T. Bunn - The Great Divide

“I know.”

“Not because I couldn’t win it. Because I was afraid of letting the Halls down.” He settled his head onto the backrest, easing deeper into the cushions, letting the seat take all his weight. “I guess you’ve heard about the accident with my family.”

“Alma told me. I’m so sorry.”

“I never went back to my old house. Neither did Carol, my ex-wife. I hired a mover and some friend of Carol’s supervised. Except for my clothes, I haven’t unpacked any of the boxes. I couldn’t risk accidentally coming across something that belonged to one of the kids.”

“I could do that if you like.”

The offer meant so much he had to confess, “I never wanted anyone to rely on me for anything important, not ever again. I’ve been too good at letting people down.”

“Alma said the accident wasn’t your fault.”

Marcus sighed and made do with, “I always saw my grandparents’ place as my last refuge. Somewhere I could go and take only what was comfortable.” He paused, then concluded, “It’s not the first time life has proven me wrong.”

To her credit, Kirsten did not respond. She held to her silence as she drove into the church parking lot. Only after she cut the motor did she say, “Alma and Austin both think you are the only one who can bring Gloria home. Deacon Wilbur feels the same.”

The words weighed heavily upon his entire being. Marcus opened his door and started the distressing process of unlimbering, only to be halted by a featherlight touch on his arm. He turned back to meet a gaze far keener than the day’s light. Kirsten said, “I think they are absolutely right.”

The church gleamed white beneath the slate-colored sky. The neighboring hillside was dotted with autumn colors, startling in their brilliance when all else loomed dark and gray. The building on the summit seemed washed to an ashen sullenness, as though mortally offended by Marcus’ arrival.

The congregation had always been pleasant in their welcome, gracing his arrival with genuine smiles and warm handshakes. Today the customary was not sufficient, however. Marcus was met by a charge of faces and greetings and softly spoken questions. Alma and Austin could not even make it to where he stood, for too many others moved in and claimed him as their own. Everyone seemed intent upon calling him by name. There was much laying on of hands as they ushered him inside and settled him down. Even then they still surrounded him, reaching over to pat his shoulders, arms, hands. The attention left him wounded and grateful both.

He sat by himself, Kirsten across the aisle with Alma and Austin. People stood all around him, their singing a shout of impossible harmonies. Impossible that so many voices could find so many different ways of joining together. He felt sorely alone and yet glad of it, as though the two sides of his conflicting nature were both exposed and comfortable in this noisy yet hallowed place. Here he was, both the man who sought to remove himself from the world and the man who loved to do battle. The man who scorned the fray and the one who lived for the formal jousting of courtroom wars. The man who was newly wounded and the one who could not deny that he was healing still.

Marcus found the world returning to focus, and he realized that Deacon Wilbur was walking toward the center of the stage. The audience hummed approval. Clearly this was an unexpected gift. Marcus had not heard the old man preach before.

Deacon reached forward and took hold of the podium. He did not merely stand. He gripped the wood and leaned out, scowling, fierce as a bird of prey. Through his fatigue, Marcus struggled to listen.

“You’re out there, running life’s race. The pressure is constant, the pace relentless. Is it so? Let me hear how hard it is for you folks outside these sacred doors.” Deacon Wilbur waited through the calls and the clapping, scowling and squinting, forcing those who watched to watch themselves. “Tell me, brothers. Are you tired? Speak your mind, sisters. Do you lose sight of the finishing line?”

He remained utterly unmoved by the clamor he was raising. He shouted to be heard. “Do you feel like you’re not going anywhere, you just stay busy running? Is an easy breath hard to find? Has the struggle left you wounded?”

A woman in the second row, big and made bigger by a bright scarf wrapped around her middle like a second skirt, wriggled by those blocking her way and danced into the central aisle. She shook from her head to her feet, her hands up and waving, the words a chant of startling beauty. “Hard, oh yes, Jesus, so hard, so hard!”

Deacon Wilbur remained unfazed. Only his glistening face suggested he was moved by the message. “Then the problem is, brothers and sisters, you are running alone.”

Marcus was not aware he had risen to his feet until he noticed that Deacon had become easier to see. “Brothers and sisters, just because you’re busy doesn’t mean you’re moving in the right direction. No. Can I have me an amen?”

The crowd sang its chant of accord.

“You’re not drawing closer to the goal just on account of you’re making good time. No. The task here isn’t to be busy. No. The world is full of the lost and alone, filling every crack in the mask they use to hide an empty heart with busy . Look around, see the desperate people shouting words they don’t want to hear. Just filling the world with busy, yeah, filling the void with everything they can.”

Deacon Wilbur was a man transformed, fierce and authoritative now, as though the cloak of age had been kicked aside. The old pastor’s face shone like it was coated with a fine sheen of oil. “Listen to me now, brothers and sisters. Listen good. Your very lives depend on this. Are you listening to me now?” When they shouted their attention, he said, “All right. Here’s the truth revealed. You’ve got to do your work for a higher cause. You’ve got to take your steps for something more than yourself. You’ve got to draw that next breath with something greater than your own selfish desires in mind. Can I have me an amen!”

The church rocked to the shouted response. Dozens more clustered and danced along the central aisle.

“Then you know what happens? You will rise up on eagle’s wings. Shout me an amen, brothers and sisters! You will run and never stumble. Let the Lord hear your joy!”

“Hallelujah!”

“You will strive and not grow weary, no. Sing your praise to the Lord!”

When the tumult quietened, the old man went on, “You got to work for something bigger, something finer, something eternal. You got to cross that great divide to make your work matter. You got to march over the bridge set in place by perfect sacrifice. The bridge God built for you and you alone.”

The upheaval grew more intense, the chants a song that carried no set tune, but swept like a lyrical wind through the church. “The bridge across the great divide, oh yes, it is the infinite gift. The holy gift. Yeah. And there is only one thing you can do to give it meaning, you hear what I am saying? You must accept this gift. You must aim your walk. No matter how scared you might be, looking down over the sides and seeing that chasm open up, yes, the one that looks dark as eternal night, the one that whispers words of death. Keep your eyes focused on the other side, the place where light dwells in all things. The place where you are welcome. Yes. The one place you can call home.”

Rising fatigue forced Marcus back into his seat. The weariness swelled until the words no longer mattered. Only the welcome they contained stayed with him. And that was more than enough. He looked around him, his gaze met by such open friendliness he wanted to weep. He found himself thinking of Dee Gautam’s words, about how home was the place that accepted him. Marcus found himself adding new words of his own. Perhaps home was the place that accepted him because of his needs. Not in spite of his lacks and failings; because of them. Then he shook his head a fraction. No. That would be too much to ask. Except perhaps for a single moment now and then, in a time out of time, one touched by the divine. Such as here and now.