination exists. We're on the way somewhere. Furthermore, walking indicates a twofold process of growth. As you walk your legs get stronger and you get closer to your goal.

“In other words, being a Christian is a
process
, a journey of growth.

“The question naturally follows, what
is
it a Christian is walking toward? Are we walking toward heaven, toward the accumulation of spiritual knowledge, toward eternal rewards, toward material blessing?

“I would answer—no, it is primarily toward none of these destinations that the walk of faith is supposed to be directed. The destination is something else altogether.

“A Christian is growing and progressing toward becoming a
person
of a certain sort, a different kind of individual from the rest of the human species. This I will make my topic next week—what are we walking
toward
when we talk of walking with God?

“Let us pray . . .”

Again the service ended unexpectedly early.