~*~*~*~
Warren climbed to his favorite cliff and sat on the edge overlooking the Argosy Valley. His ancestors had settled here and slowly the town had built up around their needs. During the past century, their family had been the leaders of the town and often the county. For over a decade, he’d been one of the leaders of their church, and now, he saw fully how much he’d failed.
Wracking sobs shook his body. The men in his family did not cry. Tears were a sign of weakness, and Warren had never felt weaker than at this moment. His wife, the beautiful woman who had given most of her life to serve him and their family, felt betrayed by him. He’d wanted to argue further. He’d wanted to shift the blame, but her words haunted him. “
… without you assuming I am a Jezebel!”
There was no greater insult within the
Brethren,
than for a woman to be branded a Jezebel. It struck him as odd, that there was no equally repugnant stigma for a man. Oh, men were pitied for being weak at times. Worldly wasn’t a term that people desired, but the term worldly seemed more ambiguous somehow. His wife had endured the stripping of her faith, rather than be condemned as a brazen usurper. He’d failed far beyond what he’d ever imagined.
Years of instinctively turning to prayer returned to him, but he resisted. His pride wouldn’t let him cry out to the One who could give the true aid and comfort he most needed. He thought of the Wheatley’s and then shook his head as if in answer to an unasked question. He wouldn’t go to someone and potentially destroy their chance at a happy life in Argosy Junction.
Warren almost dismissed the idea of contacting Matt. After all, how could an inner-city man with no experience amongst cults possibly understand? Martha and Patience’s words echoed through his mind. They were right. Lane did love him, and if they all weren’t careful, her pain would be the axe that severed all ties to Matt. That would be his fault as well. Maybe if he and Matt corresponded, Matt could help him see where he’d lost his way, and he could help Matt to successfully woo Lane not only to himself, but back to the Lord.
Back to the Lord. Is that what he really wanted? To be truthful with himself, Warren had to admit that the only reason he cared was because he knew that Lane’s heart would be broken if
she
didn’t. Matt would never continue a relationship with a woman antagonistic to his God. None of his family would if he didn’t take the first step.
He scrambled from his perch and returned to his truck. He had an important email to write and a wife who deserved an apology.
Fourteen
From:
[email protected]
Subject:
I assume you’re sitting down.
Matt,
If you’re not, then sit. This is going to be a hard email to write and a long one. If you ever hope to see Lane on speaking terms with Jesus, you’ll pay close attention. And then I want you to help me.
About twenty years ago, our little Baptist church lost our pastor. He’d been given a chance to take a church near his family, and we encouraged him to go, knowing we’d have trouble finding someone else to take his place. I’d been reading where Paul gives instruction on how to handle the speaking in other languages and the interpretation, and he says something like, “One comes with a verse, another with a teaching, another with a prayer,” and it hit me that maybe this was something we should do. The men should step up to the plate. The original New Testament churches seemed to have the men more involved than American churches. So I suggested that we find a way to have every man serve every Sunday (combining morning and night) in some way. Each song was led by a different man, each prayer, the sermon, the lesson, the communion…
It was difficult to accomplish, but we did it. I think that is where it all went downhill. After a few months, one of the men, a strong prayer warrior, asked to be relieved from duty for a month. He was feeling overwhelmed in his life and needed to be refreshed. He’d given so much—I see that now. But we had made our style of worship a law in our church. Every man MUST come to help.
Matt, I don’t know how to explain it. Everything I write I erase, because I just justify our actions instead of writing the facts. Facts will do it. Here is a basic summary.
We chose a style of worship to fit our need.
We liked our worship and used it for six or more months.
One man needed a reprieve.
We determined he was backsliding
We insisted he continue or face church discipline.
Yes. We did that. I am so ashamed now. The man was Frank Gideon. We are the root of his and his children’s current bitterness.
Where I am going with this information is that Martha and I had it out this morning. Patience accused me of being angry with God. I, of course, objected, but Martha and I discussed it. Matt, I discovered my wife felt betrayed by my spiritual leadership. Son, if you ever have a wife, never let her think that you do not welcome and value her counsel and advice.
Do you know where this started? It started with good intentions. We wanted to live the Word. We didn’t just want to read it; we wanted to live it. We wanted Christianity to ooze from every pore so that everyone who met us would know to whom we belonged.
By the time we were done writing laws unto ourselves in order to create carbon copies of each other, there was no doubt we were “Christians” to anyone who met us. We were like the Pharisees who stood apart from the rest of the worshippers, thankful that they were better than those “others.” It went from how we worshipped, to how we ran our homes, how we dressed, what we did for entertainment, and how we taught our children. None of the things we did were wrong by themselves, but our motives became self-righteous and then worse, a law. If you didn’t conform, you weren’t “godly.” Women who cut their hair too short or differed with their husband on anything were labeled “Jezebel.” Men who couldn’t control their teenagers (in other words, the kid wanted to do something that the other teens weren’t allowed to do) were weak or not guiding their households. Differences weren’t, and still aren’t, tolerated. We created the perfect
Stepford
village.
In the Brethren, unity was so valued that we couldn’t differentiate between unity of spirit and identicality of behavior. We saw disagreement as rebellion. What were we thinking? The apostles didn’t all agree on how to live out the scriptures.
I’m embarrassed to say that one fine example was my fault. We had a man in our assembly who loved old, classic movies. He had a marvelous collection that he had purchased and taped from his cable channel for years. Some were things that they’d never released on video. Their family loved sitting together with popcorn and laughing at Charlie Chaplin and Charlie Chan. Our family never owned a TV. We weren’t against them in principle—at first. I didn’t have time for TV, and Martha wasn’t interested, so we just never bought one. Someone made a comment to me one day about how wonderful it was that we shielded our children from the influence of the television.
Matt, I liked it. I liked how godly it made my lazy decision sound. It sounds so spiritual when someone says, “I commend you for your godliness and care of your children.” How do you say, “Actually, we just don’t have time for it?” How do you admit that you never thought about whether it could be damaging to your children?
I didn’t. I said that parents should never be too careful. I said that the most innocent of amusements can be the very lure that Satan uses to draw our hearts from the Lord. The words were and are true, but how I said them implied that our brother was not careful and his children were being lured from the faith by his bad decision.
This would have been about fifteen years ago. We slowly became more and more “unified.” Disagreement was stamped out of hearts and minds until we couldn’t think as individuals. Not only was there one right way to do anything, but there was also one motive for doing anything different. Rebellion.
I can’t tell you how this disgusts me now. When I remember the stink raised when the Larson girl married a man from the Community Church... Matt, the way we isolated that poor girl is almost criminal. Her parents barely speak to her. They didn’t attend her wedding. She was the same kind of pariah that our family is now. All because she married a man who worshipped the same God, has the same core theology, but likes sports on TV and wouldn’t leave his church to join us.
This is where we came in. You still with me? I’d been growing more and more dissatisfied with the constant expectation to be just like everyone around me. When Lane needed to guide those hunters, I didn’t want her in a dress. I felt like I’d be putting her in a vulnerable position. It was hard enough to let her do it without worrying about her any more than I already was.
I think part of me hoped we’d get “caught,” even though I did try to hide it. When Josiah Gideon saw it, I was relieved. Lane wouldn’t take his meddling without a fight, and I knew it. I didn’t like the boy. He’d grown harsh just like his father, and I’d already lost Carrie to that family. I knew it was a matter of time before she married Peter Gideon. Carrie is the one thing that kept me from deciding to abandon the church immediately. Now I realize that if I had, we’d still be a Christian family, not a Brethren family, but still on good terms with the Lord. I think sometimes now that it is too late.
So, you see what happened and how it happened. You see where I created the mess that might keep you from Lane. We both know you can’t marry someone who rejects the Lord. I know you. If you’re a Christian, you’re a real one. You won’t settle for “agreeing to disagree” on the core issues.
I’m asking you to think of our whole family as you puzzle out the difficulties in your relationship. How can I repent? I don’t mean go back to being what I was—even before the Brethren. I mean my family, my friends, and my relationship with the Lord. I’m seeing that I’ll lose them all without the Lord.
I’m rambling, I’ve been here for hours, my back aches and my hands are cramping. A word of caution, Matt. Don’t tell Lane about this email. She’ll misunderstand and think I am trying to manipulate things.
See you soon,
Warren
~*~*~*~
Horses danced skittishly along the cobblestone streets of New Cheltenham. Matt rode much more comfortably than Lane, but even to the casual observer; Lane was in better command of her animal. Matt watched amused as Lane attempted to hold both reins in one hand before remembering to keep them separate. Her legs looked awkward in the shorter stirrups, but the horse she rode seemed to take it in stride and responded well to her movements.
They rode up the cobblestone streets, past street vendors and quaint shops, and along a dusty dirt road where “thatched” cottages lined the lane. They discovered, to their delight, that these cottages were part of a large inn that sat nestled in a grove of trees off in the distance. The fenced pasture to one side of the road seemed endless, but Matt thought it was an illusion caused by a dip in the rolling grass.
As they rode long the fence, it wound around the cottages and butted against the end of one of the village streets. “Can you believe a pasture like that with a town this close?” Lane swung from her horse and leaned against the fence feeding the mare carrots from a bag on her saddle.
Matt managed a half-fence dismount and realized as he did that the longer stirrups on western saddles did have distinct advantages. “Imagine the perspective you could get with the right angle and camera lens. To one end, wide open countryside that doesn’t hint of commerce, to the other, a crowded little English town.”
They sat on the fence talking as the horses nibbled grass and occasional carrots. Just as Matt started to suggest an early dinner, a sheep bleated next to him. He jumped, startled, but nothing like Lane. She squealed in a higher pitch than he thought her deep voice possible! She fought to clean off her hand and at a second bleat, ran down the cobblestone street.
The scene was hilarious. Lane, the fearless rescuer of inner city men from ferocious sheep tore away from the scene of a flock as though her life depended on it. Matt didn’t know what to do. There were the horses to consider, but they weren’t more important than Lane. Had she been bitten?
Lane disappeared around the corner of the street running blindly. Tears of fright streamed from her eyes. Without thinking of the consequences, Lane wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Instantly the hives that were slowly appearing on her hand swelled her eyes shut, forcing her to stop running. She leaned against a building gasping for air and begging for help. A man dashed from a gun shop to her assistance, and at the sight of Lane’s face, ran for the pharmacy.
Matt arrived in time to see that Lane needed immediate medical attention and not certain what to do. She grabbed his arm gasping frantically, “Pri-pri-primat-tine.”
Matt didn’t know where to go. He dashed inside a gun shop, but the place was empty. Lane was gesturing down the street so he rushed into a tearoom next door and asked where to go for the medication. Seconds later, Matt and the man from the gun shop passed one another in their frantic attempts to help Lane. Both, consumed with the thought of getting the woman breathing again, didn’t notice the other.
The “gunman” fumbled with a bottle of Benadryl, trying to read dosage. Lane grabbed for it and managed to open it and take a swig. She knew it’d help, but she also knew it was only a matter of time before she couldn’t keep her airways open by coughing.
Matt raced to her side tearing open the inhaler box and fumbling to affix the mouthpiece. Lane grabbed it and clutched it to her mouth. A wild round of coughing and gasping followed. “My ba—back. Pound my back.”
With each cough, Matt ruthlessly pounded her back trying to help open the airways. Eventually, in complete exhaustion, Lane sank to the ground leaning against a building and surrounded by a crowd of gawking tourists. She held her hand up in request for the Benadryl. The man opened it and handed it back to her. “Are you sure?”