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Paul had figured he should keep his travel to a predictable, manageable distance. So the next stop would be Effingham, Illinois. A shorter distance than his first trek across Missouri, but it would give him more planning time and more time to confer with his online crew.
Effingham didn’t have a lot to recommend it. To some travelers, it was not much more than the turn in the highway between Chicago and St. Louis, the switch from I-57 to I-70, or vice versa.
But it had the perfect tactical setting for his next target: Faith Presbyterian. Not too far from the hotel or the highway. He had watched enough cop shows to know that there might be that slight chance that some clever, up-and-coming young detective might start to connect the dots, few though there be, and try to predict where he might strike next.
Faith Presbyterian was another one of these suburban churches with the mile-long front lawn. Like some kind of country club golf course or something. Instead of just growing grass, why don’t they grow food for the poor or something. Isn’t that what they’re always talking about, charity and all?
Inside, the church looked like some kind of Swiss chalet or one of those viking lodges with the tall, pointy, wooden-sided roof.
The hotel — a Quality Inn this time — was handy, right up next to the highway. Only two-star rated but good enough for a one-night, in-and-out stay. It even had a pool, a workout room, and a breakfast nook with a free continental breakfast. That always made things easier for the fast getaway he needed.
NOTE TO SELF:
Always get hotel with free continental breakfast.
Paul Yahn continued to click around, finally landing on the church’s website. Hey, there’s a lady priest at this one. Wait a minute, the presbies don’t call them priests, even though some of them wear those fancy robes. She’s the reverend or minister … pastor … that’s right. Or is it “pastress” since it’s a woman? he wondered humorously to himself. Who cares, she’s just like all the others, deceiving people with her invisible-man-in-the-sky god. And she’ll probably be easier to scare.
* * *
Manfred Fulgren was pouring himself his third cup as his colleague from the Practical Theology department walked into the coffee room. The professor had a few minutes before his next class, so he turned and rested a hip against the counter next to the sink and decided to catch up.
“Hey, Tony, how’s it going?”
“Oh, Hi, Fred. Good enough, I suppose.”
Manfred held out the pot. “Sure. Thanks” The coffee steamed to the brim.
“Did you get the email I forwarded from that former student last week? The one with the guy in the hoodie threatening his congregation?”
“Yeah. Yes, I did. Strange is right.” His colleague waved him over to the table.
“On Easter Sunday of all days! I’m going to draft a response to him before I leave tonight, if you could reply back with some thoughts. Sounds like he could use some support. What was his name again?”
“Eastham. Jeremy Eastham. Yeah, I remember, he was a good student, and we had some great discussions … at this very table, in fact.” He thumped the Formica with his knuckle as they sat.
“Great. You know … I also know the editor at Christian News Monthly who might like to cover this as a story. Do you think Jeremy would mind if I contacted him?”
“I don’t see why not, but I’ll send him a note asking first. Wait till I get back to you.”
“Sure. No problem. It’s this type of incident that puts flesh and blood on what we do here, doesn’t it?”
“It does that. And I hope your referring to ‘blood’ isn’t prophetic.”
Tony drew in a breath. “Ooh, yeah.” He grimaced, “Lord willing it isn’t.”
* * *
Jeremy picked up the phone on the third ring, pushing aside a commentary and closing his laptop. He knew who it was, having asked his secretary to screen his calls this morning.
“Jeremy Eastham,” he responded into the phone.
“Pastor Eastham, this is Curt Gordon, an editor over at Christian News Monthly. Dr. Fulgren at West Central Seminary gave me your name … “
“Yes, yes. Of course, Manfred mentioned you …”
“Yes, I’ve known Fred a long time. Quite a gentleman.”
“Yeah, once you get used to that German accent of his!”
“True. I’ve had to ask him to repeat himself once or twice.”
“Me too!” Jeremy laughed out loud. “And in my case, my grade depended on me telling his ansatz from his zweigeist”
“Sounds scary! Hey, speaking of scary,” Oooh, bad segue, he realized.
“Why I called was, Manfred mentioned you had a strange visitor in your church service a few weeks ago.”
“Yes, definitely.” He chuckled awkwardly.
“Well, if you would have some time to talk about it, I was hoping we might at least write it up as a new story. Then, maybe, develop it into a full-length feature story. Especially …” Gordon hesitated, trying to choose his words more carefully this time, “ … when we see how things … uh … if you have any more dealings with your unwelcome guest.”
“Sure, when would be good for you?”
* * *
The news story about the threatening visitor to Redemption Community Church first appeared on the “What’s Happening” section of the Christian News Monthly’s website, then on their social media feed, and finally to appear in the next available printed issue.
DATELINE Olathe, Kansas — A small suburban church was threatened with big danger as a young pastor faced down a fearsome visitor. It was a sunny Easter morning, much like any other at Redemption Community Church. Pastor Jeremy Eastham, 32, had just finished his Easter sermon, one he had worked on for many weeks.
“I’ve only written three Easter sermons since seminary, and I wanted to make this one special, I didn’t want the story to start getting old,” Pastor Eastham told this reporter. “I was just beginning the benediction when I noticed someone get up from the side aisle,” he recounted. “Now, I know these days people are a lot more free about getting up and moving about during a worship service. Not like when I was a kid, that’s for sure!” But then the man donned a facemask and a hoodie and, instead of exiting, walked directly to the front of the sanctuary and faced the pastor. “With a sneer on his face, he turned quickly to my congregation and threatened to harm them all if they returned to church the next week. He even talked about using military tactics.”
The church has held several congregational meetings, has contacted local law enforcement authorities, and now awaits what will happen at their next Sunday worship. “I really don’t know what to expect,” said one church member when contacted by Christian News Weekly. “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see how the Lord will take care of us.” We will continue to follow this story in future issues.
The magazine, though strongly Evangelical in its history, was read by a broad spectrum of Christians from different faiths and denominations. Its wide appeal was reflected in the advertising appearing in print and banner ads on the site. Everything from Gospel cruises and concert tours to high-church liturgical robes and candlesticks appeared there.
The online discussion space below the article began filling quickly. Some comments gave encouragement and advice, others shared similar experiences of varying intensities. There were accounts of jobs lost by US readers because of their faith. There were stories of lives lost in foreign government crackdowns on underground churches. One junior-high girl shared how she had been ousted from the cheerleading squad after being co-captain for two years, for sharing her faith with another one of the girls. As the editor scanned the response, he and his boss knew this story would be worth pursuing.
* * *
Paul clicked on his computer and web browser. His website discussion board was set as his homepage. His plan was to hit the Effingham church in the morning. He wanted to let his online troops know. He wasn’t quite sure whether he wanted to blurt out which church was his target. Maybe he should keep it a secret, in case someone wanted to invade his territory — hmm — while he was invading someone else’s, he thought. Clever, eh?
No, he was leading an army, virtual though it might be, but he was still a one-man force. A Lone Ranger. A Rambo. Yeah, a Rambo of rebellion. Nobody was as true to his cause as he was anyway. He would die for his cause. Not like these wimpy Christians in their Sunday finest. With their picnics and their feel-good songs. Otherwise, what good do they do? It seems they just exist to make other people feel bad. That’s a great cause!
Anyway, he was humble enough to know he couldn’t stamp out religion alone, but his was a unique test, he thought. He’d heard all about the ‘blood of the martyrs’ and all that. He knew that, many times, those only made Christians stronger. But could the church stand against a psychological fear test as well as a physical attack? Especially where they’re not used to any attack at all — where their ministers give opening prayers at their city councils and school board meetings, for God’s sake! His blood boiled just thinking about it.
* * *
Paul pulled his SUV in under the awning of the Quality Inn and turned off the key. He wandered into the lobby just as an extended family group was headed out with a cart full of presents with several silver-acetate balloons tied to the sides. Obviously either a wedding shower or a baby shower or something. He couldn’t care less. Both worthless celebrations anyway. He smiled weakly as a preschool girl in a frilly dress pushed ahead and reached up to the door handle in a cute attempt to be helpful.
Finally, after the last cluster of party guests dwindled out, he was able to reach the registration desk. He was shaking his head with dry indignation as the hostess at the desk greeted him.
“Paul Yahn,” he said. “Y-A-H-N. I got a reservation.”
“Yes, Mr. Yahn, let me check the computer … ah, yes, here you are. Single. Nonsmoking. And it will only be for the one night, correct?”
“Yeah.” He was trying to be nondescript. Forgettable. Not too nice. Not too mean.
“Excellent. If you could sign this form. Your license number …”
“Uh, can I … uh … leave that off? Not sure of it anyway. It just changed,” he mumbled. “Can I just … describe the car?”
“Sure,” the agent replied sweetly. “Just write a description in those spaces.” She handed him a hotel-branded pen.
She finished up with his credit card, directed him to his room and the elevators, told him about the pool and the hours and location of the continental breakfast. She noticed his head turned back to her slightly and his ears perked up for that last part. She had no idea that it was a key ingredient to his mission.
* * *
“hitting the presbies in the morning,” Paul wrote on his board after getting settled into his room.
“they be easy. dont belive much any more anywy” another replied within a few minutes.
“xcep peace gay love world justice” a third chimed in.
* * *
The next morning he got up just before dawn to do a quick surveillance run of the church property. He threw on his olive-green cargo pants, a camo tee-shirt, and his favorite Army-surplus tactical boots. He stepped outside, swung himself into his Ford, and headed for the church.
His initial approach took him up the driveway and around the parking lot. He checked out what appeared to be the main visitor doors and the more service-type doors — the ones for staff, nursery workers and other more regular attendees. Maybe if he used the latter he could sneak into the sanctuary slightly before their service started, be seated, and not be bothered — and possibly later identified — by any assigned ‘greeters.’ He knew that these churchy type were not welcoming to strangers unless they were assigned to be welcoming to strangers.
He drove back to the hotel, went back to his room and changed out of his gear. As he sat on the bed in his underwear, he wondered briefly the best clothes to wear. Hmm, they were semi-rural … but it was Presbyterian … but their website touted they had ‘modern worship’ … but it was an older-aged neighborhood. Little did he know this same predicament was occurring in households throughout the church.
He finally put on a pair of khakis a light-blue, checked button-down, and some brown loafers.
Then awaited the opening of the free breakfast. Fortunately, he was just down the hall from the serving area and could hear, and smell, the preparations. He realized he was thinking of oatmeal. Oatmeal? Yes, oatmeal. And the thought made him happy .. and said .. and angry, all at the time.
Mom, can we have oatmeal tomorrow morning? His mother smiled back with her plastic smile. Sure! We can have oatmeal. I bought a big box the last time I was at the store … I think. She hesitated, mumbling those last two words to herself. The next morning she had unexpectedly left early, to help a poor widow from the church the note said. So, Arthur — he still went by Arthur at that time — made his own oatmeal, ate it slowly and silently, carefully cleaned and dried the pan, bowl, and spoon, and left for school.
He went through his notes, clicked over to review the church’s website (though it was two years out of date) and Google maps one more time and gathered his hoodie and mask. It wasn’t until he stood and headed for the door that he realized he was perspiring and his heart was racing. What a rush!
But, he told himself, better control that before going into the building. Being excited about going to church would hardly appear normal.
* * *
He parked his SUV in one of the end spots closest to the street but on the far side of the lot from the church building, perfect for the quick getaway. It looked more like it could be the groundskeeper’s vehicle than the typical church member’s.
He meandered back to the side door, checking his watch, and surreptitiously patting down his pockets. It was still fifteen minutes before the posted church hour and the only people there were the coffee crew and the worship band, acting like would-be rockstars as they unloaded their gear from their leader’s pickup.
“We have time to run through that last number one more time before too many people sit down, We keep messing up the bridge.” he heard the pickup driver say to the others.
The others laughed and Paul heard one of them say, “Thank God it’s just church! It doesn’t have to be perfect.” The others went silent.
Paul continued toward the door, trying to act nonchalant, keeping his eyes straight ahead. He entered through the doors trying to act like he’d been there a thousand times and spotted the sanctuary doors out of the corner of his eye.
He swung open the side door to the sanctuary, scoped out a seat, and wandered towards it — not to fast, not to slow. He noticed the minister-lady in the other side aisle. She wore what he thought was a pastel choir robe, until he saw the white satin embroidered ribbon-things over her shoulders, and the huge cross hanging around her neck. She was chatting amiably with the piano-player. Her occasional laughs were deep and guttural. Too loud for church, Paul thought to himself.
Then he saw the young guy from the pickup heading up the aisle to check in. He bent down and set his guitar and a tall, cardboard-sleeved coffee cup down on the front dais. As he got up, his eyes scanned briefly over to Paul, sitting by himself at the end of the empty pew. Paul quickly averted his eyes. Careful, soldier, you’re in enemy territory.
* * *
He sat through thirty minutes of monotonous, over-loud worship music, with lyrics that tried to be poetic but never quite were. As the ‘majesty of God’ and the ‘greatness of salvation’ beamed brightly from the front screen, he watched as yawning parishioners glanced around at their neighbors and curiously eyed service latecomers.
Then the pastor — or was it pastress? He remembered his joke — approach the pulpit. His pulse quickened. Eyes on the prize, soldier. She began a twelve-and-a-half-minute homily on something about understanding our neighbor and understanding our world. She did make one reference to the Bible, but nobody opened one — at least not that he could see.
Then it was over. The guy from the pickup got up for one more repetitive guitar solo accompanied by singing and then the minister-lady got up to give her closing beneficiary, or whatever they called it.
More to come…
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