Pieces of Hate (32 page)

“But it was their choice!” Pastor Freeman shouted, startling many of the people seated in the pews. “God left it up to them! He made them believe nothing, He made them do nothing! And,” he said, his voice quieter now, “when they made that wrong choice, as disappointed as He was, He loved them no less. Their exile from the garden was a result of their own actions, but God stayed with them and watched over them. They were still, after all, His children.

“He does the same with us as He’s done throughout history. He wants us to choose the direction our lives take. Those who are saved have chosen their salvation of their own free will. They have chosen how to live their lives.

Those who are lost have chosen to turn their backs on God . . . for whatever reason. He doesn’t make us accept and love Him . . . He leaves it up to us and hopes that we will.”

He took another sip of water. Beads of sweat were beginning to gather just above his upper lip and he removed a handkerchief from his pocket to dab them away.

“Are we wiser than God?” he asked then, his voice firm, his eyes stern as they swept over the congregation. “Do we know better than He? Were you and I put here on this earth by our Heavenly Father to decide what others should and shouldn’t do? What they should and shouldn’t read or look at or listen to?

“I’ve learned about the other protests this church was involved in before I came. I know that you went to an art gallery showing an exhibit of photographs by a very controversial artist. I’m familiar with that artist’s work and, once again, I understand your disapproval. But I do not understand your anger!” he shouted, pounding a fist on the pulpit and making some of them jerk in their pews. “That kind of disapproval should be accompanied by sadness and — just as God does with us when we make the wrong choice — with continuing love and forgiveness. But windows were broken! A door was destroyed! Arrests were made! Dear God, what kind of behavior is that? Not Christian behavior. Not loving behavior! Certainly not the kind of behavior God has shown His stubborn and frustrating children throughout the centuries . . . or the kind of behavior He expects His children to show each other.”

He used the handkerchief to dab his forehead this time.

“I know about your visit to the Civic Auditorium on the night of a concert given by a particularly offensive rap group about which I’m sure I feel the same as you. But was that behavior necessary? Was that the right thing to do? In front of all those TV cameras? In front of all those young people who, now more than ever, need examples of true Christian love?”

There was a rather loud mumble in the congregation, a voice of dissent that apparently decided, after a moment, to remain silent.

“I know about your occasional gatherings at one of the local clinics that performs abortions where, I understand, the women going into the clinic had garbage thrown at them and were called murderers. Murderers! Maybe you remember an incident in the Bible in which a group of righteously indignant people caught a woman in the act of committing adultery. They went to Jesus to ask what He thought should be done with her, reminding Him that the law instructed them to stone her to death for her crime. Is that what He thought they should do, they wondered? And He told them, ‘He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.’ Well, they thought about that a second, then they did exactly what they should have done: they high-tailed it out of there! Why? Because there wasn’t a man standing there who was without sin.”

He leaned far over the pulpit. “So. What about you? Are you without sin? Do you have the right to stand in judgment of an artist or his admirers? Is your slate clean enough to allow you to angrily stand between a rap group and their fans? Are you sinless enough to accuse a young woman on her way to have an abortion — and going through what is probably the toughest, most painful time of her life — of murder? Are you?” He shouted his next words as he pounded a fist atop the pulpit again. “No, you are not! And to behave as if you are is a misrepresentation of Christianity and a slap in the face of God! If Jesus Christ were present at that clinic, He would stand between you and those women and shout, ‘Let those of you without sin first cast a piece of trash at her! Let those of you who’ve never done anything wrong call her a murderer! Let those of you who are perfect pass judgment on her!’“

“Jesus Christ came to this earth to live a sinless and loving life . . . a life in which He, the Son of God, judged no one. Even He said, in the book of John, chapter 12, ‘And if any man hear my words, and believe not, I judge him not: for I came not to judge the world, but to save the world.’ Why? Because only his father — God! — can judge anyone. Jesus Himself admitted that. He gave no one reason to feel guilt or self-hatred — unless they chose to do so on their own — and it wasn’t easy, because He was just as human as you and I and I’m sure He wanted to break a few windows and destroy a few doors and maybe even kick the seats of a few pants. The only time He did anything remotely close to that was when moneychangers used his Father’s temple as a place of business — crooked, sleazy business — and that, as I’m sure you can understand, was just too much! And even then, He hurt no one; He just made his feelings known.”

He stopped, sighed, scratched the back of his neck, then continued:

“But He came to suffer a horrible death for the lovingness He offered so that we could have an example, so that we could have someone to turn to and to lean on when our lives on this earth became too tough. So that we would have someone who could say He knew what it was like and forgive us our mistakes.

“But you have taken that life and made it a mockery with your anger toward those with whom you don’t agree. To the people you should be showing love and acceptance you are only showing anger and hatred! To people you don’t even know or understand! And you should be ashamed of yourselves!”

He pulled out the handkerchief again and swept it over his entire face, trying to catch his breath and calm the trembling in his hands. And then something happened, something that, in his short time as a pastor, he had never experienced.

The congregation began to stand up and talk back . . .

That perspiration began to return as Pastor Freeman drove, thinking about that sermon, about what it had eventually become, about the chaos that had filled his church, about which he felt so guilty.

He was nearing the bookstore and his palms were sticky against the steering wheel as he grew increasingly anxious. What would he find? What would be happening when he arrived? And, most importantly, what in the world would he do?

He had no idea. He just knew that he had to try to do something.

The bookstore was on the corner of a very busy intersection and it was difficult to find a parking place, but when he drove by, he saw the crowd. There were sixty, maybe seventy people — perhaps even more — gathered on the sidewalk out front that was lined with small maples. He recognized those from his congregation and saw that people had come from many other churches in town. He sighed heavily as he looked for a parking place. He found one half a block away and had to walk back to the store. The voices grew louder the closer he got and they made him hurt inside; they were so angry, so hateful and condemning . . . and at the same time, so gleeful in their hostility, as if they were swishing it around in their mouths like a fine wine that needed savoring.

Most of them held handwritten signs that called James K. Denmore a pornographer, a Satanist, a follower of demons, among other things. The signs accused him of polluting young minds, of promoting violence and perversion . . . of offending God.

The signs made Pastor Freeman’s chest ache.

He was disappointed to see that there were no police officers on hand to maintain order. He knew what groups like this could do, what they could become — he’d gotten a small taste of it in church that day — and he’d hoped there would be someone around to make sure things didn’t get out of hand. The fact that there wasn’t made him a little afraid. He was suddenly seized by a horrible feeling of dread in his chest, a feeling of what this might become, and he stopped a moment on the sidewalk, closed his eyes for just a few seconds and prayed silently, Please take my hand here. Lord, I need your help.

He pressed on until a pair of eyes in the group met his and registered first surprise at his arrival, then darkened with hostile determination. It was a woman, Deanna Furst, a middle-aged widow with short beauty parlor curls, whose body was thickening with age and who wore the simplest of clothes and, always, sensible shoes. She held a sign that read:

QUOTE JAMES K. DENMORE:
 
PERVERTER OF CHILDREN
 
DISCIPLE OF SATAN
 
OFFENDER OF GOD

Pastor Freeman flinched when he read the sign and Deanna saw his reaction. She curled one end other mouth into a little smirk, enjoying his displeasure. She had been one of the louder and more vehemently dissenting voices during his sermon that morning, so he wasn’t at all surprised.

Then others began to notice him and the voices calmed somewhat as eyes turned to him and widened.

Fred Granger, who had obviously gone home and changed into what was, for him, a standard uniform: plaid shirt, khaki jacket and jeans. He drove a pick-up truck with a rifle always on the rack over the back window. A green canvas bag hung heavily from his shoulder and he carried a sign with shaky, hand-painted letters that read:

DENMORE IS EVIL
 
AND SATANIC
 
‘THOU SHALT NOT SUFFER
 
A WITCH TO LIVE!’
 
EXODUS 22:18

His face was twisted into the same mask of dark anger it had been ever since Pastor Freeman had met him. His wife stood behind him, a frail looking woman in a simple baggy housedress. Her head was bowed and she stared at the concrete, holding a baby in one arm and clutching the hand of the toddler boy; she was enormously pregnant.

Sam Bigelow, a tall, heavy man with a sad face, saw him and looked confused at first, then smiled, perhaps thinking that he had come to join them in their protest.

David and Karen Potter, an attractive, thirtyish couple, saw him, glanced at one another, then continued to stare at him with expressionless faces as he approached.

Madison Kent did a double-take when he saw the pastor and stared in disbelief as he drew closer. He held a sign that read:

JAMES K. DENMORE’S BOOKS
 
TEACH EVIL, CORRUPTION
 
AND SEXUAL PROMISCUITY

His face grew hard as Pastor Freeman approached.

There were others, too.

Marcus Benworth, a single black man who sang in the church choir. He held no sign but stared at Pastor Freeman as if he were coming up the sidewalk naked.

Sally Morrisey saw him, too, and her face showed a shadow of guilt — a young, single woman in her mid-twenties whose face conveyed friendship and warmth . . . except for that moment when she saw Pastor Freeman — and she lowered her eyes from his and turned away so he couldn’t see the sign she held, which read:

JAMES K. DENMORE’S BOOKS
 
DESTROY MORALS AND
 
GIVE SATAN FREE REIGN

Michael Denny, who had been dating Sally for a short while and was about her age, did not have a sign, but when he saw Pastor Freeman, his eyebrows rose as if he were asking himself, And exactly what would he be doing here today?

There were others from his congregation. They saw him and responded with their eyes, with their movements. No one reacted positively. No one welcomed him.

No one wanted him there.

There were many others as well, not only people from his congregation — all of whom he recognized, all of whom stared at him with disapproving eyes — but people from other churches who were in agreement with those who thought it right to protest the presence of James K. Denmore in this bookstore, people who also thought they were doing the general public a favor by running out of town on a rail, so to speak, a writer whom they felt was endangering so many readers.

Pastor Freeman found it impossible not to grind his teeth together as he walked straight into the crowd.

No one spoke to him. No one acknowledged his presence once he had joined them.

Pastor Freeman removed the small Bible from his pocket, opened it, took a deep breath, sent up another silent prayer, then lifted an arm slowly and said loudly, “Would you all please listen to me for just a moment!”

A bitter murmur passed through the crowd.

“Please, for just a moment,” he said, turning around and passing his eyes over all of them, known and unknown, trying to sound pleasant.

When silence finally came — just a moment of silence — he took advantage of it and looked down briefly at his Bible to make sure the words in his head were right.

“‘And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother’s eye, but perceivest not the beam that is in thine own eye?’ Those are the words of Jesus from the book of Luke. Do you know what a mote is? It’s a tiny speck. Do you know what a beam is? It’s a log. The trunk of a tree! I have come here to ask you just one question: what gives you the right to come here and tell this man that he is wrong . . . that he is evil . . . when each and every one of you here are just as human and just as much a sinner as he? What gives you that right?”