Peace Shall Destroy Many (13 page)

Thom asked, mind aroused, “Does the Bible make Christ sacred or does Christ make the Bible sacred?”

Lepp said slowly, but warmly, “I don’t know if that question can rightly be asked. Without Christ the Bible loses all uniqueness, for everything it speaks of centres in Christ. In the sense that Christ is God’s complete revelation and that Christ’s words are recorded in the Bible, in that sense Christ makes the Bible a divine book. So to get back: if Christ says we are to love our enemies if we wish to follow Him, then we cannot but do that. This is the basic teaching of our people: always we must be followers of Christ. The teachings of Christ, rightly applied, are the solution to every possible problem we can encounter on earth. Since He is the Son of God, it can be no otherwise.”

“Yes.” Thom knocked the finger with the back of his wrench, testing.

“From this foundation, they went the next step. Christ’s followers are peculiar in this world. As His disciples, our fathers believed they could not participate in worldly affairs, whether of government, business or amusement. The Christian is called to do higher things. They withdrew themselves from the sinful pursuits of the world, and we are doing that here in Wapiti also. We avoid worldly practices. Over the years, our fathers developed simple customs which in themselves may not be particularly right, but are time-tested to be harmless and therefore worth our maintaining them. Those are the traditions of the fathers: obedience to Christ’s commandment of Love, and simplicity of life.”

Thom said, thinking hard, “The first step is obedience to the fundamental teachings of Christ. The second, putting these teachings into practice.”

“Yes.”

“Then how, for example,” he asked, confident of his direction now, “are we acting particularly as Christ’s disciples by using only German in our church services?”

The Pastor smiled for the first time in their conversation. “You talked to Joseph too long. There’s nothing Christian about the language itself. God did not use it to speak to Adam in the Garden! It happens to be the language our parents spoke and we speak, but any other would do as well. The fact is, it’s a barrier between us and the worldly English surroundings we have to live in. There is merit in that, for it makes our separation easier; keeps it before us all the time. That’s the reason Deacon Block was so insistent at our church meeting.”

“Yes,” the mention of the Deacon diverted Thom’s thoughts from his original intention, “but he insists on other things too. We are never to do anything that has not been
done before,
in the church;
yet for his farm he buys a tractor, and everyone agrees it’s very fine—”

The other sobered. “The Deacon has done many great things for us here in Wapiti—never forget that, Thom. He started us all when we had nothing. Ask your father how Mr. Block started him when he arrived here with a big family. Without his leadership, we would not be a third as far as we are now. To the young people he sometimes seems to insist on trivialities, but he does so for everyone’s good. Obedience to authority goes agains
t our human nature sometimes, but godly behaviour is always difficult. Discipline and restraint can only strengthen our spiritual convictions, even though the things we wish to do may not be terribly wrong in themselves.” The Pastor spoke for his own benefit as well as the youth’s, staring steadily across the noon-blanched meadow. He glanced up at the sun. “We’ve talked right into dinner. I must go. Let’s put the knife back in.”

Thom, breaking from his thoughts, looked back at the stack his father and Hal were bucking together half a mile away. The horses were feeding and Hal’s small figure came running towards them. Thom went round the machine and bent with the Pastor, wondering how he could begin again. He said, slowly, conventionally,

“Thanks very much for helping me. Would have been awkward by myself.”

Lepp laughed. “You’d have done it alone as quickly, what with our talking.”

“Thanks.” How could he ask?

The Pastor paused in his turn, thoughtful, then spoke rapidly, as from impulse: “Everyone has difficulties—I too. Remember that in the end, only your faith in Christ can help
you. You may doubt our day-to-day expression of Christianity here in Wapiti, but you can never let these doubts affect your basic belief in Christ. If they do, Satan has you where he wants you.”

The words, touching Thom at his deepest hurt, stirred him to plunge into his question. “Sir, that’s just it. I don’t doubt Christ, but our expression of our belief—that’
s why I really wanted to ask you about the Bible class—the one I’m holding with the—other children on Sunday afternoon—”

The older man looked up, face as if wiped blank. “Yes?”

Thom hesitated, intimidated by the look, y
et caught by the faint encouragement of the “yes.” “I—I don’t really know how to teach very well. I only sat in on two classes with Joseph before he left, and he’s such an outstanding teacher—the stories just live for the children. With me—
I was wondering if perhaps—” he paused.

Lepp said distantly, looking squarely at him, “Didn’t Joseph leave you his lesson booklets?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t they explain how each lesson is to be taught?”

“Yes—but the lessons really are meant for children that know more about the Bible than these do. They know exactly as much as they can remember from the few months Joseph taught them. He said that when he began they hardly knew who Jesus was. You have to explain everything so simply—I’m not a teacher like he is.”

“Why don’t you stop?”

“No!” Thom burst out, dreading he had somehow given
the wrong impression. “I have to go on—I just need help.”

The Pastor’s sternness broke in a great smile, “I know, Thom, but I wanted to see how you were taking it. I’ve two
very good books on teaching Bible classes: certain sections should help you a great deal. One of them is even written in English!” His voice became grave. “But personally, I cannot really help you. When it came to the attention of the church council last spring that Joseph had begu
n the class, never mentioning a word to the church, the council was strongly opposed to him. Joseph no doubt acted on the assumption that the fewer questions asked, the better. As far as his plan was concerned, it was definitely better. Several years ago—probably before you can remember clearly—your brother David asked such a question of the church council—and that one was too much.”

Thom said, grimly, “I remember.”

Lepp sighed. “Yes. Well, this time a few of the brethren were able to persuade the others at least not actively to oppose him—or you now. But as leader of the church I can give you little help, other than such private advice as I can offer. What you do, you must do on your own.”

They could hear Hal’s distant shouting, as he approached, “Thom! Dinner! C’mon!” But they did not turn. The Pastor continued, after a moment,

“I think that you, and Joseph, are doing the finest Christian deed ever done in Wapiti. But I must stay with the opinion of the church. They will surely see some day—all of them.”

Thom said, amazed, “But sir, why don’t you just get up on Sunday and preach until they—”

“No!” Lepp’s voice rasped strongly. “More is involved than you young men can dream of. It takes more than a sermon. And who would take it upon himself to smash almost every single belief that a man—that a group of people hold
essential. But one man, young—alone—he can start it. And with time—” the Pastor turned abruptly on his heel. “—God bless you, Thom. You can do more than I.”

After a time he said, his tone oddly rough across the noon hush of the meadow, “Come on Saturday evening. I’ll have the books for you.”

As Hal trotted up, gasping questions, Thom’s eyes followed the retreating back. He had seen, heard, talked to the Pastor times without number, but he could not remember having met him before. Annamarie’s father.

“M
Y, IT’S BEEN A LOVELY SUMMER
. And almost gone. I look forward to berrying, but when we do go it seems sad becaus
e the haying’s done and summer is about over then.”

“Yes,” Annamarie answered Margret after a pause. “I was thinking that just this morning. But there’s still bindering and stooking and perhaps even nice fall weather.” Her fingers flicked among the low blueberry bushes, stripping them expertly into her large syrup-pail.

“Uh-huh.” Margret stretched, trying to get another bush without rising. “Weather’s been lovely. And after the one storm in church, there’s been nothing to disturb us.”

“Of course. With Joseph gone, what would happen? ‘All’s right’ with our world.” The other girl moved quickly to where the berries winked in blue profusion.

Margret continued, unheeding, “Thom sometimes gets a letter from Joseph. About once every long month, huh, Thom?”

Thom had been quietly picking in his corner of the patch, content to be within sight of Annamarie and occasionally hear her low voice. As Margret repeated his name, he looked up, Annamarie’s inflection festering.

“Huh?”

“You get letters from Joseph, don’t you?”

“Well, I’ve only had the one last week.” He hunched nearer the girls, picking the sparse but plumper berries around a willow-tuft. “He’s in Basic Training—whatever that means. Something where you have to train to shoot and crawl under barriers and that kind of thing. Toughening up, he calls it.”

“Does the Restricted Medical Corps have to train like that too—with rifles and all?” Annamarie asked, glancing up just as he looked at her.

He said, picking, “No. That’s one of the odd things about their training. The restricted medicals never handle fire-arms of any kind. He writes they run around with stretchers and medical packs while the others carry rifles and shells.”

Margret rose to move farther. “Wow!” she yawned, “this is a good patch. Wonder where our mothers are. And the kids. Bet they’re just playing among the stumps. At least Hal is.”

They were in the wilderness north-west of Wapiti School, beyond Herman Paetkau’s lonely farm and Poplar Creek between the lake and the river, the wilderness which decades before had been stripped by fire. Tall and crooked jack-pines murmured over great tangles of charred logs and spired stumps. Among the skeletons of razed forest, under the new pines, blueberries flourished wildly. With saskatoons, they were the chief winter fruit for all Wapiti.

Annamarie said, “I think Cornie would have gone into that service too if it had been open when he was called up. He’s
sick of CO camp. He writes that to hear the news is awful for him, yet he can’t tear himself away f
rom the radio when it comes on. Buzz-bombs falling on London, the French ruined, Germans killing in retreat, the Chinese starving, while they sit in Jasper planting trees that could wait as easily as not. But the worst is the way some of the men, our people often too, don’t understand or care what is really going on outside in the world. They’re happy that their own conscience is satisfied—they care for no more.” The girl paused a moment. “He wrote in his last letter, ‘Am I to be concerned only with the final redemption of my own soul? Have we progressed so far as to call
that
Christ’s teaching? Or do I do something for my neighbour also? Sometimes I think that planting trees is not enough of an answer to that question.’ ”

Thom said slowly, watching two birds wheel, high in the sky, “What else can a Christian do, the wickedness of the world being what it is? Surely not join in the killing and add to the misery.”

“Of course not. There are far too many persons already doing that. But we should be as aggressive as the others, just in the opposite direction. Sam is quite content to work in that boot factory and one evening a week help at a downtown mission, but sometimes our refusal to have anything to do with the War means only, ‘Well, I’m doing the right thing and am bound for heaven—let the rest of the world go to hell as it wishes.’ Occasionally Cornie’s letters are more cheerful, but after weeks of only doing the same old thing and the War worse than ever, the mountains around Jasper are ‘like a wall sheltering me from my duty in the world.’ ”

Margret said, “At least the Canadians treat the CO’s decently. Rita Wolfe told me the other d
ay that her uncle—he
lived in the States then already—was called up into the United States Army during the First War and they sent him to a camp and beat him terribly because he and six others wouldn’t take orders to cut down weeds in the camp.”

Thom gulped, “What? They wouldn’t cut down weeds because they were CO’s?”

“So Rita said. Mr. Wolfe said so too.”

“How in the world were they expressing Christianity by refusing to cut down a weed?”

“Oh, the other Mennonites at the camp got along very well. Only these seven refused to have anything to do with the Army. Mr. Wolfe said his brother was a fanatic.”

Annamarie said sadly, “But men like that stick in people’s memories and the ones that really are sincere get a bad name.”

They picked in silence for a time. Margret thought of Sam. If the War were soon over, he would be released perhaps within a year. Then he would be home!

Thom wanted to think of Annamarie; with her there before him, he wanted somehow to fit their friendship into the simple customs of the Mennonite people her father had talked of. Ordinarily, if a Wapiti boy considered a girl, he prayed to God earnestly and then, if convinced, asked for her hand in marriage; yet Annamarie’s openness completely nonplussed Thom. A boy and girl just did not drive out casually on a moonlit night. He had looked forward to the berrying because he would then be near her for a whole day, but now the talk of war usurped his thoughts, as always.

Four days before he had been at the store for the mail. He had turned from Lamont’s smiling face behind the wicket, and there on the wall a red cardboard youth stared into space from his poster, head propped thoughtfully on hand. Words leaped
into focus:
“HAVE I THE GUTS?
—ask yourself this question. One look in the mirror will give you the answer. Am I one of those who lets the other fellow face all the danger? Look yourself straight in the eye. The Canadian Army needs you
NOW
and needs you for overseas service.”