The congregation was supported by a choir in white angel robes—a scratch choir, I surmised, as the white robes were homemade, from sheets. But what that choir may have lacked in professionalism it made up for in zeal. Church music does not have to be good as long as it is sincere—and loud.
The sawdust trail, six feet wide, led straight down the middle, benches on each side. It dead-ended against a chancel rail of two-by-fours. An usher led us down the trail in answer to my hope for seats down front. The place was crowded but he got people to squeeze over and we wound up on the aisle in the second row, me outside. Yes, there were still seats in the back, but every preacher despises people—their name is legion!—who sit clear at the back when there are seats open down front.
As the music stopped, Brother Barnaby stood up and came to the pulpit, placed his hand on the Bible. “It’s all in the Book,” he said quietly, almost in a whisper. The congregation became dead still.
He stepped forward, looked around. “Who loves you?”
“Jesus loves me!”
“Let Him hear you.”
“JESUS LOVES ME!”
“How do you know that?”
“IT’S IN THE BOOK!”
I became aware of an odor I had not smelled in a long time. My professor of homiletics pointed out to us once in a workshop session that a congregation imbued with religious fervor has a strong and distinctive odor (“stink” is the word he used) compounded of sweat and both male and female hormones. “My sons,” he told us, “if your assembled congregation smells too sweet, you aren’t getting to them. If you can’t make ’em sweat, if they don’t break out in their own musk like a cat in rut, you might as well quit and go across the street to the papists. Religious ecstasy is the strongest human emotion; when it’s there, you can smell it!”
Brother Barnaby got to them.
(And, I must confess, I never did. That’s why I wound up as an organizer and money-raiser.)
“Yes, it’s in the Book. The Bible is the Word of God, not just here and there, but every word. Not as allegory, but as literal truth. You shall know the truth and the truth will make you free. I read to you now from the Book: ‘For the Lord Himself will descend from Heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the Trump of God: and the dead in Christ shall rise first.’
“That last line is great news, my brothers and sisters: ‘—the dead in Christ shall rise first.’ What does that say? It does not say that the dead shall rise first; it says that the dead in Christ shall rise first. Those who were washed in the blood of the Lamb, born again in Jesus, and then have died in a state of grace before His second coming, they will not be forgotten, they will be first. Their graves will open, they will be miraculously restored to life and health and physical perfection and will lead the parade to Heaven, there to dwell in happiness by the great white throne forevermore!”
Someone shouted, “Hallelujah!”
“Bless you, sister. Ah, the good news! All the dead in Christ, every one! Sister Ellen, taken from her family by the cruel hand of cancer, but who died with the name of Jesus on her lips, she will help lead the procession. Asa’s beloved wife, who died giving birth but in a state of grace, she will be there! All your dear ones who died in Christ will be gathered up and you will see them in Heaven. Brother Ben, who lived a sinful life, but found God in a foxhole before an enemy bullet cut him down, he will be there…and his case is specially good news, witnessing that God can be found anywhere. Jesus is present not only in churches—in fact there are fancy-Dan churches where His Name is rarely heard—”
“You can say that again!”
“And I will. God is everywhere; He can hear you when you speak. He can hear you more easily when you are ploughing a field, or down on your knees by your bed, than He can in some ornate cathedral surrounded by the painted and perfumed. He is here now, and He promises you, ‘I will never desert you, nor will I ever forsake you. I stand at the door and knock, if anyone hears My voice and opens the door, I will come in to Him, and will dine with Him, and he with Me.’ That’s His promise, dearly beloved, in plain words. No obscurities, no highfalutin ‘interpretation,’ no so-called ‘allegorical meanings.’ Christ Himself is waiting for you, if only you will ask.
“And if you do ask, if you are born again in Jesus, if He washes away your sins and you reach that state of grace…what then? I read you the first half of God’s promise to the faithful. You will hear the Shout, you will hear the great Trumpet sounding His advent, as He promised, and the dead in Christ shall rise again. Those dry bones will rise again and be covered with living, healthy flesh.
“Then what?
“Hear the words of the Lord: ‘Then we which are alive’—That’s you and me, brothers and sisters; God is talking about us. ‘Then we. which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air and so shall we ever be with the Lord’!
“So shall we ever be! So shall we ever be! With the Lord in Heaven!”
“Hallelujah!”
“Bless His Name!”
“Amen! Amen!”
(I found that I was one of those saying “Amen!”)
“But there’s a price. There are no free tickets to Heaven. What happens if you don’t ask Jesus to help you? What if you ignore His offer to be washed free of sin and reborn in the blood of the Lamb? What then? Well? Answer me!”
The congregation was still save for heavy breathing, then a voice from the back said, not loudly, “Hellfire.”
“Hellfire and damnation! Not for just a little while but through all eternity! Not some mystical, allegorical fire that singes only your peace of mind and burns no more than a Fourth of July sparkler. This is the real thing, a raging fire, as real as this.” Brother Barnaby slapped the pulpit with a crack that could be heard throughout the tent. “The sort of fire that makes a baseburner glow cherry red, then white. And you are in that fire, Sinner, and the ghastly pain goes on and on, and it never stops. Never! There’s no hope for you. No use asking for a second chance. You’ve had your second chance…and your millionth chance. And more. For two thousand years sweet Jesus has been begging you, pleading with you, to accept from Him that for which He died in agony on the Cross to give you. So, once you are burning in that fiery Pit and trying to cough up the brimstone—that’s sulfur, plain ordinary sulfur, burning and stinking, and it will burn your lungs and blister your sinful hide!—when you’re roasting deep in the Pit for your sins, don’t go whining about how dreadful it hurts and how you didn’t know it would be like that. Jesus knows all about pain; He died on the Cross. He died for you. But you wouldn’t listen and now you’re down in the Pit and whining.
“And there you’ll stay, suffering burning agony throughout eternity! Your whines can’t be heard from down in the Pit; they are drowned out by the screams of billions of other sinners!”
Brother Barnaby lowered his voice to conversational level. “Do you want to burn in the Pit?”
“No!”—“Never!”—“Jesus save us!”
“Jesus will save you, if you ask Him to. Those who died in Christ are saved, we read about them. Those alive when He returns will be saved if they are born again and remain in that state of grace. He promised us that He would return, and that Satan would be chained for a thousand years while He rules in peace and justice here on earth. That’s the Millennium, folks, that’s the great day at hand. After that thousand years Satan will be loosed for a little while and the final battle will be fought. There’ll be war in Heaven. The Archangel Michael will be the general for our side, leading God’s angels against the Dragon—that’s Satan again—and his host of fallen angels. And Satan lost—will lose, that is, a thousand years from now. And nevermore will he be seen in Heaven.
“But that’s a thousand years from now, dear friends. You will live to see it …if you accept Jesus and are born again before that Trumpet blast that signals His return. When will that be? Soon, soon! What does the Book say? In the Bible God
tells you not once but many times, in Isaiah, in Daniel, in Ezekiel, and in all four of the Gospels, that you will not be told the exact hour of His return. Why? So you can’t sweep the dirt under the rug, that’s why! If He told you that He would arrive New Year’s Day the year two thousand, there are those who would spend the next five and a half years consorting with lewd women, worshiping strange gods, breaking every one of the Ten Commandments…then, sometime Christmas Week nineteen ninety-nine you would find them in church, crying repentance, trying to make a deal.
“No siree Bob! No cheap deals. It’s the same price to everyone. The Shout and the Trump may be months away…or you may hear it before I can finish this sentence. It’s up to you to be ready when it comes.
“But we know that it is coming soon. How? Again it’s in the Book. Signs and portents. The first, without which the rest cannot happen, is the return of the Children of Israel to the Promised Land—see Ezekiel, see Matthew, see today’s newspapers. They rebuild the Temple…and sure enough they have; it’s in the Kansas City Star. There be other signs and portents, wonders of all sorts—but the greatest are tribulations, trials to test the souls of men the way Job was tested. Can there be a better word to describe the twentieth century than ‘tribulations’?
“Wars and terrorists and assassinations and fires and plagues. And more wars. Never in history has mankind been tried so bitterly. But endure as Job endured and the end is happiness and eternal peace—the peace of God, which passeth all understanding. He offers you His hand, He loves you, He will save you.”
Brother Barnaby stopped and wiped his forehead with a large handkerchief that was already soggy from such use. The choir (perhaps at a signal from him) started singing softly, “We shall gather at the river, the beautiful, beautiful river, that flows by the throne of God—” and presently segued into:
“Just as I am, without one plea—”
Brother Barnaby got down on one knee and held out his arms to us. “Please! Won’t you answer Him? Come, accept Jesus, let Him gather you in His arms—”
The choir continued softly with:
“But that Thy blood was shed for me,
“And Thou bidd’st me come to Thee,
“O Lamb of God, I come, I come!”
And the Holy Ghost descended.
I felt Him overpower me and the joy of Jesus filled my heart. I stood up and stepped out into the aisle Only then did I remember that I had Margrethe with me. I turned and saw her staring back at me, her face filled with a sweet and deeply serious look. “Come, darling,” I whispered, and led her into the aisle. Together we went down the sawdust trail to God.
There were others ahead of us at the chancel rail. I found us a place, pushed some crutches and a truss aside, and knelt down. I placed my right hand on the rail, rested my forehead on it, while I continued to hold Marga’s hand with my left. I prayed Jesus to wash away our sins and receive us into His arms.
One of Brother Barnaby’s helpers was whispering into my ear. “How is it with you, brother?”
“I’m fine,” I said happily, “and so is my wife. Help someone who needs it.”
“Bless you, brother.” He moved on. A sister farther down was writhing and speaking in tongues; he stopped to comfort her.
I bowed my head again, then became aware of neighing and loud squeals of frightened horses and a great flapping and shaking of the canvas roof above us. I looked up and saw a split start and widen, then the canvas blew away. The ground trembled, the sky was dark.
The Trump shook my bones, the Shout was the loudest ever heard, joyous and triumphant. I helped Margrethe to her feet and smiled at her. “It’s now, darling!”
We were swept up.
We were tumbled head over heels and tossed about by a funnel cloud, a Kansas twister. I was wrenched away from Marga and tried to twist back, but could not. You can’t swim in a twister; you go where it takes you. But I knew she was safe.
The storm turned me upside down and held me there for a long moment, about two hundred feet up, The horses had broken out of the corral, and some of the people, not caught up, were milling about. The force of the twister turned me again and I stared down at the cemetery.
The graves were opening.
XXII
When the morning stars sang together,
and all the sons of God shouted for joy.
Job 38:7
The wind whipped me around, and I saw no more of the graves. By the time I was faced down again the ground was no longer in sight—just a boiling cloud glowing inside with a great light, amber and saffron and powder blue and green gold. I continued to search for Margrethe, but few people drifted near me and none was she. Never mind, the Lord would protect her. Her temporary absence could not dismay me; we had taken the only important hurdle together.
I thought about that hurdle. What a near thing! Suppose that old mare had thrown a shoe and the delay had caused us to reach that point on the road an hour later than we did? Answer: We would never have reached it. The Last Trump would have sounded while we were still on the road, with neither of us in a state of grace. Instead of being caught up into the Rapture, we would have gone to Judgment unredeemed, then straight to Hell.
Do I believe in predestination?
That is a good question. Let’s move on to questions I can answer. I floated above those clouds for a time unmeasured by me. I sometimes saw other people but no one came close enough for talk. I began to wonder when I would see our Lord Jesus—He had promised specifically that He would meet us “in the air.”
I had to remind myself that I was behaving like a little child who demands that Mama do it now and is answered, “Be patient, dear. Not yet.” God’s time and mine were not the same; the Bible said so. Judgment Day had to be a busy time and I had no concept of what duties Jesus had to carry out. Oh, yes, I did know of one; those graves opening up reminded me. Those who had died in Christ (millions? billions? more?) were to go first to meet our Father Who art in Heaven, and of course the Lord Jesus would be with them on that glorious occasion; He had promised them that.
Having figured out the reason for the delay, I relaxed. I was willing to wait my turn to see Jesus…and when I did see Him, I would ask Him to bring Margrethe and me together.
No longer worried, no longer hurried, utterly comfortable, neither hot nor cold, not hungry, not thirsty, floating as effortlessly as a cloud, I began to feel the bliss that had been promised. I slept.
I don’t know how long I slept. A long time—I had been utterly exhausted; the last three weeks had been grinding. Running a hand across my face told me that I had slept a couple of days or more; my whiskers had reached the untidy state that meant at least two days of neglect. I touched my breast pocket—yes, my trusty Gillette, gift of Marga, was still buttoned safely inside. But I had no soap, no water, no mirror.
This irritated me as I had been awakened by a bugle call (not the Great Trumpet—probably just one wielded by an angel on duty), a call that I knew without being told meant, “Wake up there! It is now your turn.”
It was indeed—so when the “roll was called up yonder” I showed up with a two-day beard. Embarrassing!
Angels handled us like traffic cops, herding us into the formations they wanted. I knew they were angels; they wore wings and white robes and were heroic in size—one that flew near me was nine or ten feet tall. They did not flap their wings (I learned later that wings were worn only for ceremony, or as badges of authority). I discovered that I could move as these traffic cops directed. I had not been able to control my motions earlier; now I could move in any direction by volition alone.
They brought us first into columns, single file, stretched out for miles (hundreds of miles? thousands?). Then they brought the columns into ranks, twelve abreast—these were stacked in layers, twelve deep. I was, unless I miscounted, number four in my rank, which was stacked three layers down. I was about two hundred places back in my column—estimated while forming up—but I could not guess how long the colu
mn was.
And we flew past the Throne of God.
But first an angel positioned himself in the air about fifty yards off our left flank. His voice carried well. “Now hear this! You will pass in review in this formation. Hold your position at all times. Guide on the creature on your left, the creature under you, and the one ahead of you. Leave ten cubits between ranks and between layers, five cubits elbow to elbow in ranks. No crowding, no breaking out of ranks, no slowing down as we pass the Throne. Anybody breaking flight discipline will be sent to the tail end of the flight…and I’m warning you now, the Son might be gone by then, with nobody but Peter or Paul or some other saint to receive the parade. Any questions?”
“How much is a cubit?”
“Two cubits is one yard. Any creature in this cohort who does not know how long a yard is?”
No one spoke up. The angel added, “Any more questions?”
A woman to my left and above me called out, “Yes! My daughter didn’t have her cough medicine with her. So I fetched it. Can you take it to her?”
“Creature, please accept my assurance that any cough your daughter manages to take with her to Heaven will be purely psychosomatic.”
“But her doctor said—”
“And in the meantime shut up and let’s get on with this parade. Special requests can be filed after arriving in Heaven.”
There were more questions, mostly silly, confirming an opinion I had kept to myself for years: Piety does not imply horse sense.
Again the trumpet sounded; our cohort’s flightmaster called out, “Forward!” Seconds later there was a single blast; he shouted, “Fly!” We moved forward.
(Note: I call this angel “he” because he seemed male. Ones that seemed to be female I refer to as “she.” I never have been sure about sex in an angel. If any. I think they are androgynous but I never had a chance to find out. Or the courage to ask.)