The Visitation (23 page)

“He never fixed my eyes either,” said Norman Dillard. They were standing in Matt’s hardware store with the
Harvester
open on the counter between them. “Think
I’ll
write a letter.”

“Think I will too.” Then he punched his palm with his fist. “Either that or show him my own version of righteous indignation.”

“JUDGING,
judging, judging!” said Armond Harrison, wagging his head. “It never ends! I thought we were finally going to get along in this town!” Don Anderson was trying to help Armond pick out a new propane space heater, but it seemed Armond had to talk out his frustrations first. “I should write a letter to the Pentecostal Mission headquarters and tell them to quit sending such arrogant bigots to our town! We were getting along fine without them!”

Don knew the Pentecostal Mission church had been in town long before Armond and his Apostolic Brethren ever showed up, but he didn’t want to get into that. “Well, you and your people have always been good customers.”

“We have, haven’t we?”

“Sure.”

“Always pay our bills, always come to you for our appliances.”

“Sure.” Of course, Armond never hesitated to buy in bulk from a discount supplier in Spokane, but he and his people often came in for smaller items.

“And we’ve never told you what to believe, have we?”

“Well . . .” Don shook his head, even though several of the Apostolic Brethren had been nagging him and his wife about coming to one of their meetings. They’d discovered real sexual freedom, they said, and suggested that without Armond’s teaching, Don and Angela were most certainly stunted in their personal growth and development.

“I’m going to talk to the other ministers. I think this young upstart needs to write a letter of apology. And I’ll have a talk with Nancy Barrons as well. There’s no need to print such trash in her paper.”

“Uh . . . how about this 20,000 BTU? I mean, if you’re wanting to produce some heat. . . .”

“IT’S GONNA HURT
my business!” said George Harding, the retired wheat farmer. Being retired, he didn’t even have a business until the pilgrims came to town. He owned some nice shady land near a creek adjacent to the Macon ranch and was just in the process of putting in a campground for tents and recreational vehicles. He had customers too, lots of them.

“Yeah, and what about mine?” said Gary Fisk, owner of the Sundowner Motel, the only other motel in town. “The motel’s full every weekend and most of the week. It’s never been that way before this. If people like this Reverend Sherman can keep their mouths shut I just might be able to sell that place!”

They were sitting in a booth in Judy’s, and Judy was standing there with her pad and pencil, waiting. “Well it’s bad for my business too if you guys don’t stop your yapping and order something!”

KYLE GOT PHONE CALLS
, and they were nowhere near as enthusiastic as his congregation was Sunday morning. Dee Baylor called, of course, saying she was leaving the church and never coming back. Johnny Davis, Blanche’s husband, wasn’t angry but still thought Kyle should give Brandon Nichols a chance. Roger Folsom
was
angry and climbed all over Kyle’s case for “picking a fight with such a nice guy.” An anonymous caller said something about teaching Kyle love and tolerance with a cattle prod. When Sid Maher called, he was neither for nor against Kyle. He just wanted Kyle to know that some of the ministers—he wouldn’t say which ones—were upset with him and hoping he would retract his unkind and judgmental words. “I understand you could be sued for triple damages,” he said.

On an up note, Bob Fisher called to pray with him and tell him he did the right thing.

Then Melody Blair called. She was a girl in her late teens with a rough background who’d just started coming to church. Kyle and Linda had put in a lot of time and prayer getting her off drugs and into a steady job. “I’m not sure I should trust you anymore,” she said in a troubled tone.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“Well, there was that letter you put in the paper, and then I just got a letter from Jesus.”

“A letter from Jesus?” Kyle wanted to ask which Jesus, but chose a more general question. “Where’d you get that?”

“That nice lady Adrian Folsom. She said an angel spoke it to her and she wrote it down just for me.”

“Adrian Folsom?” Oh no. Now
she
was getting into it. “What does it say?”

She read the note over the telephone. “‘My dear child: Behold, I have a plan and a purpose for thee, shining clearer and clearer as the dawn of a new day. Do not let the words of your pastor trouble thee, for the light has not yet dawned upon his spirit. You must lead the way, for you are chosen. Hearken to my words and receive my love, and I will show thee a more excellent way, that you may show others.’ It’s signed, ‘Jesus.’”

Linda told me later that in all their five years of marriage she’d never seen Kyle so upset. She had to keep telling him to wait a little while and pray before calling Adrian Folsom or driving up to the Macon ranch to have it out with Brandon Nichols. He didn’t want to call me, which I could understand. I would have wrestled him to the floor and sat on him, and I think he knew it. He didn’t want to call Bob Fisher, who would have been sympathetic, but would have advised him to keep calm. He didn’t want to be calm. He just wanted to slug Satan and Adrian’s angel and Brandon Nichols in their respective noses and go out in a flame of glory if need be.

He finally did call Adrian Folsom, but she refused to talk to him. He was in the flesh, she said, and could never understand anything as long as he was in that condition. He tried to talk about the note she gave Melody, but she told him no with a celestial tone in her voice and hung up.

BY WEDNESDAY EVENING,
Antioch was not a very peaceful town. People were bickering from one end of town to the other, and strangely enough, the biggest issue wasn’t Brandon Nichols but Kyle Sherman. Did he have the right, did he not have the right, was he judging, was he dividing, was he being truthful or hateful, was he nitpicking, and didn’t he care about the town’s best interests? Someone threw a rock through a church window. Kyle had to use his answering machine to screen his calls. Linda had to ask Michelle White to pick up some potting mix and garden gloves at Kiley’s Hardware because Linda was afraid to face Matt Kiley.

By Thursday, Kyle decided it was time to break the pattern. His challenge about the nail scars was clear enough in his letter to the paper, but if words could only generate bickering and biting, perhaps it was time to make that same challenge face to face, in front of witnesses. People still had eyes even if they didn’t bother to think.

Brandon Nichols had announced another meeting at the ranch that afternoon, and Kyle determined he would be there.

ACCORDING TO THE ANNOUNCEMENT
going around town— Michael the Prophet being the main source—the meeting was scheduled to start at two. Kyle and Linda drove up the long driveway to the Macon ranch and found a spot among the large fleet of vehicles already parked in the pasture—vehicles from Washington, Idaho, Oregon, Montana, and a sizable contingent from California. Kyle parked next to a motor home from Nevada.

“What are you going to do?” Linda asked. She was there to stand with him, but she was scared.

“Well, I’m not going to get into a big fight with him. But he has to be confronted.”

She drew a deep breath trying to calm herself and said in a quivering voice, “Well, please be careful.”

“We’d better pray.”

They clasped hands, said a prayer, then got out of the car.

Things had changed since Sunday. Mrs. Macon’s humble ranch hand was now holding meetings in a huge, blue-and-white striped circus tent, and they could hear his voice inside, coming over a PA system. Six portable toilets stood in a neat row nearby. Ropes and flags marked out the parking lot. He had obviously gained followers, both local and out-of-state, and with those followers came money.

Gathering his resolve, Kyle started toward the tent, his gait like that of a gunfighter, his eyes steady, his jaw set. Linda was nervous and trembling, but stayed beside him, holding his arm. They could hear Nichols talking rapidly, excitedly, saying something about Antioch becoming a wonderful town, better and better, sweeter and sweeter. He was getting laughs and Amens from the crowd.

Matt Kiley and two strangers were posted outside the tent, wearing little plastic badges that said “Usher” but acting more like Secret Service agents. The moment Matt spotted them approaching, he strode toward them and put up his hand like a traffic cop. “What can we do for you, Reverend?”

Kyle tried to smile. “I’ve come to see Brandon Nichols.”

It was surprising—shocking, actually—to see how cold and mean Matt Kiley could be. “If you’re thinking of causing any trouble you might as well turn around right now.”

“I just want to ask a question.”

The two strangers flanking Matt drew in closer as Matt replied, “No way.”

Kyle looked directly and intensely into Matt’s eyes. “Matt, do you even know who this man is? Do you
really
know?”

Matt thought only a moment. “Reverend, I don’t much care. He’s done all right by me and I like what he says.”

“Even if he claims to be Jesus? Wouldn’t that be lying?”

Matt only twirled his finger to indicate Kyle should turn around. “Better head back to your car.”

Suddenly, Brandon Nichols stopped his preaching and called over the PA, “Matt, let Pastor Sherman in.”

Kyle looked, but the tent walls blocked any view of Nichols, and any view Nichols might have of them.

Matt looked over his shoulder, scowling and ready to argue, but Nichols only said it again. “Let him in.”

Before stepping out of the way, Matt poked Kyle’s chest with his finger and warned, “I’m going to be watching you anyway, Reverend. You behave yourself.”

The moment Kyle and Linda stepped inside, every eye in the place was on them, and there were a lot of eyes. At least a hundred people were there. For Antioch on a weekday, that was a good crowd. Kyle made it a point to meet their gaze and not shy away. His heart was pounding and his hands were starting to tremble. Linda was still holding onto his arm, but shying behind him. He could hear her praying in a whisper.

Brandon Nichols stood in front, a microphone in his hand, returning Kyle’s gaze down the wide center aisle. Again, he was dressed in white. He smiled. “Pastor Sherman, I’m glad you came.” He gestured and said, “Come on up. Don’t be nervous.”

Kyle, with Linda following, went halfway up the center aisle and decided that was far enough. He noticed Matt and his two fellow bouncers standing in the doorway behind them, ready to move at Nichols’s bidding.

“Friends, this is Pastor Kyle Sherman. Most of you know him as the man who wrote the letter to the
Harvester
.” That really turned heads and changed expressions in the crowd. “That’s why I’m glad he’s here. I’ve heard some pretty mean things said about him and I think we need to set things right. We’re all neighbors, remember? We have to stick together if we’re going to make this world work, isn’t that what I’ve said?”

He looked at Kyle and spoke kindly, warmly. “Pastor Sherman, I’m sorry for all the trouble you’ve endured. I think you wrote that letter with the best intentions and I take no offense.” He cast his gaze around the tent, meeting everyone’s eyes. “Did you all hear me? I take no offense. The time for that is over. It’s time to talk, to share, to get to know each other. Pastor Sherman wasn’t trying to harm me. He simply had some honest questions. I don’t despise his questions, and you shouldn’t either. If we walk together long enough, and talk with each other long enough, we’ll find we really can be neighbors with a lot in common. Isn’t that right, Pastor Sherman?”

Kyle could feel everyone in the tent looking at him. He had to say something. He drew a breath and started carefully. “I want us to be friends and neighbors,” he said finally. Nichols nodded deeply and affirmatively, as did his audience. “I guess I’m still having trouble with the introductions—you know, that very first part of getting to know someone when they tell you who they are. I—” They weren’t going to like what he was about to say, but he had to say it. “I don’t think you’re being honest about who you are.”

A woman in the audience piped up, “Well if you’d just
listen
for a change—”

“Alice,” said Nichols. She halted. He smiled at Kyle. “You know me already. Most everyone in this room had a good idea who I was before they even got here.”

“I’m sorry, but you are not Jesus Christ, the Son of God.”

Many in the audience became visibly tense, but Nichols simply shrugged it off and gave a slight nod of concession. “To some, I am not. To some, I am. The same was true for the carpenter from Nazareth.”

“No,” Kyle objected. “I’m not talking about what others think. I’m talking about who you really are. If these people are seeking Jesus of Nazareth, they need to find the real one.” He looked about, raising his voice so everyone would hear him. “The real Jesus bore your sins on a Roman cross two thousand years ago. The real one suffered nails driven through his hands.” He looked directly at Brandon Nichols. “The real one set us free from the power of sin. Can you say that about yourself ?”

Nichols hesitated.

Kyle hit him with another question. “Where are the nail scars?

Everyone knows the real Jesus would have them.”

Nichols remained silent and motionless. The people remained silent. The place was so silent Kyle could hear the breeze gently brushing the tent canvas.

Nichols sighed and dropped his gaze, a troubled look on his face, not a word on his lips.

Kyle relaxed and let out a sigh himself. He looked around at all the faces looking back. “I’m not here to hurt or embarrass anyone, and I’m not here to force my beliefs on you. I just wanted to make a point, that’s all. If you’re looking for Jesus, you need to know the real one—”

“Pastor Sherman.”

Kyle—and everyone else in the room—looked at Brandon Nichols.

He was unbuttoning the cuffs of his long, white sleeves, the same troubled look on his face. “I . . .” He stopped, stole a glance heavenward, and sighed again as he looked at Kyle. “I didn’t want to press the issue. I didn’t want to force belief on anyone. That’s all we’ve done for two thousand years, and somehow . . . I just thought we might do things differently.”