Part 19 (1/2)
”I'm sorry, but you are not Jesus Christ, the Son of G.o.d.”
Many in the audience became visibly tense, but Nichols simply shrugged it off and gave a slight nod of concession. ”To some, I am not. To some, I am. The same was true for the carpenter from Nazareth.”
”No,” Kyle objected. ”I'm not talking about what others think. I'm talking about who you really are. If these people are seeking Jesus of Nazareth, they need to find the real one.” He looked about, raising his voice so everyone would hear him. ”The real Jesus bore your sins on a Roman cross two thousand years ago. The real one suffered nails driven through his hands.” He looked directly at Brandon Nichols. ”The real one set us free from the power of sin. Can you say that about yourself ?”
Nichols hesitated.
Kyle hit him with another question. ”Where are the nail scars?
Everyone knows the real Jesus would have them.”
Nichols remained silent and motionless. The people remained silent. The place was so silent Kyle could hear the breeze gently brus.h.i.+ng the tent canvas.
Nichols sighed and dropped his gaze, a troubled look on his face, not a word on his lips.
Kyle relaxed and let out a sigh himself. He looked around at all the faces looking back. ”I'm not here to hurt or embarra.s.s anyone, and I'm not here to force my beliefs on you. I just wanted to make a point, that's all. If you're looking for Jesus, you need to know the real one-”
”Pastor Sherman.”
Kyle-and everyone else in the room-looked at Brandon Nichols.
He was unb.u.t.toning the cuffs of his long, white sleeves, the same troubled look on his face. ”I . . .” He stopped, stole a glance heavenward, and sighed again as he looked at Kyle. ”I didn't want to press the issue. I didn't want to force belief on anyone. That's all we've done for two thousand years, and somehow . . . I just thought we might do things differently.”
He pulled his sleeves back and then extended his forearms at waist height, palms up. ”Here they are.”
Several gasps rose from the audience. People in the front rows half-stood, leaning, craning their necks to see.
”Come, Pastor Sherman. Come and see them. Place your hand on them. Touch them, and believe.”
Kyle came closer. A woman from the front row began to whimper, falling at Nichols's feet. Other people were moving into the aisle, getting in line to have a look. Dee Baylor was among them, and met Kyle's eyes only long enough to give him a look of pity. A man in front touched Nichols's arms and then nodded a confirmation to all those behind him, his eyes filling with tears.
Kyle came face to face with Brandon Nichols and looked down at the scars just above the wrists. They were elongated, ragged. The scar tissue was a dull, off-white contrasting with his tanned skin. Kyle touched them. They were real.
”I was nailed through the forearms, not the hands,” Nichols explained softly, as if sharing something just between the two of them. ”It's the way they did crucifixions.”
Kyle stared at the scars, then into the soft brown eyes, his mind confused but his heart dead certain. His words came in a strained whisper. ”You are not Jesus Christ!”
Nichols gazed down at the woman weeping, hugging his feet, and at the crowd of followers staring at him in awe. In a chilling, hushed voice he replied, ”I am now.”
12.
KYLE NEVER CALLED to tell me about his confrontation with Brandon Nichols.
Thursday evening, Brandon Nichols did.
”I'm sorry it had to happen this way, but what else could I do, Travis? He was trying to humiliate me in front of all those people.”
I let my back come to rest against the kitchen wall and tried to recover from the news. ”What did he do?”
”He turned around and left. I guess there was nothing more to say.”
”So how did you get them?”
”What, the scars?”
I was strained and impatient and my voice betrayed it. ”Yes, Brandon, the scars. How did you get them?”
He answered curtly, ”They're nail scars, Travis. Do I have to spell it out for you?” He calmed and went on. ”Anyway, I'm not mad at him. He actually did me a favor, the same as you did for Armond Harrison. Thanks to Kyle Sherman, I'm a victim, and that makes me the good guy.”
That pill was bitter and I could still taste it. ”You and Armond must have had the same teacher.”
”And today I was Kyle's teacher. Hopefully he's a little wiser now, a little less sure of things. Just like you and me.”
”Hey, don't lump me in with you.”
He snickered. ”Travis, come on, now. We're made of the same stuff. We've both been down the same road, and we have the same bruises. Kyle's just starting out, and today he got the same wake-up call we did.”
”So what was your wake-up call?”
”Mm, not too different from yours. Remember that evening service at Christian Chapel? You kind of surprised yourself, didn't you? You didn't think you'd react the way you did. That's how it was with me. I just woke up one morning and realized, Hey, I'm not so sure I buy into this. It's nice to get a revelation like that, but it puts you on the outside in a hurry, doesn't it?”
The last thing I wanted to do was agree with him, but reluctantly, even angrily, I did. ”Yeah. It does.”
”At least Marian was on the outside with you. That part I envy.” The image came to my mind instantly, still vivid and clear. It was the first time we met. She was distraught, frantic, and angry, but at the same time, the most beautiful blue-eyed, long-tressed girl I'd ever seen. ”It's a good thing she was there.”
”I'm sorry I never met her.”
”I guess I can't be too sorry about that.”
”But it's tragic. Don't you see that?”
”See what?”
”I would have healed her.”
The phone went dead. Once again, Brandon Nichols had done it-found an old doubt and thrown it in my face; ripped the scab from an old wound and left me to bleed.
And remember.
VERN. The one friend I had from earlier days in Seattle, a nice guy I grew up with. We were in youth group together back at the Allbright Gospel Tabernacle, and we were buddies in the Lord. Both of us sang soprano in the youth choir until our voices changed-Vern moved to the tenor section first and I followed six months later. We got interested in girls about the same time and consulted regularly on the science of observing them from afar. He was better at shooting baskets and never missed an opportunity to remind me. I was better on the guitar and enjoyed proving it. My model airplanes looked better, but his flew better. When I prayed at the altar to get things right with G.o.d, he prayed with me, and I with him. He was a good friend.
I hadn't seen much of Vern since my family moved from Seattle to that little island, but with nothing else happening in my life, I decided to track him down again. He was twenty-one, working for a local trucking firm, rooming with two other guys, and starting to make a life for himself. I was twenty, playing in a bluegra.s.s band in a sleazy waterfront bar in Seattle, still living at home, and spinning my wheels. He was going to an exciting new church and couldn't wait to get me interested. Despite my disillusionment, I was suffering from enough spiritual hunger to take him up on his invitation.
Christian Chapel in the south end of Seattle was exciting, all right. I used to think our little island church was dead and good old Allbright Gospel Tabernacle was on fire, but Allbright was old and stale compared to this place. When Vern first took me through the front door for a Friday night meeting, the sound of the wors.h.i.+p washed over us like a tidal wave. The place was packed, and these people did nothing halfway. They were all standing, hands raised, swaying like trees in the wind as they sang the same joyous song over and over. The wors.h.i.+p band was cooking, tambourines jingling. The song had no intelligible words, for each person in that congregation of hundreds was singing in tongues.
We found a place in a back pew. Vern set his Bible down and got right into the flow of things, raising his hands toward heaven and singing words to the song as the Spirit led him. I just stood there feeling overwhelmed and awkward-overwhelmed because it was overwhelming; awkward because all the guys had short, nicely trimmed hair and I was in my wayward, wandering musician mode with stubble on my face and hair down to my shoulders. They were wearing nice s.h.i.+rts and slacks, and I was wearing an old s.h.i.+rt and blue jeans. All the women were in dresses-long dresses. No pants anywhere. I began to dread the moment when the song would end and people would open their eyes and see me. They'd probably think I wasn't saved.