Benediction (17 page)

Love your enemies. Pray for those who harm you. Turn the other cheek. Give away money
and don’t expect it back.

But what is Jesus Christ talking about? He can’t mean this literally. That would be
impossible. He must have been speaking of some utopian idea, a fantasy. He must be
using a metaphor. Suggesting a sweet dream. Because all of us here today know better.
We’re awake to reality and know the world wouldn’t permit such a thing. It never has
and never will. We can be clear about that right now.

Because here we are at war again. And we know the inescapable images of war and violence
so well. We’ve seen them all too often.

The naked young girl running in terror toward us, crying and screaming, away from
fires behind her.

The boy in the hospital room with his little brother and their frightened mother.
He’s been blinded, his face is scarred. Am I ugly now, Mother? he says.

We see the pictures of the headless body dumped out beside the road in a ditch.

We’ve seen the soldier, the black stiff grotesque thing that once was a man, burned
now and hanged, dragged through the streets behind a truck.

We’ve watched in horror the human figures leaping out of the windows of the burning
towers.

And so we know the satisfaction of hate. We know the sweet joy of revenge. How it
feels good to get even. Oh, that was a nice idea Jesus had. That was a pretty notion,
but you can’t love people who do evil. It’s neither sensible nor practical. It’s not
wise to the world to love people who do such terrible wrong. There is no way on earth
we can love our enemies. They’ll only do wickedness and hatefulness again. And worse,
they’ll think they can get away with this wickedness and evil, because they’ll think
we’re weak and afraid. What would the world come to?

But I want to say to you here on this hot July morning in Holt,
what if Jesus wasn’t kidding? What if he wasn’t talking about some never-never land?
What if he really did mean what he said two thousand years ago? What if he was thoroughly
wise to the world and knew firsthand cruelty and wickedness and evil and hate? Knew
it all so well from firsthand personal experience? And what if in spite of all that
he knew, he still said love your enemies? Turn your cheek. Pray for those who misuse
you. What if he meant every word of what he said? What then would the world come to?

And what if we tried it? What if we said to our enemies: We are the most powerful
nation on earth. We can destroy you. We can kill your children. We can make ruins
of your cities and villages and when we’re finished you won’t even know how to look
for the places where they used to be. We have the power to take away your water and
to scorch your earth, to rob you of the very fundamentals of life. We can change the
actual day into actual night. We can do all of these things to you. And more.

But what if we say, Listen: Instead of any of these, we are going to give willingly
and generously to you. We are going to spend the great American national treasure
and the will and the human lives that we would have spent on destruction, and instead
we are going to turn them all toward creation. We’ll mend your roads and highways,
expand your schools, modernize your wells and water supplies, save your ancient artifacts
and art and culture, preserve your temples and mosques. In fact, we are going to love
you. And again we say, no matter what has gone before, no matter what you’ve done:
We are going to love you. We have set our hearts to it. We will treat you like brothers
and sisters. We are going to turn our collective national cheek and present it to
be stricken a second time, if need be, and offer it to you. Listen, we—

But then he was abruptly halted. Someone out in the congregation was talking. Are
you crazy? You must be insane! A man’s voice. Deep-throated. Angry. Loud. Coming from
over on the west side of the sanctuary near the windows. What’s wrong with you? Are
you out of your mind?

He stood up, a tall man in a light summer suit, staring at Lyle. You must be about
as crazy as hell! He turned fiercely and grabbed his wife’s hand, pulling her to her
feet and gesturing angrily at their little boy. They came out of the pew and went
hurrying back up the aisle through the doors and out of the church.

The congregation all watched them leave. Then they began to look around at one another.
They looked again at Lyle.

What do the rest of you think? Lyle said. What do you say? He was standing next to
the pulpit now.

I’m not afraid to say, a man said. You’re a damn terrorist sympathizer. He rose up
in the middle of the sanctuary, holding on to the pew-back ahead of him. A big heavyset
man. We never should of let you come out here. You’re an enemy to our country.

The old usher who had been sitting at the back stood up now from his customary chair
and came rushing, limping down the aisle. Wait! Stop! You can’t talk that way in church!

The big man in the pews turned and looked briefly at the old man in his dark suit,
shiny with age. Go back and sit down on your chair there, Wayne. I’m not talking to
you. But I’m not staying in here. No by God, I don’t have to listen to this damn fairy
tale on a Sunday morning. He looked around the room. And if the rest of you know what’s
good for you, you won’t either. He shoved out of the pew and went out.

The two Johnson women were sitting down front. Willa stood up, her white hair pinned
in a bun, her eyes glinting behind her thick glasses. Let them go, she said. If that’s
how they are, let them leave and good riddance. We have to listen to what the minister
is saying. Even if we don’t agree with him, we need to listen and consider. We have
to be civil to one another.

No! a woman cried from the back. You be quiet. You shut your mouth.

What? No. I won’t be quiet, Willa said. She turned all around, looking at the congregation.
I’m going to speak. Who’s talking to me back there?

Nobody answered her.

Then Alene stood up beside her mother and looked around at the people, but now there
were others who had begun to rise and glare at Lyle, and these people started to slide
out of the pews and to turn up the aisles to go outside. At the back of the church
one of them, a man, stopped and turned back. Go to hell! he shouted. You go to hell!

Still, most of the congregation, more than half of the people in attendance that morning,
stayed seated in the pews yet, waiting in shock and disbelief, and curiosity too,
for what Lyle would do now. The pianist was still in her place down front and Beverly
Lyle and John Wesley were still seated in the middle of the sanctuary, and the two
Johnson women, and the old usher remained standing, outraged, in the aisle. Lyle looked
out at them all. After a time he spoke. May we have the last hymn now?

You mean you still want to sing? the pianist said. You still want to?

Yes, would you play the hymn, please?

Yes. If that’s what you want.

She began to play the introduction out loudly, with a kind of flourish. It seemed
a sort of madness, a kind of miscalculation of the tone and temper of the moment.
Lyle began to sing. He had a good voice. It was one of the old hymns Charles Wesley
had written two centuries ago. A few of the others gradually, falteringly joined in.
They got as far as the end of the first verse and the first refrain, then Lyle stopped
singing and the Johnson women and the old usher and the others ceased—his wife and
son had never been singing—and the pianist played a few more measures and then she
stopped too.

Thank you, Lyle said quietly. Thank you for that much.

He stepped down off the dais and walked back up the aisle, staring straight ahead,
looking at none of them, while in the pews they followed him with their eyes, turning
their heads as he passed, then he stopped at the rear of the church and raised his
hand in the ancient gesture of benediction.

The Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord make His face to shine upon you and be gracious
unto you; the Lord lift up His countenance
upon you and give you peace; both now and forevermore. Amen.

Then he turned and opened the big oaken doors behind him and stood in the doorway.
A hot wind blew in from outside. At the front of the sanctuary the pianist closed
up the piano, folding the lid over the keys, and slipped out a side door. The old
usher limped up.

Should I close up now?

Yes, if you don’t mind.

This won’t last. People get upset.

Yes. I know.

They shouldn’t be saying what they said. That kind of language in church. That’s not
right.

They weren’t prepared for it.

It won’t last. I’ve seen worse, the old man said. He turned and went back down an
outer aisle and began to shut the high windows with his long pole with its hook at
the end.

The congregation began to shuffle out. Sullenly, uncomfortably, not talking to one
another, moving in an uneasy mass. A few of them stopped to look at the preacher,
a few said a word or two but most of them didn’t, and went silently out. The Johnson
women stepped up and shook Lyle’s hand.

It’s always this way in time of war, Willa said. It was like this in the 1940s. And
during Vietnam. This mix of nationalism and hate and fear.

What will you do now? Alene said.

I’m not sure, Lyle said. This doesn’t change what I believe.

No. Don’t be disheartened.

You won’t be, will you? Willa said. They shook his hand again and went on outside.

The usher had shut all the windows and had gone down the back stairs to close up the
basement. Lyle’s wife and son, the last in the church, came toward him, John Wesley
in front, taller than his father. Lyle reached to take his hand.

Don’t, the boy said. Don’t touch me. God, how I hate you
when— He broke off. How could you? He swung violently away and rushed down the concrete
steps to the street, running past the Johnson women and all the others going to their
cars, running on toward the parsonage and his bedroom two blocks away.

Lyle’s wife stepped up. At first she didn’t speak, she seemed quite calm. Slim, smooth
haired, wearing a summer blouse and skirt. You’ve ruined this too, she said, haven’t
you. What did you think people would do? Did you actually think they’d agree with
you? Be convinced by your eloquence and passion? My God.

No. No, I didn’t think that. I had to say it anyway.

Why? For what earthly reason?

Because I believe it.

You believe it. You take it literally, you mean?

Yes. It’s the truth. It’s still the only answer.

Oh my God. She shook her head and looked away. You’re such a fool.

He watched her descend into the bright day. The sun was directly overhead now. He
pulled the big doors shut again and stood alone at the back of the church looking
at the dim and silent and empty sanctuary.

T
HERE WERE OCCASIONS
when Dad Lewis and Mary went together to Denver to see Frank after he left home and
never came back. Once was when he was nineteen and waiting tables in a downtown café,
just before Christmas. It was not an expensive or sophisticated place where he worked,
but more than a hamburger joint, more of a steak-and-potato and deep-fried-fish sort
of place, in a one-story building that ran all the way back to the alley.

They drove in from Holt on a bright cold Sunday afternoon. They were only a middle-aged
couple then, Dad still had most of his hair and Mary’s face was not yet wrinkled and
lined. Along the highway snow was drifted in the fields of corn and wheat stubble
and cattle were humped up in the freezing air. When they got to Denver they found
the café on a corner of Broadway.

You think this is it? Dad said.

It must be, Mary said.

It doesn’t look like much.

Now don’t start.

I’m not starting anything.

Then don’t use that tone.

What tone is that?

She looked at him. And don’t be stupid.

What if I can’t help it?

Just don’t be stupid on purpose, she said. Be nice. I want this to be nice. I’ve been
looking forward to it. And you have too, only you won’t admit it.

You know a lot, Dad said, but you don’t know everything.

He parked the car and they went inside. The café was not busy, it was too early for
the supper trade and they had stopped serving lunch two hours ago. At the front counter
was a sign that said Please Seat Yourself. They took a table by the windows overlooking
a side street and a used-car lot with a long cord of white lightbulbs that drooped
above the hoods of the cars. The lights were already switched on in the late overcast
winter day. The interior of the café had a lot of black and white. The stools at the
counter were all black plastic and the tables had checkered tablecloths matching the
black-and-white tile on the floor.

I don’t see any waiters, Dad said.

Somebody’ll come.

I thought he was supposed to be working now.

This is his shift, she said. That’s all I know.

A man with a flattop haircut came out from the kitchen over to their table. I’m sorry,
we’re not open for supper yet.

When will you be? Dad said.

Another hour.

What can we get now?

Whatever’s not listed on the supper menu.

We don’t have any menus at all yet.

The waiter went to the register and brought back two plastic-covered menus.

We were really just wanting to see our son, Mary said. Is Frank here?

Do you mean Franklin?

Frank, Dad said. Last name Lewis.

Well, there’s a Franklin Lewis here.

Is he nineteen years old? Mary said.

Maybe. I’d guess about that.

Could you tell him we’re here?

He’s out back in the alley on break.

You think we could have some coffee while we’re waiting? Dad said.

Of course. I should of offered. He went behind the counter and returned with a coffeepot
and two white mugs and poured the coffee and went behind the counter again and through
the swinging door into the kitchen.