Peace Shall Destroy Many (8 page)

he felt that everyone in the building stood separate yet united, one body crying with one voice to the one great known worthy of worship.

Several days before the picnic, while picking rocks from a field hesitant to sprout in the dryness, Thom had mulled over the meaning of the church. To him it was something quite beyond a building or a focal point of community activities or a group of people with similar interests. The church stood, starkly remembered, where his faintest memories merged into the void of early childhood. The first summer in Wapiti lived for him only in blurred scraps, when, as
his mother told him later, they held Sunday services at one unfinished house or the next; but the building of the church, though he had been only six, had caught in his memory. In late Indian summer, despite a very disappointing first harvest, the men had begun scrubbing the hillock on Block’s quarter that fronted the road in the centre of the settlement. There were not enough clothes for Thom in the Wiens’ cabin to allow him to leave the house on cold days, but once, when the sun shone wanly, his father and David had at last taken him along to the church site. At that point what seemed to him a huge hole for the basement had already been lined with logs and the floor and walls were being erected above it. Everywhere men trimmed and heaved logs; everywhere Mr. Block was directing and planning; the best small Thom could do was to avoid tripping the labouring men. Numb in his thin clothes, he wandered around a corner and saw a small forge blazing in the lee of a wagon-box. Fascinated, he inched nearer, half intimidated by Aaron Martens’ thunderous hammering on a partially opened discarded gas drum. The man’s grime-faced grin beckoned him.

“Ho, Thomas—you’re shivering so loud even I can hear you! Come close and warm here. And you can maybe turn the blower. Sure—but careful.” The blacksmith’s tiny voice seemed to issue from some lost fissure in his immense body,
one ham-like hand hefting the hammer, the other almost losing a chisel in its grip. “That’s the door I’m heating there—the door for this barrel that’s going to be our church heater. Just turn steady—see how the coal fires,” and Thom, glowing already with pride, exertion and heat, laboured mightily. “That’s not a forge like I had in Russia—oh no! but it will come, never you fear, Thomas. We’re buil
ding a church now,” words clipped between series of hammer-blows, “a solid church. It’ll stand when you, small one, are as old as I; when your children are as old as I.” He paused in his cutting and pointed to several iron rods half-hidden in the dead leaves of the tree-copse behind them, “See those rods there? They cost plenty—money none of us has. They came all the way from Hainy.” He began his thunderous assault again. “But we need them for the church; to hold the walls solid and upright. Log churches built right hold out long. Ours’ll last because it’s built on the Rock,” and broad sweat furrows pushed through the grime on the blacksmith’s face.

Now in the church fourteen years later, glancing up momentarily between verses, Thom considered those iron rods above his head, forged together, holding the walls immovable. Aaron Martens’ words came to Thom as he concluded the hymn unconsciously. Already on that day, when he had seared his fingers leaning too ardently at the forge and had to be taken home by an irate young David, he had known the church to be something beyond trimmed logs and mud chinking and iron rods. And this vaguely perceived knowledge grew into definite dimensions with the years: when the farm proved so prostratingly disappointing and his father would hitch the bony horses and drive to church completely discouraged and return home to lead their evening devotions in calm
thankfulness; when at that first barren Christmas two huge parcels containing clothing and candy and even a tiny toy truck arrived from Eaton’s, ordered and paid for by no one knew whom; when he, poised with other small boys on the front church benches under watchful parent eyes, comprehe
nded the preaching of Pastor Lepp. They as a community had built this church, but the church was a House built on the solid Rock.

And Joseph’s razor-edged analysis cut in again. “Thom, you cannot, as it were, retreat from reality into worship. You can never really worship without the proper ethics.” Thom abruptly pushed the thought from him as he slid the hymn-book into its bracket. Joseph was not necessarily right at every point.

Pastor Lepp was reading, in his precise German, about “being at peace among yourselves.” Hearing that solemn warning, Thom could hardly doubt what the sudden reason for the church meeting might be, but the serene brotherliness about him was reassuring. Their church did not have quarrels: the problem would be solved and the matter concluded. Thankful, he rose with the others, to echo in his thoughts the Pastor’s prayer. Annamarie’s father. Back beyond memory Thom had heard that gentle voice in prayer. He could not imagine a church without that gentleness, as he could not imagine Christ without the blessing of the children.

The congregation sat with a straining of benches, and Wiens, as church secretary, took his seat at a front table. Franz Reimer was immediately acclaimed chairman, as was usual; his impartiality had never faltered on any matter during the years that Wapiti Mennonite Church had existed. Domed head bending over the agenda, the burn of the sun a line creased
across his forehead, the old man read the first item: “Election of delegates to the Canadian Conference.” To Thom, the Conference was a sort of omnipotent power where the Mennonites of Canada conven
ed for doctrinal and general policy decision. Though its fifteen thousand members were almost lost across the sweep of five provinces, to him, who could not recall seeing over one hundred people at one time, their united belief was solidarity itself. Not that he had ever been to a Conference. He was, with two exceptions, the youngest of fifty-six members. Block, Reimer and Pastor Lepp were usually the delegates: they had had the experience.

As the church went through the formality of election, Thom’s mind slid into hazy reminiscence; the evening in the log building seemed the final steam of a boiling day. Despite Joseph’s hard analysis, the events Thom had experienced in this building were sacred to him. David’s ordination for mission work in India: when old Brother Janz, conference moderator, had come from the south and David and Nettie had knelt on a grey blanket beside the shiplap pulpit after they had pledged themselves to God’s service. He remembered how David had risen, hair rumpled by the Reverend Janz’s unsteady hand, and prayed with the triumphant intensity of absolute dedication until Thom could only breathe to himself, overcome, “Holy, holy is the Lord.” Two years later, he and Pete and Frieda Martens had been baptized: the entire congregation, except for the oldest women riding in the bennettwagon, had climbed up from the creek below the church where the baptism had taken place, singing in sombre harmony, “My God, I am persuaded, forever I am thine.” Pastor Lepp had led them in, they three had knelt to be accepted into the church, then Frieda had sat down on the women’s side,
Pete and he on the men’s, to receive the Lord’s Supper for the first time. Finally, he had bent his head at Franz Reimer’s hand-c
lasp, received on his cheek the rough kiss
, and heard the old man say, “Welcome, my son. God bless you!”

A silence lengthened about him, and he looked up to find Reimer gazing thoughtfully at the slip of paper. The issue for the hasty meeting was about to be broached. He could sense everyone with him sitting coiled with curiosity, almost knowing. Abruptly, Thom felt cheap for them. The church was meant for greater things! He saw Pastor Lepp rise and face them. When the Pastor spoke, Thom could understand why he was re-elected year after year.

“Certain younger and older members of the church have expressed concern about the young people’s meeting held last Friday at Poplar Lake. An outdoor gathering for the young people alone like this has never been held before, but the Church Board felt, when the Youth Committee presented the suggestion, that no harm would be done. Now no one has felt that the meeting itself was actually wrong, but several brethren have mentioned that certain aspects of it were not in the best Christian traditions of our church. This matter must be clarified. There is no need for ungodly gossip to develop. The Church Board has asked Brother Franz Reimer, Junior, as leader of the Youth Committee, to explain what happened. If there are any questions, they can then be asked.”

The exact objections would come shortly, Thom knew, but who could possibly have complained? Everyone had been so moved. Young Franz, slender face peaked in seriousness, rose near the front; Thom glanced at Block whose handsome face with its crest of iron hair concentrated, expressionless as granite, on the speaker.

As Franz spoke with gradual fluency, Thom remembered. Scalding coffee in enameled cups; jam sandwiches eaten squatting; high laughter of the girls under half-hushed pines; still-hot sand by the lap of the lake with the sun blazing down to the tree-line; songs sung to the lost echo of the wilderness: nothing could deface that evening. Not having books, they had sung German songs learned at home when the winter night lengthened to the bulging redness of the heater, or learned in the moving harmony of young voices in the choir on Saturday evening. Joseph had followed with his reasoned questions on pacifism, probing questions, and finally, when the sim was only a burnished path across the lake, the closing prayer by Mr. Rempel.

Mr. Rempel. He had forgotten the older member of the Youth Committee who had hovered on the edge of the gathering. He turned slightly to see the grey mustached face of the twins’ father flick a glance at Block. Thom could not doubt who had raised the matter. Two definite issues were shaping in his mind as, with the first question, Block took over the meeting. Across the aisle from him, Thom could barely see the back of Annamarie’s glossy hair. Her questions—and his own—would be answered; he felt a faint uneasiness for Joseph, but also vast relief, for what he himself had so long hesitated to mention would now be bared to all.

“In what language was the evening program carried out?”

“The singing was in German, but Brother Dueck spoke in English.”

“Was this by decision of the Youth Committee?”

“Well,” Franz’s discomfort was evident, “actually no one spoke about it one way or another—obviously it was to be German. But at the lake Brother Dueck pointed out that there
were some people there from both districts who were not Mennonites and could not understand German. Also, we noticed some Indians within hearing distance, and so he suggested he speak in English.”

“Did only you and Brother Dueck decide this?”

“Well yes, because Brother Ernst was leading the singing and Brother Rempel was not there at the moment. It was done so that all might understand—”

“Could I say a word, Brother Chairman?” Joseph’s voice cut cleanly from the back of the church. Everyone stirred expectantly. “Could I ask why it is so important that the church know I spoke in English?”

Thom could feel all eyes turn with his towards Block. The Deacon rose, his voice almost puzzled, “I think that must be clear to anyone. We as a Mennonite Church hold our services, whether for young or old, in German. Why was that changed?” A slight loudness crept in now. “When this ‘outdoor’ meeting came before the Council, the brethren will bear me out that I questioned the wisdom of such a procedure. Church services, of whatever nature, belong in the House of God. However, I gave in on that point, but I said I hoped we would have nothing to regret later. What has happened makes us very sorry that we agreed to the suggestion of, as we were given to understand, the younger members of the Committee.”

“I’m sorry, but I still do not understand,” Joseph’s voice insisted as Block made a gesture to sit dow
n. For a moment Thom had the impression they were all merely bodies separating these two giants talking over them. Even Mr. Reimer did not call them to order. “Is the church as a whole objecting that we had a service at a lakeshore in English? Agreed, this
is new in Wapiti, but is there something
wrong
with it? It seems to me that Christ held several services by a lakeside and he did not even use English—he spoke in Aramaic.”

A wave of air swept the church, like tension cracking. The Rempel twins, beyond Pete on the bench with Thom, snorted uncontrollably, and quickly ducked their heads below the bench-back. Block’s face, now confronting the chairman, snapped the chuckle surprised from Thom.

Reimer’s voice cut across the sprinkling of overt laughter, “I must ask the brother to speak with Christian respect.”

Beyond the window, the sunken sun etched the black roof-line of the stables. The hissing light of the mantle-lamp burst through the door at that moment and John, the caretaker, shuffled up the aisle. In the hush of waiting for the grizzled old man to hang the lamp from its hook beside the pulpit, Thom thought, Not that way, Joseph. Joking is the worst. As the crooked figure straightened in its stretch for the hook, pushing the light up, Thom remembered a line he had read: “We have nothing to offer but broken gargoyles.” Nothing else remained in his mind, not who “we” were or to whom the offering was being made. When the hook caught at last, the shudder he had known on finding the word in the dictionary gripped him again. Why should he think of that in this connection? Rempel arose.

“Brethren, levity has no place here.” There was a murmur of agreement. “It is correct as Brother Franz has said. During the singing I heard a disturbance among the horses in the bush—when I returned Brother Dueck was already speaking—in English. I was surprised, since there did not seem to be any need to depart completely from our usual manner of service.”

From the nods of the older men, Thom knew that this was damaging to the two younger members of the Committee. True, Ernst and Franz were both married, but neither was yet thirty. Joseph’s voice was slightly stiffer now:

“I apologize if I spoke disrespectfully before. But I still do not understand. When we hold a service where some are present who cannot understand German, but all can follow English, why—”