A Book of American Martyrs

  “You might begin with missionary work, Luther. You don’t need to be an ordained minister to ‘minister’ to our brethren in Africa.”

  Missionary! I had not expected this.

  Reverend Dennis went on to tell me, much of what I already knew from his sermons, that he had been a missionary in West Africa for six years, in his early twenties; he was fond of saying, with one of his quick, pained smiles, that some of the “most joyous” days of his life were spent there, despite many difficulties including illness (malaria, dengue fever).

  “The challenges of a Christian in such a place are—well, almost overwhelming! Africans don’t seem so impressed with a ‘savior’ as you would think, considering how they live—how poor, and uneducated. They didn’t seem to take Hell seriously—they’d smile, and shake their heads. Heaven was very hard to explain to them as a spiritual place. They seemed confused about Jesus, if He was a man or a ‘god,’ and it was clear that they had no concept of ‘immortality.’ Half the time I didn’t know how much they understood of our teachings, and how much they were just pretending to understand, as children will do. We’d established a little school there, teaching English and arithmetic as well as instruction in the Gospels. We had many converts, or at least it had seemed so . . . as I say, it was difficult to tell how serious they were when they welcomed Jesus into their hearts, and how deep our teachings went. They were very somber sometimes, and then at other times they laughed uproariously—we never knew why! Our mission ended tragically when a civil war broke out and we had to flee. Eventually, half the population was slaughtered by the other half.”

  Reverend Dennis’s lips twitched in a smile. A shiver of mirth passed through his body.

  For the first time, as I was seated facing our pastor, I could see his face close up, and marveled at the pale, stony hue of his eyes; and saw a thin, jagged line, seemingly a scar, across his throat, that made me shudder with the thought that it had been inflicted in Africa, by one of his savage “converts.” Reverend Dennis did not look so young and handsome as he appeared in the pulpit when his face was transformed with the joy of the Lord.

  What did I care about the African mission! How could Reverend Dennis who had seemed so friendly to me, like a true brother, and not like my own brothers who were indifferent to me, imagine that I would willingly leave my home, my young family, my work and responsibilities to live with African natives, to convert them to Christianity? Nor did I feel comfortable around Negroes here in the United States, much of the time.

  “They are ‘children of God,’ too, you know, Luther—the Africans.”

  Reverend Dennis spoke in a slight chiding way, as if reading my mind.

  I could not think of a reply. It seemed that Reverend Dennis was staring at my mouth, that began to tremble.

  “If you have come to think that you have a ‘calling’ . . .”

  A calling. The word that had seemed sacred to me, and to Edna Mae, was sounding now faintly preposterous. I was reminded of Mrs. S—— whose sly intonations and jarring laughter were so confusing to us in Sunday school.

  “ . . .you are interested, Luther, in enrolling in a ministry school? When would this be practical for you, d’you think?”

  I was trying not to betray my disappointment, that the pastor whom I so admired was speaking to me in so doubtful and discouraging a tone as if he did not seem to think that I had a “calling”—as obviously, he’d had himself at my age. I knew that Reverend Dennis had studied and been ordained at the Toledo School of Ministry, and had hoped that he would recommend me there.

  Soon after our marriage Edna Mae and I moved to Muskegee Falls, to be closer to the St. Paul Missionary Church. This was a small town of about the size of Sandusky where there were opportunities for me to find work that did not depend upon the intervention of my father. For I was a proud young husband and father, and did not like to be known as Nathaniel Dunphy’s youngest son. And if I found work as a roofer or carpenter, I did not like to be working for the same construction company as my father, as I had been doing since the age of fourteen.

  In this new place, in a rented clapboard house on Front Street that I had repainted outside and in, I was very happy with my life. There were commonplace worries about supporting my family, and a fear that a child might be taken ill, or that Edna Mae might lapse into melancholy (as she had following the birth of our second child, for several months), but these were of little consequence set beside the certitude that the St. Paul Missionary Church of Jesus was the “true” church, and that I was meant, like Reverend Dennis, to be a minister in this church.

  (I had not ever been able to call our pastor “Dennis” as he requested. For I did not feel as if we were [yet] equals.)

  From the first sermon of Reverend Dennis which I’d heard, when Edna Mae had first brought me to the church, I had felt such awe and admiration for the young pastor, and such excitement in his presence, it came to seem that God had led me to him for a purpose; as God had led me to Edna Mae Reiser at a time in my life when I was hardly more than a brute creature, undeserving of spiritual happiness.

  That had been a time of mortal danger, as well. The beating in the tavern lavatory, that might have ended in a man’s death, had made a powerful impression upon me.

  God has spared you this time, Luther. But you are warned.

  From that time onward I avoided my old friends. I had not invited them to my wedding for (as Edna Mae said) there would be no alcoholic drinks served at the reception, and my friends would not be happy if they could not drink.

  After that we did not see one another again; and when the news came to me that our friend who had enlisted in the army had been killed in a helicopter accident while stationed in the Middle East, I felt a stab of horror and pity for him, and fell to my knees to pray for him. But I did not make any effort to contact his family, or our mutual friends.

  For that had been my life of depravity and sin. My life was very different now. I did not drink more than two or three beers a week, and sometimes none at all. For Edna Mae did not drink, as most members of the St. Paul Missionary Church did not drink even carbonated beverages; and while my dear wife never expressed any evident disapproval of my drinking, I could sense that she felt unease at my behavior, and would keep the children away from me as if she feared I might injure them at such a time.

  If I stooped to brush my lips against her cheek, Edna Mae might turn away, just slightly; as, in bed, if there was beer on my breath, Edna Mae would murmur sleepily Good night! and turn away from me.

  If I were to touch her, to caress her soft, dense body, that had become softer and denser with pregnancies, Edna Mae would lie very still and unresisting; for a wife would never resist a husband, as Edna Mae knew. But she would not turn to me, in bed; she would not slip her arms around my neck in a girlish gesture of love, if there was but a trace of beer on my breath. That I respected my wife prevented me from turning her forcibly to me, which I would never do except if I was drunk, and I was never drunk any longer, at that time in our marriage.

  The St. Paul Missionary Church of Jesus teaches the spiritual life which is a life of purity. You do not pollute your being with alcohol, carbonated beverages, cigarettes or any kind of tobacco, chewing gum, refined sugar, sugar substitutes, or foods known to be artificially colored. Gambling of any kind was forbidden including even such card games as gin rummy and the board game Monopoly. Church members were advised not to own television sets, to prevent their children from being corrupted. Christian radio stations were recommended. Most movies were not recommended. No form of contraception was recommended except abstinence.

  (When I had first heard this word, I had not known its meaning! A very strange notion it seemed to me, if a man and a woman had become married, how or why should they practice abstinence? Abstaining from intercourse with a wife, with whom you slept in a bed each night, did not seem possible for a man with a man’s normal appetites.)

  (At this time, I am not sure that I even knew the
uglier word abortion.)

  “And what about finances, Luther? Can you afford to stop working, to become a full-time student?”

  “I was hoping there might be a scholarship . . . I was thinking of the Toledo School of Ministry.”

  Reverend Dennis frowned at this remark. I had hoped that he might smile in recognition. But instead he spoke slowly, not meeting my eye, “Wel-ll, there are not many scholarships at Toledo, I’m afraid. Just a few, and they are usually given to younger men, just out of high school.”

  I expected Reverend Dennis to say I was one of these, of course. Just out of high school. Scholarship.

  As I had rehearsed, I said humbly that I had not really planned to be a full-time student. I would not be comfortable with not-working, as I had worked, in one way or another, since fourteen.

  “Edna Mae and I have calculated that I can continue with my work in Muskegee Falls, about thirty hours a week, which would leave me time to commute to Toledo for my classes on two days, and would bring in enough income for us—for a while. And we have been trying to save, also.”

  “But, Luther—what a grueling schedule! Most of the students at Toledo will be full-time, and they will live closer to the school. A few will have families, like you, but they probably won’t be working and commuting.”

  “We have worked it out, Edna Mae and me. She is as hopeful that I can become a minister of the St. Paul Missionary Church as I am. And there is Jesus—I feel that He will help me, too.” Stubbornly I spoke, and would not give in.

  “Well, Luther! I see that you are very serious. But you should know that the life of a pastor is not so easy, and it does not pay well. Probably less well, my friend, than your wages as a carpenter.”

  This had not occurred to me. I had not thought about being paid to be a pastor like Reverend Dennis.

  Seeing the look of confusion in my face Reverend Dennis said, “Come back and see me another time, Luther, after you have thought this through a little more. And give more thought to the practicality of your situation, with your young family . . .”

  “Thank you, Reverend Dennis. I will.”

  Though my conversation with Reverend Dennis was not what I had anticipated, I did not allow myself to become discouraged, but continued to pray, and to read all that I could about ministry schools in Ohio and close by; especially, I focused upon the Toledo School of Ministry, and began a correspondence with the dean there, sending the man carefully written letters, composed with Edna Mae’s help. And after several weeks, during which time I frequently spoke with Reverend Dennis after church services, and at other times, our pastor acknowledged finally, with a lifting of his hands (as in a blessing) that it looked as if I had a calling after all—“You are very resolute, Luther! God be with you.”

  Very kindly, Reverend Dennis agreed to recommend me to the Toledo School of Ministry where my application was accepted, and where I was invited to begin my course of enrollment in the fall of 1986. He even offered to recommend me for a scholarship—(though I would not count upon this, for I could not feel that Reverend Dennis’s recommendation would be enthusiastic). For most students the program of instruction could be completed in a single term, but as I could only attend school part-time, and would be commuting from Muskegee Falls to Toledo to take two courses each term, instead of four, I would be lucky to complete my degree in a year.

  “But will they guarantee you a church, Luther? When you graduate?”—Edna Mae would ask, worriedly.

  So many times Edna Mae asked this question, I fell into the habit of replying with a shrug—“Ask Reverend Dennis. He made the promise.”

  “JESUS, THANK YOU for your help! I want only to spread Your word.”

  Many times alone in my vehicle, driving to Toledo, returning to Muskegee Falls, I uttered these words aloud, for solace.

  There began then a difficult time in my life, that became ever more burdensome and fretful in the winter months of 1986 to 1987, when the drive from Muskegee Falls to Toledo, a distance of approximately eighty miles, was often buffeted by strong winds and driving snow; and once or twice, midway between, I was forced to turn back, as the highway had become impassable.

  Even on clear days the commuting was very tiring, as I soon discovered. On the mornings I drove to Toledo, which were Mondays and Wednesdays, I would wake before dawn out of nervousness and excitement, and hurriedly eat breakfast in the kitchen alone, and leave before 6:00 A.M. for my first class (“The Minister’s Bible”) was at 9:00 A.M. and I did not want to be delayed by my family. My second class (“The Craft and Art of Preaching”) was at 2:00 P.M. Following this, I would try to work on my assignments in the school library, before starting off for home at about 5:00 P.M. On my workdays, which were Tuesdays/ Thursdays/Fridays, my foreman insisted that I work longer hours than I had been doing, and so I often began work at seven o’clock in the morning, and worked through the day until seven at night, with but a half-hour break for lunch. (Of course, I was very grateful for this work. I understood that my foreman was sympathetic with me, as one who is studying to become a minister, and at the same time supporting a wife and young children.) Reeling with exhaustion I would drive home, and eat a meal saved in the oven for me, as Edna Mae bathed the children and put them to bed. Often on these nights I was too tired to exchange more than a few words with Edna Mae before falling into bed myself. I understood that my schedule was very hard on her, for she had no one to help her with the household, and two young children to care for, and her health was not always so good. (Edna Mae had a respiratory weakness, as it was called. If she caught a bad cold it would likely turn into bronchitis if not pneumonia. Often too, it seemed that Edna Mae might be pregnant again, which excited and upset her, and when this turned out to be a “false alarm,” was a relief to her, and yet saddening.) Still I was fired with hope, at the prospect of becoming a minister. I will be like Christ, a carpenter. I will build my own church with my own hands and be revered like no other minister in the St. Paul Missionary Church.

  Except, I did not find the Toledo School of Ministry to be what I had anticipated. There were costs beyond tuition, which were called “fees”—also, my textbooks were more expensive than I had known books could be. Most of my fellow students were younger than I was, and seemed hardly more than high school boys; yet they were aloof to me, as they were (perhaps) intimidated by my size, like the smaller boys in the Sandusky schools who had been fearful of me and yet believed themselves superior to me, because their grades were higher. Little bastards I could break you with one hand. Fuckers.

  A strange anger rose in me, like heat bubbling through tar. I was not aware of this anger until suddenly it emerged leaving me breathless.

  There were a very few students at the ministry school older than I was—men in their forties and fifties who had decided to “make a career change” and become ministers. Two had been schoolteachers, and one an accountant. Another had been a “lay minister” in a church in Michigan, for thirty-two years! I felt for these individuals a sympathy tinged with pity, if not scorn, of the kind Reverend Dennis had seemed to feel for me, for I saw how unlikely it would be, that these middle-aged men would ever be chosen for a “pastorship” at any church.

  It was a young pastor who would be favored, suffused with the joy and strength of Jesus, whom the congregation would love as a son or a brother. Not an older man who had failed at a secular life and was turning now to the church as a convalescent might enter a hospital.

  Nor was I finding my courses so interesting. In the years since leaving school I had fallen out of the habit of reading books—any kind of protracted reading, that required concentration, made my eyes ache. Studying the Old and New Testaments for “The Minister’s Bible” mostly involved reading Bible verses, many of which I had already memorized as a boy. Though I could not have recited the verses aloud yet, when I tried to read them silently, my mind knew the words beforehand, as a monkey might, and so I had trouble comprehending almost anything I was assigned to read in the Bi
ble, out of restlessness and boredom.

  In the school library where I spent time between classes, and tried to work on my assignments, often I felt very sleepy, and yet restless. It was difficult for me to take notes on my assignments for I kept reading and rereading the same passages, as they did not seem so very different from other passages, on other pages and in other books. Sometimes I found myself sitting slumped at a table with my head lowered, my face against the tabletop as if I had fallen asleep and had been there a long time and could not remember where I was.

  Luth-er!

  Our instructors were retired ministers from St. Paul Missionary churches in the Midwest. Once, like Reverend Dennis, they had been missionaries in Africa, as well as in China and Central America, but now they were elderly and slow-speaking, and often seemed not to know how to answer questions put to them by students. (Not by me: I had no questions for my teachers and was surprised by the questions my classmates thought up, for instance where had Satan been, before God had created the Garden of Eden? Had there been dinosaurs in the Garden of Eden, or flying reptiles? And had God created lice, ticks, parasites, and germs as well, and were all of these species to be herded onto Noah’s Ark, and saved? But why?) Not one faculty member at the Toledo school was half so engaging and exciting as Reverend Dennis, even those who were middle-aged and not elderly.

  It was something of a shock to me (as it should not have been) that the course titled “The Craft and Art of Preaching” would involve actual preaching on my part. Though I imagined myself preaching like Reverend Dennis in the pulpit one day, to a rapt audience of believers, I could not imagine preparing an actual sermon for that day. I believed that I could speak as well as, or better than, most of my fellow students, but when I began to speak I often stammered and lost my way, and broke out into a sweat. I could not bear the others staring at me, and taking note of the birthmark on my cheek.