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 didn’t 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 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 wasn’t
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 the reflection 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.
He didn’t 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 God’s 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 you’re being sued by some guy who claims you didn’t heal his eyes after all,” she
replied.
“He’s a maniac!” Jeremiah snapped. “I don’t heal, Jesus does.” He put on a brave face and
began striding down the hall. He was God’s Man, he could not allow these people to see any
fear. He smiled and kept on walking, his publicist and two underpastors at his side..
“But there’s 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.
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 own city, 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 couldn’t 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 it’s
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 she would have food for a week. “Thank you,
God!” she whispered to the sky. The auditorium was full, she couldn’t 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 and a 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.