the evangelist all 2008

8/14/2019 The Evangelist All 2008

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THE EVANGELIST (story #1)

The Holy City...a battered fortress of gray and brown and white stone blocks,where two thousand years ago Roman soldiers marched the Jews into the Temple's

center, and slaughtered them...where a thousand years ago the Crusaders had

come, with their banners and emblazoned crosses, announcing "Convert or die!" to

Muslims, and dying themselves, overcome by those who cried "Death to the

infidels!" And where Jesus, in incredible patience, hung from the cross, when a

single thought could have saved Him from agonies indescribable... but He was Love

Itself, and conquered all of these things.

So thought Jeremiah Mosley -- pale of face, ascetic of form, trembling in his own

exquisite agonies because he was after great financial sacrifices actually present

in Christ's own city -- and Christ might come again at any time, like lightning from

the sky, it would be so sudden -- Christ would separate the sheep from the goats

and save the believers, and was he, Jeremiah, ready for that? He had come to

Jerusalem to seek a saint's advice, to seek, too, a sure sign that he had really been

called to become an evangelist --to spread the Word, the Good News-- wherever he

might be sent by God, the Living God, not some fairytale character, but the God of

Abraham, Isaac and Jacob who had come to him in a dream, and touched him on the

shoulder, and told him, "I love you."

He had spent a large portion of his savings to get this fine room overlooking so

much of the splendid, if war-ravaged city. The porters had been civil, even if they

had snickered when they saw his battered suitcases and the way he kept his head

down and prayed just under his breath. To them, the young man with black, curly

hair was just another fanatic on a pilgrimage. When they brought the bread and

wine to his room as he requested, they were surprised at the size of the tip he gave

them. They didnt know it constituted almost all he had left in the world.

"I'm in Your hands," Jeremiah whispered, pouring out the dark wine into two

crystal goblets. One for Jesus, one for him. He broke the unleavened brown bread

into two halves and placed the broken loaf in the center of the little table with its

two glasses of wine on either side. The white tablecloth was pure linen. With a

burst of emotion, Jeremiah threw himself on the floor and whispered, fiercely,

"Come, come, Lord Jesus! Only take a sip of the wine, that I may know You hear me,

and that You accept me!"

Then he waited. The sun descended, sending trembling, ghostly shadows across

the room. Blue mist filled the valley below, and red-orange clouds lit up the sky as


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the sun inched down, down... and still, he waited. Sweat beaded on his forehead. --

Please!---I must know this is what You want!--- It was such a little sign he sought,

just as the fleece that Gideon threw down, asking only for a bit of dew on it, with

none on the ground all around. A sip of wine, when he wasnt looking. Was it

tempting God? ...it is a humble request... only take a sip of the wine, excellent Lord!

-- Please!---

On the windowsill, as the sun set, a white dove flew down, sat for a moment

looking into the room with its sad supplicant, and then, with a little dip of its beak,

and a low coo, it pulled a feather from its breast and dropped it on the windowsill.

On the ivory white shaft was a single drop of dark blood. The wind whispered away

the feather with the evening wind. The dove dipped its beak in a courtship gesture,

then flew off with a whirr of its soft, white wings.

Jeremiah was never quite sure that he saw it.

================================================

He was wearing a two thousand dollar linen suit, hand-made for him by one of the

world's best custom tailors he had specified only pure white linen -- and the

glittering diamonds on his hand proved that he was prospering mightily with the

people. Outside his dressing room, as Jeremiah finished grooming his hair precisely

as it should be combed, he could hear the choir across the street finishing the

hymns he had selected to rouse the people from their torpor into hope and praise to

God. His black hair had thinned and was not so curly as it once had been, but

implants had corrected the receding hairline: he looked maybe ten years younger

than he really was, and with any luck, he'd outlive all his critics, by God!

"Pastor Mosley!" came his publicist's voice, "it's time!"

"Just a minute, Rachel!" he answered.

Rachel was so efficient. He needed that. He was such a slacker, such a

romantic. He almost put on his Rolex, then decided against it: too showy. With a

spray of Parisian cologne to each wrist, and a quick look in the mirror to make

certain his necktie was in perfect order, Jeremiah paused to look more closely at thereflection there: ---Would you buy a used car from this man? -- he asked within

himself. His critics said they knew better.

They said he was crooked that he stole from the people, filled his coffers with

their dollars and threw away their prayer requests. That healings didn't take place.

That the Holy Spirit wasn't a holy spirit, just a sly show calculated to separate the

gullible from their money.


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He didnt know how else to get people to listen, except putting on a show to get

their attention. If it was so wrong, why were there were twenty thousand people out

there, waiting for him to come out, and help them transform their lives (as if he

could do any such thing!). It was God who had done this. As always, he felt himself

shaking, because he was really, deep down, ultimately a shy man who would have

preferred a quiet life in a monastery. Instead, the show must go on. And on.

--Please, God!-- he whispered to the image in the mirror. -- Please!-- It was his

only prayer, just a choked exclamation of half-strangled hope, that some of the

people out there would be healed, would have their lives changed because of Gods

Hand moving among them. Ah, the Hand of God! --Jesus!he managed to say,

before his throat closed up with terror. To face all those people again! He had seen

so many in wheelchairs come, then leave, disappointed.

He threw himself down against the mirror, onto his knees, and raised his arms

high in the air, letting them finally rest against the mirror. God, God, God! he

breathed aloud, and then, with a half-strangled voice, he added, aloud, -Please,God, have mercy on the poor people! Take my life, if you want it, but help your

sheep!

He calmed himself, got up off his knees, brushed away the talcum powder that

clung to the knees where they had touched some of the fallen white dust that

perfumed his undergarments... he wiped his forehead with a pure linen

handkerchief took a deep breath.

-----Pastor Mosley!-- came Rachel's almost angry voice on the other side of the

door.

He opened the door, was half-blinded by a bank of photographers and their

flashing lights.

What are they doing here? he demanded, pushing past the photographers,

and directing his anger to his publicist, the woman with black-rimmed glasses who

held a walkie-talkie to her ear.

They say youre being sued by some guy who claims you didnt heal his eyes

after all, she replied.

Hes a maniac! Jeremiah snapped. I dont heal, Jesus does. He put on a

brave face and began striding down the hall. He was Gods Man, he could not allowthese people to see any fear. He smiled and kept on walking, his publicist and two

underpastors at his side..

But theres some good news, too, Pastor! Someone's been healed, and they're

calling it a miracle! Yes, Pastor!-- Someone's been healed!--- he could hear the

excitement in her voice, and in the crowd. He hoped it was true.


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Deep within, he wondered if a psychological event occurred that had convinced

someone they had been healed, or was it a set-up, by someone once again trying to

prove the 'healings' were all fake? Maybe this time it was for real. It did happen,

sometimes, despite what his enemies said. He never knew exactly when anything

miraculous occurred, or what to expect from the crowds, for it was just the power of

their faith in action. He remembered what the Bible said, that Jesus visited his owncity, Nazareth, but could do no mighty miracles there because the people had no

faith. ---A prophet is despised in his own country---

A lot of miracles were just psychological, but even that was something. Better

than hopelessness, helplessness. Somebody had to care. And occasionally, there

were unexplained, mysterious changes hat doctors couldnt explain. He would have

liked to have had seen some sign from God during his prayers today, but as usual,

he ran on empty. The signs were so rare. Just enough to keep him from drowning in

terror. Was he doing the right thing? If not, Jesus could take his life, that was okay.

--Seek-- Christ had said, --and ye shall find.--

Except for me, he thought. I do not doubt that You will drink wine with me

someday, but its been fifteen years now---

Now he was walking calmly between rows of photographers, reporters, and

people begging him to heal them. As if he could heal anybody! Praise Jesus! he

told the people. It is Jesus, who will heal you! -- O You secret, hidden,

unattainable, silent Lord...!--

A drifting sense of peace came over him then. He got into the elevator and the

door closed. Blessed silence and most of the photographers and reporters were

now cut off. Now to cross the street... With the pastors on his right and two

security guards on his left, Jeremiah crossed the gauntlet of the street with its

masses of shouting people. He entered a huge auditorium, composed himself a

minute, hiding behind a big screen, while choirs sang and a huge organ played.

the audience had been worked up for about an hour, singing with the choir and

watching huge screens that showed miracles and events at other crusades.

--Please, God!-- he prayed, once again the same old prayer, seeking,

seeking...stopping in the midst of it -- done with crossed arms-- to notice that

somehow, in the rush, he had lost a solid gold cuff-link. Damn! he said, removing

the solitary golden cufflink. Lost another one!

He thrust the cufflink into his coat pocket.

Outside the auditorium, an elderly woman, half crushed by the people, had

stumbled to the street's pavement. The police got her up again and made her get

behind the chained-off area. But in her hand she clutched a heavy piece of molten

yellow-- a golden cuff-link. Poor as she was, she knew it was gold, and that it meant


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she would have food for a week. Thank you, God! she whispered to the sky. The

auditorium was full, she couldnt get in, so she went home.

It was peaceful in the evangelist's hotel room. A sleepy guard sat on the big bed,

making sure nobody who came into the room would steal any of the pastor's things

for a souvenir. As he half-dozed, two maids entered the room, with dust-cloths anda vacuum cleaner, to freshen it up. On the mirror, where the famous evangelist's

hands had pressed momentarily against the glass, the white talcum powder had,

interestingly enough, created a pair of white doves. One maid began wiping them

away, when, too late, the other, with wide eyes, stopped her. They both knelt and

began to pray, weeping, but Jeremiah never saw any of that, nor did the sleepy

guard.

APPEARANCES (Story #2)

by Judyth Vary Baker

There she was, lying on the rumpled bed, the evening light fading. She could

see her legs stretched out toward the window with its plum-striped curtains and the

green, swaying trees beyond. There was an ochre glow in the sky, as the sun set,

with crimson-edged clouds bathing the darkness. Her legs looked spindly, too thin,

but then, she was a model, with the skinny frame desired by clothiers and

designers. She wanted to eat, but dared not: outside, where she saw the birds flying

in black punctuation points against the red-rimmed clouds, she thought how they

could eat as they wished, without a thought as to appearances: they were all soft,

downy, fuzzy, fluffy. Fat, perhaps, according to clothiers and designers.

There were little sparkles of raindrops on the windowpanes, for with the final

light came a quick showering down of rain, against the deepening deep blue of the

sky. The yellow and gold of the last suns rays faded away to a soft tangerine glow,

outlining the tall buildings and skyscrapers that rose on the horizon. She wiggled

her toes, stretched them wide, thought to herself, I have prehensile toes! She could

pick up anything with them a talent for which none would pay her a penny. She

saw how her knee-bones stuck out more than they should, her thighs began behind

the knee-bones, too thin, too thin. But there was no help for it. She knew that they

would put makeup on to hide the dark circles of starvation that made her large,

brown, glowing eyes look even more mysterious, and that shed walk down the redcarpet on the arm of Max Taylor, Movie Star, smiling and waving to the adoring

crowds, her photo snapped, her gown declared simply ravishing, her hair declared

adequate for the occasion. Max was homosexual and she liked being with him,

being ordinarily too exhausted for sex: they made a good pair.

Well, she had fourteen hours before she had to get ready for tomorrows

appearance at the Oscars. Fourteen hours, phone calls turned away, and Room


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Service bringing up, in another hour, her dinner, composed of a cup of clear broth, a

chicken wing, and a leaf of lettuce, with vitamin capsules. She wanted to bathe after

that, but wondered if she had the strength. Staying in bed, for she felt so cold, was

best: her nails wouldnt get chipped that way. Why turn on the telly? Why not

watch the raindrops gather, as the wind blew them sideways on the glass, watch

how they merged and became fatter, then dribbled down the clear pane, falling tooblivion

She looked again at the alarm clock: forty-five minutes to dinner. There was a

slight prickling along the bedcovers that crossed her flat belly, and she looked to

see what caused it, but nothing was there. The white hotel sheets, the white hotel

blanket, the white hotel mattress with its plum-colored stripes, were as in all hotels

everywhere: a formal luxury, her common fate in hotel after hotel. Sheared carpet

and sleek lamps and slick wood with glass: the brochures of the hotel, the

beckoning pamphlets listing cafes and cabarets and caffe au lait. One hotel was as

another: either filled with antiques stiff with gaudy gilt and lace and carved

balustrades and flowers, or modern-sterile, Isnt it Good Norwegian Wood?

What was life about? She wondered. Ill strut my stuff a hundred more times,

then what? I wish I could believe in God.

Incredibly, she felt the electric touch upon her belly again, and again looked

down, past her hunger-shrunken naked breasts to the blanket and sheets twisted

over her middle in the shape of a white cross, the plum-red stripes making a big X

as if blocking her empty belly off from the rest of her body. As she breathed, the X

went up and down, up and downand as the night sky darkened to deep purple,

she thought she saw the X waver, and move sideways. As it did so, the prickling

sensation returned. This time, she drew the sheet and blanket up to her chin,covering herself. Im cold all the time, she thought to herself. How good the hot

broth will feel! She looked at the clock again: in fifteen minutes, theyd bring

dinner. She remembered, as a child, saying Grace over a meal of bacon, eggs, toast

and jam, with hot cocoa on the side, and how her sister and brother grabbed for the

last pieces of toast, but she was content to let them go for it, she had more than

enough to eat. Donny was dead, now, and so were Mom and Dad, in the car wreck

that so suddenly took their lives. As for Donna, her sister, she hadnt seen her for

several years: Donna was heavy, having had children ashamed of her stretch

marks and her after thighs.

. I think I will say Grace over the broth and chicken wing and the lettuce, she

thought to herself. Jesus! I wish Youd appear! But those things dont really happen,

do they? It was always mere legend.

Then it happened.

The broth had gone cold. The lettuce lay untouched. They had forgotten the

chicken wing, but no matter. She was washed over with heat and warmth, lavished


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with it.she lay stretched out, her arms flung wide, her eyes moist with tears. She

rolled from the bed, drawing the sheet and blanket with her, and the quilt that had

twisted to make the X as well. On her knees, she whispered, Thank you! Thank

you! Thank you!

But such things are hallucinations, he told her, as he warily watched her eating

a normal-sized meal. What about your contract? he asked, anxiously. If you

change sizes, youll be fired from Victorias Secret, and the rest will follow. And

what will Henri say, if you stop going out with him? Hes always getting you good

film deals.

Im rich, she said. I dont need Victorias Secret anymore. And I dont need

Henri, either.

Well, Im not rich! he told her, heatedly. And you have a contract with me to

be responsible. Youve had a god-damned hallucination. As your agent, I insist that

you see a psychiatrist.

You dont have that right, she told him.

Of course I do. Ill sue you if you dont go. Then see how rich youll be.

There she was, lying on the rumpled bed, the evening light fading. She could see

her legs stretched out toward the window with its plum-striped curtains and the

green, swaying trees beyond. There was an ochre glow in the sky, as the sun set,

with crimson-edged clouds battering the darkness. Her legs looked spindly, too thin,

but then, she was a model, with the skinny frame desired by clothiers and

designers. She wanted to eat, but dared not: outside, where she saw the birds flying

in black punctuation points against the red-rimmed clouds, she thought how they

could eat as they wished, without a thought as to appearances.

Henri would be by tonight, to sleep with her again. He was a powerful Senator.

They met all over the world: her photo shoots were all lucrative deals. Some of

them were real photo shoots After all, she was so much thinner than his wife,

Bernice, who was trying to get pregnant. Models on the make were much more fun

to be with, and the contracts and magazine covers he got for her made the hotels

and the meals and the dreams keep coming.


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#3:

REVISION (Story #3)

By Judyth Vary Baker

Henri Ballantyne was very near-sighted, and middle-aged, but he still carried a

handsome shock of blonde hair, and had the body of an athlete. The fact that his

wife had just died made him one of Americas most eligible bachelors, though he

was still avoiding dating. Henris career as U S Senator was reaching its pinnacle:

he was a powerful man who now found himself stalked by paparazzi, aching for a

photo of him with some movie star. At Bernices funeral, Henri had let himself go a

little, drinking too much and saying some unwise things about his wifes untimely

and sudden death. Of course, those people are fools, Henri told Charles. All thatblather about rising again, about the Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. What I

wanted was her, damn it all. Now I have to go find another respectable woman.

Why didnt you keep your opinion about that blather to yourself? Charles

asked, wishing it had been his wife, instead of Henris, who had kicked the bucket.

Charles had silvery hair now, and a paunch, but his wife looked even worse. Charles

looked down at his bad left foot, that leg two inches too short that made the thick,

heavy shoe so necessary, then glanced with scarcely-concealed envy at his younger

client, a former Olympic star whose biceps were still firm. Charles was barely

interested in Henris latest problem, but it was his job to keep Henri popular. Right

now, his job was in jeopardy. Henri surreptitiously lit another cigarette, which

Charles ardently hoped the waiter wouldnt see.

Perhaps we should move onto the terrace, Charles suggested, picking up his

wine glass. Theres a cool spot out there under the umbrellas.

Its all the same to me, Henri told him. They moved outside to the restaurants

rocky terrace, sheltered under rows of bright red umbrellas with Coca Cola

emblazoned in white, curling letters. Charles was glad to be back in Budapest: he

looked forward to the mineral baths, the good, cheap wine, and the pretty women

who would sleep with him willingly, despite his bad left foot. That clump-clump of

his shoe followed him everywhere, and most women glanced down at the thick soleof the shoe, hearing the heavy sound of it, and instinctively avoided intimacy with

him. It wasnt fair. Charles was also accursed with a gloomy cast of the eyes, a sad

down-turning of the mouth, and with a voice so raspy he couldnt succeed, as he

had dreamed, in politics. He was forced to function as a mere advisor, well-paid to

guide candidates into high offices, and keep them there, by making certain they


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said the right things and did the right things.. At present, he was worried about

Henri, whose chances for re-election had been very good, until today.

Henri was part of a Senate committee on a fact-finding mission touring the

European Union, with a stopover for fun in Budapest, where he had just dined with

the Minister of Culture, stating his opinion that religion was a sham, and that Jesuswas probably a closet homosexual. Damn! Charles sighed to himself. Henri had

made his opinion known to the new Minister of Culture a devout Catholic -- not to

the old one, who had been an atheist.

This story isnt going to ride well with your constituency in Maryland, Henri.

I know, I know! So what the hell should I do now?

Maybe show up at church. And make sure people know about it.

If you cant fix this, Im quitting politics, Henri told him, peeling off a few

thousand into Charles hands. This should cover costs for your quick little trip over

here. Do what you can to cover this up. Okay?

Im not Mr. Fix-It, Charles complained. I suggest you stay away from religion

altogether after this. Im sorry I ever mentioned the word church but how was I

to know youd end up attending a healing session in some Praise-Jesus-Hallelujah

cult?

It has twenty thousand members, Henri said lamely. And I have to admit, I was

entranced.

Hypnotized, not entranced, Charles corrected. I should have set up the right

church for you.

Yes, you should have, Henri said. So now, get me the hell out of this mess!

Henri, whose poor vision was the result of a botched operation to reduce his

near-sighted condition, couldnt wear contact lenses anymore and didnt dare risk a

repeat of the operation until methods became more advanced. Maybe any day, he

thought to himself. Meanwhile, he was stuck wearing glasses, and hated it evenmore than getting old and out of shape. Hed really been caught up in that Jesus-

Hallelujah-Praise-God jamboree, and, mesmerized, walked in a daze to the altar,

knelt there, and said he believed. A man stood over him as in a cloud, his vision

actually became dark, as if an angel hovered somewhere, blotting out all the hot

lights overhead, and then the evangelist asked if he could lay hands on him.

Do you believe you can be healed?


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The fellow looked a little tired and was in a hurry, as there were dozens more

who also sought the hands-on experience.

Healed of what?

Whatever your need is, of course. God will heal you now, if you believe!

What was that shiver of hope that flowed over him, as those hands were laid

upon his head?

He felt an exquisite sense of peace overflow him. The evangelists hands

seemed full of electricity. It was uncanny. From Henris lips burst out his secret

desire.:

I want my eyes to be healed!

Then be healed, eyes! In Jesus name!

What a fool hed been! Such an utter fool! For nothing had happened. Not a

thing. Hed had some blurry spots in front of his eyes, like a thousand little dark

dots, just as he came down the aisle to the front, and yes, those little dots

disappeared, but that was all. He was still as near-sighted as ever.

Theyre all fakes! he thought to himself. He didnt see a single person healed at

that altar, except maybe one little old lady who said she was healed of cancer. Oh,

sure! Hed believe when he saw the doctors report! He got the old ladys name

and address. Hed fix that so-called healer if she died of cancer.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Okay, Henri told Charles, it is true that the little black spots went away. And

the woman with cancer got better. But then she died of a stroke.

But you get those dots in front of your eyes when you drink, Henri, his

manager told him. It comes and goes. Think of the consequences! They snapped

your picture there, with that crazy preachers hands on top of your head. Good God!

Its front page news in every damned tabloid in the country!

I know, Henri said gloomily. But what can I do?

At least, you didnt get healed of something and feel like you had to proclaim it

to the world, Charles said. That would have really wrecked everything.


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I sure got psychologically drawn in, Henri admitted. They have that service

set up like a fine art. And of course, I didnt get healed. I feel like closing down their

operation. Theyre raking in money like crazy, you know.

I suggest you do nothing of the kind, Charles told him. At least, dont directly

be his source of trouble. Just promise me that next time, youll stay away fromanything to do with churches. For the rest of your life --- or its bye-bye, career.

Of course I will!

Instead, start going to hospitals. Go visit some sick kids with cancer. Kiss some

lepers. Do something nice, but stay away from the goddamn churches. Maybe

theyll forget.

I hope so, Henri said. I sure hope so.

It wasnt the paparazzi who were responsible, as Princess Diana had been

hounded, but the auto accident was photographed by the paparazzi. The stunned

senator was photographed, too, mourning the fact that the accident wouldnt have

happened if she hadnt taken so much valium

And here she had been pregnant!

It took three long years, but he had managed to get the church just about closeddown. That church had caused him so much emotional distress and

embarrassment! He had planted some people there who claimed they were healed,

who, of course, were lying. He also sent the IRS after that fanatic pastor, as well.

Next, he created rumors about call girls, who pestered his wife with telephone calls.

Then the fellow had a nervous breakdown. The tabloids reported that he killed

himself with sleeping pills in the very house where hed been born. His suicide note

was short and pitiful.

Jesus hadnt been there to rescue the guy: the evangelist had been on his own

in the Valley of Death. Now Henri was in the hospital. Hed fallen on some ice and

was currently getting his back pulled straight -- in traction. He was doubly irritated

because he was experiencing double vision from his concussion.

The ophthalmologist came in, with his apparatus, to check his eyes, and Henri

heard him shake his head, as he made little clucking sounds like a mother hen

worried about a chick.

Youve had some real problems with these eyes, havent you?


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A guy like you botched an operation on my corneas, Henri told him. Wrecked

my chances to get away from glasses.

But the other condition, I mean, the doctor said. Just when did you have that

operation on your retinas? He was peering deep into his right eye with that

blasted irritating bright light.

What operation? What are you talking about?

Your right retina was obviously torn loose, and was reattached by lasers. The

left eye had some work done on its retina, too.

I never had anything done to my retinas! Henri thought how the evangelist

had laid hands on him, and a kind of bitter horror began to build up inside.

Well, its been some time, I suppose. Perhaps youve forgotten, though I cant

imagine you would. If it hadnt been for this obvious emergency operation, youd be

blind in your right eye.

The ophthalmologist looked again into the left eye.

Yes, same thing, just not as bad he said. Your left retina has also been re-

attached. Surely you remember seeing a flood of what we call floaties in your

eyes? A feeling of a shadow falling down over your eyes, as if a curtain was closing

down your vision?

O, my God!

Suddenly, Henri undersood. The darkness of his vision, as he knelt down,

shielding the harsh overhead light from his eyes as he knelt--- and the hundreds of

little dark spots that swirled in his eyes, as the trembling hands of the evangelist

gently touched his head, and Henri had asked to be healed.

Oh, God! he whispered, as he lay stretched out on the hospital bed. Oh,

God!

REPARATION (Story #4)

Jeremiah was ready to die. He had long been prepared for the event. His onlyregret had been that hed not had enough true faith to heal everyone upon whom

hed laid his hands for which he had prepared with much prayer and fasting. Hed

never really seen a vision, though others around him reported white doves always

landing on windowsills wherever he went hotel after hotel.

That was strange, indeed but he had never seen a single white dove himself.

Still, he had tried to follow Christs example, believing he could lay hands on people


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and heal them if they had enough faith, just as the Bible had promised, in Christs

name. Hed seen a number of miracles nobody could deny it!-- but there were so

few among the thousands hed hoped to see walk again, be happy again, have hope

again. It was distressing, for he also could not deny that there had been hundreds of

stunning failures. Psychosomatics. Self hypnosis, maybe. His tireless nemesis, Henri

B., had even planted cured people in his congregation to proclaim they had beenhealed. Jeremiahs best-selling book, unfortunately, included a few stories from

fake healed people who had infiltrated the church, paid by Henri B. They had lied.

They had been included in the book--- along with a dozen genuine cases (he

assumed they were genuine!) all to glorify Gods name and His holy powers of

healing through Christs shed blood. Instead, outrage and mockery. Accusations of

fraud. Prostitutes had even come forth claiming hed slept with them. Lies, lies,

lies!

Henri B., the Senator, revealed that he was sick of scammers acting in Gods

name, so hed paid actors to pretend theyd been healed. The evangelist had not

been told by his God which people had really been healed. He was utterly clueless.

His God had let him down.

All of this had come about because the evangelist had laid hands on the

Senators head and declared that his eyes had been healed. He had done so on

inspiration. He had been impressed even certain --- that the Senators eyes were

been about to go blind yet at the last moment, they had been saved, either by

being healed, or because Henri himself had gone to an eye doctor and got operated

on. Whichever way you looked at it, Henri Bs eyes had been saved.

But Henri didnt see it that way. The doctor alonewas the healer. Jeremiah

had asked him to go to the doctor to have his eyes checked, to make certain theyhad been healed, and the doctor had insisted on operating. Since then, Henri Bs

persecution had been relentless. Thoughts of suicide had crossed Jeremiahs

thoughts again and again. Now, the waiting was over. No more fasting and prayers

in the lonely nights. No more tears, lying prone on his face, begging for people to be

healed, begging for conversions to his hero, Jesus. He could even consider this

final, terrible event as martyrdom. Dying for Jesus

Jeremiah was still quite young, all considered. He was just thirty-three years old.

He had a wife and two kids, and a huge church --- in big financial trouble. Suicide

was a logical out. And especially, in this old house. His mother gave birth to him in

this shack. He had come far since then. Lived in luxury homes. Was carried from

country to country in his own private jet. He had not much cared about how the TV

programs were run, who made money off the programs, just so plenty went to

charity. He should have looked closer, for now he knew his accountants had cheated

him and the poor. He had been too trusting. So be it. Let it end here, without a

fight. Jeremiah sighed, sick to his stomach, and began writing the suicide letter.

He chose not to write that he was despondent because people didnt get healed.


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He chose not to blame God for what his accountants had done. But he had to write

something to account for his actions. He finally decided to write that the devil was

forcing him to die, it was not his choice at all.

Jeremiah was so shaky that he only had the strength now to put a little cross

under the words I forgive all my enemies and place all my faith in Gods mercy.The word mercy had a long, smeared trail of ink after it because he could no longer

see what he was writing, could no longer feel the pen in his numb hand. Pain was

eating his belly alive. He dropped the pen, as a convulsion from the drugs hed

taken filled his body. He knew he would soon be dead. Father, forgive my

enemies, he tried to say, but with so little breath left, other words came out.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

DIVISION (story #5)

By Judyth Vary Baker

Henri Ballantyne was very near-sighted, and middle-aged, but he still carried a

handsome shock of blonde hair, and had the body of an athlete. He was one ofAmericas most eligible bachelors, a powerful man who found himself stalked by

paparazzi, aching for a photo of him with some movie star. Charles, his political

manager, was told to find him a suitable lady to date. Henri still missed his dead

wife: What I wanted was Bernice, damn it. Now that shes dead, he told Charles,

you have to go find me another respectable woman.

Charles had a big Rolodex and a vast reservoir of email addresses, but the

combination of Movie Star and Respectable Potential Wife eluded all attempts. Then,

a break: Bernices sister Bernadettecalled.

She very well knew that Henri was cheating on her. It was a shame that they

couldnt have children. Too many times, hed demanded to know if she had finally

become pregnant, only to be told that once again, everything had failed. When the

problem was finally diagnosed as Henris fault, not Bernices, she celebrated by


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getting drunk. The relief! The blessed relief! Henri, seeking to make himself feel

and look better, got an eye operation that same week, but something went awry,

and both his corneas were damaged, forcing him to stay in thick glasses. Henri tried

to sue the doctor, but papers hed signed before the operation, and the doctors

good reputation, resulted in a settlement out of court. Bernice had done what she

could to help: she tried to get inside information: she became friendly, before thelawsuit ensued, with the eye doctor, and even had a little minor surgery, which the

good doctor gave her free of charge, knowing how upset Henri had been.

Then came a meeting after regular office hours, when Bernice, noticing that

the doctor had the same tastes as she for good music, invited him to accompany

her to a Bach concert. It came about almost by accident: she had spotted Henri with

a Pretty Young Thing on his arm, and with jealous ire, she called Dr. Richardson.

They met outside the Concert Hall: he looked very fine with his bright blue

contact lenses and his thick, blonde hair, much reminding her of Henris own tawny

mane. By evenings end, she was calling her escort Paul. By the end of the month,they were meeting regularly for concerts and more.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I should feel guilty, she told herself, as she combed through her own dark, glossy

curls. But I dont! She was still a stunningly beautiful woman. She carefully

examined her still-glamorous figure in the hall mirror, wishing her stomach was as

flat as his secretarysbut who can compete, at thirty-eight, with women fifteen

years younger? She felt a bit under the weather lately was it age creeping up on

her already? --- and this made it seem all the more important for her to spread her

wings and bring an adoring man into her arms.

Henri is discrete in his indiscretions, she told herself. And so am I! Its good that we

didnt have children to complicate matters. She chose the correct purse for the

evening, checked her hairstyle from the back, then took the elevator down to the

foyer. Paul had sent a nice New York limo to pick her up yet unaccountably, as she

entered the limo, her thoughts turned again to Henri, who was treating her so much

nicer, now that he knew it was his fault, not hers, that there were no babies.

And he always brings me such nice gifts, now...for it is he, she decided, who is

feeling guilty! Hell soon be going to Europe, and Ill be left behind, but were only

acting as Royals have done for centuries. Generous to one another in public, andwe still even sleep together! She would not dare compare the two men in bed, for

Henri had known her such a long time now, and Pauls fascination with her might

fade. She should be grateful for good sex with two good men, in a comfortable life.


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His spies told him that Bernice was pregnant, and that she had been seeing the very

eye doctor who had destroyed his chances to look handsome again! No more than

seeing the eye doctor! More than that! The divorced doctor had two children of his

own and was obviously the source of Bernices sudden pregnancy. How dare she!

And next year was election year! Did she think she could hide what she had

conceived, when he had photographs, and even a videotape? True, she was beingvery careful she of course did not wish to harm Henris reputation but what in

hell possessed her to allow herself to get pregnant? Damn it all!

Women want babies, Charles told him. She knew it was hopeless with you, so

He had to pause until Henris teeth stopped gnashing.

I have to be very blunt with you, Henri, Charles told him. Your little trip

overseas, your lack of sorrow when she died, has been noticed. Her family has

received a telephone call

No doubt from him!

It seems theyve received information thats disconcerting to them. Something

about your hiring a private detective, who now wants a payoff to remain silent. Or

else, hell speak to Bernices family. They, too, have reputations to consider.

Its not against the law, what I did, Henri said gloomily. He tried to pretend that

he wasnt as deeply concerned as he was at the fresh bit of bad news. The first bad

bit was that Bernices sister was going to exhume the body, to have an autopsy

done.

I thought Catholics didnt do things like that, he complained.

Apparently, sometimes they do, Charles said. I suggest you get yourself a

good lawyer.

I cant begin to express to you how much I despise you, Henri said to Dr.

Richardson, who sat uncomfortably with him in the lawyers office. I found her

diary, you know.

Paul Richardson said nothing. The smoldering hatred in Henris eyes was

enough to keep him quiet. He didnt want Henri to jump up and choke him or

something. They were waiting, with a wary-eyed male paralegal, for word on the

DNA test on the dead fetus within Bernices womb. Henri had demanded the test.


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Another thing, Henri said. This all began when she volunteered to spy on you,

for your information. Prior to my bringing a lawsuit against you.

She told me all about that, Paul said, mildly. And she apologized.

She never was good at such things, Henri admitted. Thats why I was so

shocked. That she got away with all of this with you.

You werent around much to notice.

I was around enough! Henri snapped. He dropped his face into his hands,

then, as if he were about to weep. Paul was surprised at this sudden shift of

emotion. He hazarded a comment.

I think we both have missed her.

If only I had never had that operation!

Well, Im sorry it was botched up.

You paid a hundred thousand dollars worth of sorry, but it wont bring my

corneas back. Im finally getting brave enough to go ahead and get plastic implants

now.

Youll look good without glasses.

Henri then dared to say what was prickling at the back of his mind. You know, I

had this son-of-a-bitch put his hands on me, his hands on my head, in a church

service I went to. I was just curious, you know. The fellow said I was healed, but of

course, not a damned thing actually happened. Or, so I thought.

I read about that in the tabloids, Paul answered. He said your eyes were

healed, but you told everybody they werent. Right?

I made him pay for his scamming ways, trust me, Henri said. I ruined the

bastard. He ended up committing suicide. What a fraud he was!

Sorry you had to go through that. Secretly, Paul wasnt sorry. As a doctor,

hed gotten access to Bernices medical records. The dose of valium in her system,

just before the car wreck, was suspiciously high, and because Bernice had been

pregnant, and knew better than to take such drugs while pregnant, Paul had strongsuspicions. Only with effort was he able to control his desire to throttle the powerful

Senator who sat smug in his fine suit and Gucci shoes, damning the evangelist.

Seems there had been some work done on my eyes after all, though, Henri was

saying. It seems my retinas did get patched up. The doctors I went to guessed you

did that when I was put under for the corneas to fix those chalazions.


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I remember, Paul said. Those lumps under your eyelids were as big as peach

pits. Chalazions are common with people who wear contact lenses, he added. And

of course, since I had to do your corneas anyway--.

Well, thanks for patching up my retinas, Henri said. You never even charged

me for it.

Unfortunately, the operation on your corneas was a flop. But --- whats this talk

about patching up your retinas?

I had some specialists check my retinas a few months ago, after a doctor said Id

had them patched. You should have told me you saved my vision, Henri said,

That you used a laser to pin down my retinas, that they were floating away, or

whatever.

Paul frowned. So this pastor said you were healed, but then you got somebody

to check on it, is that it?

Well, not until I slipped and fell, Henri confessed. Thats when I found out that

I had my retinas patched by a laser. And we all know God doesnt use lasers, for

Gods sake. Henri looked narrowly at his former rival. I realized it had to be you

who did it. Do you think Id even be talking to you otherwise? But why in the hell

didnt you tell me you saved my eyesight? I never would have tried to sue you over

the corneas, if Id known.

Dont you think I would have told you, if Id saved your eyesight?

What in the hell are you saying?

I didnt do a damned thing to your retinas.

The lawyer was just returning when he saw Henri, looking pale, sink back into

the lush leather chair, a kind of blank horror in his face.

You didnt fix my retinas? You didnt patch my retinas up with a laser?

Absolutely not, Paul replied.

I demand to see my records! Henri yelled, standing up and looking wildly

around him.

But you have the records, Paul replied. Go ahead and look at them. When you

sued me, you got them. Youll see theres nothing about laser surgery in them.

Impossible!

Nothing, Paul said, is impossible with God!


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Gentlemen, the lawyer said, I need to interrupt your discussion. We have

the DNA report.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Paul read the news in the paper: Henri B. wasnt running for a fourth term as

Senator. He had given a million dollars to a certain church, and was now going to

retire. Rumor had it that he was drinking heavily. He had fired his longtime agent

and had become quite reclusive. Now, people said, it was just Henri -- and his good

friends, Johnny Walker and Wild Turkey.

See how things work out? Paul told Bernadette (this was Bernices sister she

looked extraordinarily like Bernice, but was five years younger, and --- deliciously---

newly divorced).

God does work in mysterious ways, doesnt he? she said, slipping into his lap.

I could never prove Henri drugged Bernice, she went on, though why shed take

all that valium before driving, and being pregnant, too, never made sense. Still, if he

hadnt sued you, how would we ever have met?

Well, we met because I worked on his eyes, Paul told her. And on those retinas

of his. That was an emergency procedure his retinas had started to blow. Probably

because he had such high blood pressure. Or maybe it was his diabetes.

Diabetes? I didnt know he had diabetes!

Henri keeps a lot of little secrets about his health away from public scrutiny,

Paul told her. You can get sudden and severe degeneration of the retinas because

of it. In this case, it was an emergency.

So you did fix his retinas? He said it was that Jeremiah fellow, who fixed them,

after all.

I knew very well he would have sued me if the procedure hadnt worked.

Even so, I didnt want the bloke to go blind. So I fixed them but didnt record the

procedure, just in case.

Wasnt that dishonest?

He was a litigious man, Paul answered. A real jerk about malpractice, and

all. I patched his retinas, but decided not to tell him. God! He would have blamed

me if the patches didnt stay put. Such procedures are not always successful.

Now hes gone into a monastery!

But drinking heavily, I hear.


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Not so. Thats just a cover story. My cousins a priest, you know. Henris gone

into seclusion because he blames himself for the evangelists suicide.

Oh, really? Well, God does work in mysterious ways, doesnt he? Paul said,

taking Bernadette into his arms. Kiss me, my sweet. Life is short.

Henri slowly rose, with a grimace, from his kneeling position before the carved

stone altar. The flickering candles in their tiny red glass holders looked like small

quivering drops of blood. Henri kept his head bowed humbly as a monk entered the

dim corridor and began to walk with him. It was a silent Order, and speaking was

only allowed at certain times. That was what Henri wanted. He was skipping his

scant meal of bread, water and beans today, trying to force himself to write a fullconfession, before he died, of all that he had done. The slap-slap of the simple

sandals he wore, beating against the polished, hard stones of the hallway, sounded

the same as the monks. But the two men were very different people, and would

forever be so.

When Henri reached his cell (he had given a huge sum to the monastery

enough to take care of a dozen Henris for the rest of their lives), he nodded to the

monk, and entered the dark, windowless room slowly. He closed the old wooden

door slowly, and slowly picked up a whip.

Sign the letter!

How quiet it was, in this dark little broken-down house into which the evangelist

had been forced to move with his books and his second-hand computer. His wife

had left him, convinced of his infidelities (they had been lies, but Henri wouldnt

tell!). Henri had come upon the evangelist eating a simple meal of bread, water and

beans. It was his usual fare, even when hed been rich, the man told him, so not

that much had changed Jeremiah had offered to share his simple meal. Instead,

Henri asked if he had any wine in the house. Jeremiah brought out some

communion wine, and two large wine glasses, but Henri poured out wine for only

one. Then he drew his pistol. That first big dose, in the first glass, made Jeremiah

vomit up his meal. As he vomited, the wine glass fell from the table and broke.

Another dose would be necessary.


21/25

After making the evangelist call his friends and call off a meeting, Henri forced

Jeremiah into the tiny living room, where he made him sit down on the couch to

write the suicide note. When the evangelist refused to sign it, Henri ordered

Jeremiah to fill the second wine glass full of communion wine. It swirled over the

heap of drugs in the glass: Henri made the evangelist drink it all. The evangelist

was now struggling to breathe, the wine glass still clutched in his hands.

Jeremiah tried to focus on the wine glass. He had been forced to drink a potion

made with the very wine that he had annually placed out to invite Jesus to share

with him without any success -- for the past sixteen years. This second wine glass

was, always before, poured for Jesus: always before, he had sadly poured the wine

down the drain, next morning.

The second dose was now taking rapid effect. Jeremiah could scarcely sit

upright. His eyes had begun to roll back in his head. Henri jerked him up straight

again by the hair and jabbed at him with the pen.

Sign it, damn you!

No.

Henri didnt dare shoot him now, with all those drugs in his system.

It doesnt matter, Henri said. A few more minutes, youll be dead, and Ill be

out of here. Nobody is going to rescue you, you know.

Youre wrong... Jeremiah could scarcely mumble the words. He fell from the

ragged armchair to the floor, dropping the wine glass as he fell. It shattered.

Jesus! Hell --come!

The last drop of the poisoned wine spilled out, as Jeremiah retched atop the

broken glass: it cut his lips. ---Jesus!--- Jeremiah whispered again.

Idiot! Henri snapped. Theres no Jesus coming, you son of a bitch! Not for

you! No more prophecies! No more fake healings! No more money. Your wife thinks

you slept with prostitutes. Your children are ashamed.

The evangelist fought a death rattle in his throat. His failing eyes discerned the

pattern the wine had made, as it flowed and sank into the worn carpet. A perfect

cross!

Jesus, he mumbled, please.forgiveHenri...

How touching! Henri said, lowering his gun. Youll push it to the end, eh?


22/25

Jeremiah said no more concerning Henri. Instead, his eyes suddenly opened

wide, even as red froth and vomit came again into his cut and bleeding mouth, even

as he convulsed with pain.

Ah, no! My Christ! Jeremiah groaned. For he could see Jesus now, garbed in

white linen, a dove sitting on his shoulder, reaching out to him he could feelChrists carpenter-rough, yet gentle fingers, wiping clean the vomit, the poisoned

wine, the red foam from his lips he saw Jesus smile as He took the blood, the

froth, the poisoned wine, into His own mouth.

O Lord! Jeremiah gasped, I am not worthy---!

Henri could not see Jeremiahs face. He only saw him reach out trembling arms

toward the curtainless window, dotted with the dark nights stars. The dying man

made a cry of joy, and as he did so, an electric shock coursed through Henris body,

accompanied by a blinding light. Henri fell back, dropping his gun. What in hell was

that? Then Jeremiah rolled on his side, lifeless, his vomit-burnt lips fixed in a smile.

Henri waited a long minute, blinking to get his night vision back after the flare of

the light: now he looked down at his adversary. It had taken twice as long as it

should have for the man to die, but now it was over. The first thing Henri could see

clearly was the wine stain in the shape of a cross on the carpet under the

evangelists head. Weird, that was! Panic almost engulfed him, but then he forced

himself to think clearly. He picked up the gun, pocketed it, wiped his fingerprints

from everything. He even made sure no footprints showed on the thin carpet as he

backed out of the room. Hed watched plenty of TV crime shows.

He also made sure the evangelists fingers had left marks on the plastic vials

that had contained the valium, and the other drugs: he left the vials in the kitchen

by the wine bottle. Then Henri exited the house through the back door. In the

darkness, so late, nobody noticed. But, that light! It must have been a cars

headlights, somebody maybe backing out of a driveway

Henri sensed that this was one of his lifes most epochal moments. Life was

cheap: the evangelists death hadnt bothered him as much as he had thought it

might. Better than revenge, he felt a sense of accomplishment, as if at last that

Something that drove him on and on, ever since childhood, when kids used to make

fun of him because he wore horned-rimmed glasses, had at last been released,

along with the evangelists final breath. Something had been done about all thosebullies. Something had been done about his bad eyes. This faker would never see

again. Henri had taken out his fury on a man just like himself, a man who had

deceived the people, who deserved punishment.

Henri could hardly wait to see what the papers would say tomorrow, or the next

day, about the man hed so efficiently and easily destroyed. They would, of course,

mention that the evangelist was a man whose church was ruined because he had


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been dishonest. Those who still insisted theyd been healed -- having swooned

under the evangelists power -- would now go slinking off. As for the two prostitutes

whod helped out so nicely, theyd been shipped to South America. Theyd never be

seen again. Let some fool find a grave for this fellow -- if any cemetery would have

him! Maybe hed have to lie in a borrowed grave like his pal Jesus did. As for those

stupid, deceived fanatics, they would no doubt soon find somebody else to stealtheir money form them. Henri had done them a service, if they only knew. Still,

people could be hard to educate. They would probably just find somebody else to

proclaim to them that eyes were being healed, or to declare that cancer was being

cured. Henris gift to everyone would go unappreciated, but that was okay. He had

eradicated a shitty little piece of vermin from the earth. He had done everybody a

favor. Henri felt just fine.

finis

STORY #7:

Henri had moved to a monastery in Sweden. It was built in the fifteenth century

of hand-cut stones. It was cold and had always been cold. It was dark and had

always been dark. Bernadette Bernices sister -- had suggested the monastery as

a suitable place for private penance, a new l ife. The Catholics would let him find

some peace in his soul, perhaps, in a primitive way that his take-charge mind could

understand. In his jealousy, hed murdered his wife. Then hed driven the

evangelist into bankruptcy, and to his death.

Too late, hed learned that the eye doctor hadnt operated on his eyes. Too late,

he realized that the evangelist had indeed by some unknown power -- healed his

eyes. And for doing so, Henri had destroyed him! Had thrust his church into

financial ruin! A million dollar check fixed that, and his declaration that he had been

healed wiped out much of the onus caused by the fake healings mentioned in the

book that had disgraced the evangelist so soundly. But none of this could bring back

the man of God who, in his suicide note, had written, I forgive all my enemies

As Henri whipped himself (he slashed his body with twenty lashes every evening,except on Sundays), he gritted his teeth and let the fierce pain sink into his flesh.

God forgive me, I didnt know what I was doing! he prayed, each night when

he finished, cleaning the blood from his back and off the stone walls. Then he laid

down on the hard, flat bed, letting the cold creep over him. The cold sank into the

mass of festering wounds on his back. With his diabetic condition, he knew he

wouldnt last too very much longer -- maybe a year or so. As for the Brothers and


24/25

Monks, they thought him a wondrous saint-in-the-making, and with their silent

gazes of admiration, they allowed him privacy in his holy efforts to make reparation

for his sins, and for the sins of the whole world.

Brother Henri prayed constantly, begging forgiveness particularly from the man

hed destroyed, mindful of the power of that Silent God who had healed his eyes.How many more blows from the length of electrical cord he wore around his waist

(when he wasnt using it) could his body take? When he had no more strength, he

would quit eating. Finally, his pain would be over. Forever.

NEWS ARTICLE: Will Former US Senator Become Saint Ballantyne?

Henri Louis Ballantyne died fifteen years ago today at Mount Sinai Hospital of

pneumonia and complications, according to physicians in attendance, but

exhumation of his remains is being discussed in order to place The Saint of Poor

Vision on display for viewing by the faithful.

A woman (whose name must remain anonymous) said she was almost blind

then showed this reporter how she could now read fine print. I wasnt able to get

eye implants because Im allergic to so many things, she explained. Most people

today can get new eyes, but I couldnt. She said she prayed to Saint Ballantyne

asking for clear vision, and every day after that, my vision got better and better.

It was a miracle, agree doctors and scientists, who have examined the woman.

The restoration of the womans eyes is the second miracle that has been

accepted by Catholic authorities, who are preparing to petition for Blessed Henri

Ballantyne to be declared a saint. The former Senator wrote in his best-selling

secret biography, which was published a year after his death, that I have sinned

mightily against God and man. Then God healed my eyes. Not stopping there, God

next opened my eyes to see my own sinful condition. He began long periods of

fasting and penance, but was always cheerful and kind to everybody, according to

the prospective saints fellow Brothers and Monks. The former senator became a

simple Brother after his wife died, refusing to run for a third term and giving away

everything he owned to the poor and to the Catholic church, as well as setting up a

charitable foundation providing free eye operations for the poor. He was named

Blessed five years ago, after a similar miracle involving restoration of eyesight

was reported by a young man who prayed over his grave.

Blessed Brother Ballantyne was also a healer between Catholics and those of other

Christian faiths, as well as a healer of eyes, said Charles Montagu, once the former

Senators top aide. He gave generously to several Christian denominations. In the

end, all my dear friend owned were his sandals and a few simple robes. He was

always an inspiration to me. Montagu is still in charge of Blessed Brother

Ballantynes Eye Research Foundation, which awards grants to scientists studying


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eye problems. We are always happy to accept donations to the Foundation, said

Montagu.

the evangelist all 2008

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