The Rejoicing of Herman Smith: Chapter 3 The Call

 

   “Herman Smith,” the cry echoed across the subway, “you have been called here for a purpose.” The voice sounded vaguely familiar: I knew I had heard it before, but I couldn’t quite place it. It was a voice of great authority yet great intimacy, and it rang through the subway like bells in a grand cathedral. 

   The voice kept calling me, and it kept growing closer and louder. When I turned around to see exactly who it was, I saw Him approaching. I knew who it was in an instant, yet I couldn’t believe it or accept it at that moment. It was just too otherworldly. But as I beheld Him, a great sense of peace and warmth enveloped me, and I knew then that I was completely safe in my eccentric subway dreamland. 

   “Herman Smith, you have been brought here for a purpose. I will now show you what you have been looking for,” said Jesus.

   “But I’m not looking for anything,” I blurted. “I have everything I need.” 

   The minute I said those words, I felt very uncomfortable-and very ashamed. I suddenly got a taste of my own selfish contentedness, and it didn’t taste good. Being in the Lord’s presence not only brought peace to my heart, but also a certain and clear revelation of myself that I didn’t really want to see.

   “Your heart has been searching and speaking to you for many years, child, yet you haven’t been listening to it,” He replied. 

   I knew He was right about that. The director of my life was certainly not my heart-it was my billfold. I was a hugely successful businessman, that’s for sure. But hey, didn’t that count for something? After all, I had worked hard to get to the upper rungs of the lofty ladder of professional achievement. Didn’t Jesus know that? Moreover, I was an intelligent and genuinely decent fellow, and making oodles of precious moolah was just my way of proving it.

   But just as my justification was growing into a soaring, stately edifice, His words struck it down like an implosion at a condemned building, and all that remained was a pile of dirty rubble. “The love of money is a root of all kinds of evil,” the Lord said unequivocally. “Your love of it, as well as many other idols, has caused you to wander far from Me.” 

   “Huh?” I mumbled, dazedly climbing out of my excusatory debris pile. Then, as my mind grappled for control, I scavenged deep into my manipulative heart and reminded Jesus of my generous giving at church. Certainly, that wasn’t wandering; I was one of the biggest donors in our 3,500-member Manhattan congregation. 

   “Without love your giving profits nothing, Herman, and it is only a show,” He responded firmly, peering into my self-assured eyes. 

   Boy, did He have that right. When I gave at church, I always made sure everyone knew what a great guy I was and what sublime financial sacrifices I was making. My lavish monetary gifts were always included in the church bulletin, and my name was on several “beloved donor” plaques in the church foyer. Yet in reality, I never gave more than a small pittance of my sizeable Wall Street income. I never let anyone know that little secret, though. Besides, who, really, was keeping track?

   “Where your treasure is, there is your heart, Herman,” Jesus continued, still gazing into my now-rueful eyes.

   As His words sank deep into my heart, I realized that my masterly manipulations weren’t going to work with the Master; more than that, I discerned that they were quite wicked. Seemingly, that evil platform had turned into a mirror of sorts, or maybe Jesus Himself was the burnished bronze-framed looking glass. Either way, at that moment I wanted to run and hide in order to escape my inglorious reflection, yet there was nowhere to go. Jesus must have known my thoughts, however, because when I looked at Him, I saw great kindness and patience radiating from His eyes. “I am your hiding place, Herman, and if you come to Me I will never cast you out,” He affirmed.

   With that, Jesus escorted me across the platform and past the people who were still committing cruel and deviant acts. “How I long to gather them in My arms,” He whispered mournfully as we passed a distraught teenage girl. Her face wrinkled with pain, the adolescent was cutting herself with a knife.

   “Why am I here on this planet of heartache? Why is misery my only companion?” she groaned, looking at but not seeing Jesus as streams of blood surged from her wrists.

   Like myself, Jesus was invisible to the underground inhabitants, but they were not invisible to Him. As I turned and gazed into the Lord’s telling eyes, I understood His tremendous affection for that venal assembly. He looked at each one of them so lovingly and longingly, like you do your own child when he or she hurts. Even so, He gazed upon each individual with greater and more intense compassion and desire than I could ever know that suddenly I felt very inadequate as a father. If only I could love so greatly, my heart and mind pounded. 

   I also witnessed a burning anger in Jesus’ eyes. I could tell just by looking into those eyes of blazing fire that the lawless events on the platform were not in any way, shape, or form His desire or His will. That subway platform was a deep and evil pit, and I knew He wanted to eradicate the misery it contained. Indeed, His fiery eyes screamed deliverance, and they roared justice.

   When we approached the janitor’s closet, Jesus told me not to worry. The little girl was not in there any longer, and she was safe. “Everything is in My hands,” He assured.

   “Yes, Jesus. In Your hands, Jesus,” I replied, nodding.

   After climbing the subway stairs, we made our way outside and walked over to a small park. Strangely, the wind was still howling and blowing dirt and trash all over the place, but in the immediate area around the Lord, all was calm and peaceful. It was as if the elements had surrendered and were bowing before Him, and that park had become the stool beneath His nail-scarred feet. As we sat down on the park grass, Jesus began explaining to me what I had witnessed on the platform. 

   “The people you saw on the subway train and platform are lost,” He said. “They are on a broad and swift path to destruction, not only in this life, but also in the eternity to come. They are without Me, and therefore they are without hope in this world. They are deceived and enslaved by all kinds of lusts, living in malice and envy, being hated and hating one another. They are dead in their transgressions and sins, and they are following the ways of the world and the ruler of the kingdom of the air, the spirit who is at work in their disobedient lives.” 

   Although His words seemed somewhat severe, I knew they were true. A hopeless hate did indeed pervade the eyes, hearts, and actions of the people on the platform, and the subway train “zombies” had certainly been the epitome of a slavish and forlorn lifelessness.

   “They are spiritually dead,” He continued, “and I am letting you see in the spiritual realm truth that will set you and those who believe free. These people, like all people who do not abide in Me, go from one day to the next, from one stop to another, with no direction or purpose for their lives. They get out on the platform of life and abuse themselves and each other. They live deceived, thinking their choices in life have no eternal consequences; however, as they sow sin, they reap death-in each and every area of their lives. Some, like you saw on the platform, love the darkness and love bringing it to others, and they will not come to the light. For others, life is so painful they crave a way out. Their battered hearts are crying out for love and acceptance, and they are desperately seeking an answer.

   “Look around you, Herman. The ruins you see are a vivid representation of human lives without Me. As this city is empty and devastated, with an inner recess of lawlessness and abuse, so people who do not dwell in Me are barren and broken, their hearts full of sin and iniquity. And like the howling wind you hear around us, they groan for My deliverance.”

   Sadly, my response was one of clear and quick avoidance of responsibility concerning the matter. “Jesus, I’m a nice guy with a nice family, and I don’t feel like this is really any of my business. Isn’t this something the pastor or the elders of my church should see, not me? I attend church faithfully, but my place in life is in the business world, not the spiritual one. Certainly, this heavy-duty spiritual stuff belongs to church leadership, not to me. I haven’t even been to seminary!” I replied with a heavy dose of consternation in my voice. 

   Wow. I was stunned at how the evasive and cowardly words had popped out of my mouth so easily. Being in the Lord’s presence sure brought out the real Herman. Yes, the masks were flying off one right after another that surreal day.

   “Herman, that is a great lie,” He answered firmly. “All those who embrace Me are called to My service, not just those with titles or degrees. And to do My service, the qualifications I desire are simply love, trust, and obedience. The degree I am looking for is a pure heart, and the title I wish My people to embrace is that of servant.” 

   Unable to grasp the true magnitude of what He was saying, I responded with only a furrowing of my brow and a few nods of my carnal head. My heart, however, jumped in response to His truthful wisdom. His grace-filled words penetrated the deepest parts of my soul, and they seemed to be alive and breathing. They definitely awakened areas in my heart that had been asleep-and dead-for a long time.

   Soon after that, the little redheaded girl came skipping up to us and jumped onto the Lord’s lap. “I love You, Jesus,” she chirped, hugging Him. 

   “I love you, precious one,” Jesus replied. With the affection of a father, He stroked her hair and gave her a big kiss on the cheek before scooting her onward. She skipped off like the happiest little girl I had ever seen, and boy did she make Him smile. “Her name is Hanna,” He said proudly. “She is one of My chosen.”  

   Jesus then got up from the park grass and held His hand out to me. Seeing a deep wound in it, I gasped and abruptly turned my face away from His. Guilt quickly rose up inside me-and seemingly, all around me-as I realized that my sins had caused the injury.

   “Herman, the price has been paid. I love you,” Jesus stated, turning my face toward His.  

   As I gazed into His eyes once again, His lovely countenance exuded compassion, and the words He spoke became a warm rush of wind that whisked away my guilt and shame to a far distant place. Instantly the keen sense of condemnation that had engulfed me was replaced with an even keener sense of mercy, and at that moment I felt completely free and entirely forgiven. Oddly, I also felt a strong desire to get up and dance, which was something I hated to do (and couldn’t do very well). But, inhibited by my out-of-the-ordinary circumstances, I said no to the unfamiliar desire and kept my legs stationary.

   “Whom I set free is free indeed,” Jesus said with a smile, knowing my thoughts. He then helped me onto my feet, and we made our way back to the subway. “There is much more for you to learn. Let My truth continue to set you free, Herman,” He urged when we approached the entrance. 

   As I followed Jesus onto the platform, it was evident that things there were deteriorating rapidly. The bleeding lady was still sprawled out on the floor, feebly breathing out the words “please help me” to those around her. Even so, no one responded-except the murderer. Running to and standing ominously over the pitiable woman, he glared at her sadistically, but then merely shook his head in disgust, kicked her a few times, and walked over to the chained teenage boy who was now unconscious.

   At that point the heavyset, dressed-in-black aggressor arrived on the scene. A demonic hate behind his eyes, he pointed at the boy and yelled, “No one has the keys! No one has the keys! Your heart will never be set free!”

   “Never free! Never free! You’ll never be free around me!” the murderer joined the verbal torment. Then, looking left and right down the subway tunnel to see if a train was coming, he heaved the boy onto the tracks and screamed, “Hurry up, you stupid train! Hurry up!” 

   Heart racing and head shaking, I hoped, Man, I hope one isn’t coming soon. What an evil brute this murderer is. 

   “You think he’s evil, Herman?” Jesus asked, knowing my thoughts. 

   “Yes, I do,” I answered. “He’s absolutely wicked.” 

   “Look at him closely,” the Lord directed. 

   So I walked closer to the fiend, and, peering upon his face, I couldn’t believe my eyes. My heart sank into my stomach as I realized who it was. “It can’t be! It just can’t be!” I kept repeating. 

   But it was. It was my pastor, Reverend Bob Holgray. Stunned, I began to sob uncontrollably and didn’t stop until Jesus put His hand on my back and beckoned me to get up. His gentle touch was like a warm honey that flowed into my heart and made it feel so very safe, sweet, and pleasant. What’s more, when He touched me, I felt the profuse bleeding in my own heart disappear, not knowing it was bleeding until I felt the bitter stream stop.

   “Herman, you are wondering what Bob is doing here committing these grievous acts,” Jesus said. “Let Me show you the lives of Brian, the man he stabbed; Susan, the woman whose bleeding he ignored; and Trisha, the teenager he raped.” I then received a revelatory glimpse into the lives, minds, and hearts of each of those dear people, and what I saw seemed to awaken me out of the dream I was in, yet at the same time slip me into another, much more offensive one. 

   The first life I observed in my revelation was that of Brian. Brian was actually a member of Bob’s congregation and had been going there for about five years; he had started attending soon after he lost his beloved wife to lung cancer. After his devastating loss, Brian knew that he needed something meaningful in his life, and he figured church was the place to find it. But as he attended our Sunday morning service (which was the only one we had) week after week, month after month, and year after year, Brian wasn’t finding much meaning. The services were mechanical and impersonal, and he didn’t make any real friends in the church. It was so big that he just went in and out each Sunday with no real connective influence. Likewise, he found it difficult to infiltrate the elite cliques that dominated our fellowship. Wealth and social position were needed to accomplish such, and Brian, a retired janitor, had neither. And unfortunately, Bob wouldn’t allow any smaller home groups to meet. “They are superfluous and dangerously uncontrollable,” he preached. “All you need out of church, dear sheep, is in this building every Sunday morning and in our trained, degreed elders.”  

   In addition, Bob’s sermons were less than encouraging-and sometimes rather berating. Bob sermonized incessantly about the sinful congregation’s need to be more holy and faithful to his assembly, and his messages always emphasized the need to give money, more money…and yet more money. “Don’t disappoint the Lord! Give all that you can to us, thereby proving indisputably that you are a good and faithful Christian!” he declared weekly.

   And Brian dutifully and zealously answered his pastor’s persistent call. “I’ll give God all I have, if that’s what He wants,” he repeatedly told Bob and the elders. Sometimes, Brian gave so much of his money to the church that he had nothing left to live on; in fact, he routinely gave away most of his social security check. Consequently, as that income was all he had to live on each month, he had to go to the local food pantry regularly just to survive. But Brian’s benevolence, and the rest of the congregation’s, never seemed to satisfy Bob, as the church always seemed to be in a hole financially. “Don’t let this holy boat continue to sink!” was the reverend’s customary Sunday morning benediction. (Unbelievably, he had even nicknamed our church the “Golden Vessel,” asserting that the congregants’ liberal giving was the heavenly mandated deckhand labor that would keep it forever afloat-and a member of the Prodigious Church Yacht Club.)

   Yet Pastor Bob was never in a hole. His tithe-subsidized summer mansion in the Hamptons attested to that fact, as did his 50-foot million-dollar (very much afloat) yacht there and his annual month-long vacations to Aruba, Aspen, and Paris. Brian couldn’t ever figure that out; however, he didn’t try. No, he didn’t want to judge anyone. Bob, our trusted leader, probably deserves to get rich off the offerings. And besides, it’s really none of my business, he presumed. To be sure, Brian simply wanted to do his best to live completely holy and completely righteously, as God-through Bob-so intently commanded. 

   Brian also felt a deep sense of condemnation when he left church each week. But he determined it was merely the shameful effect of his inability to measure up to God’s holy standards, so each day he would determinedly plan to do better. I’m going to be perfect, just like Bob tells us to. No, I won’t sin one single time today, he promised himself each morning.

   Nonetheless, all of Brian’s efforts seemed to be in vain, because no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t keep all of the pastor’s exacting rules. There were just too many of them, and they were just too difficult. From decrees on church attendance to “neo-tithing” (Old Testament tithing laws are different and much more complex than contemporary traditional rule), to church dress codes, to conforming church and social behavior, to verbal restrictions inside and outside of church, to dietary limitations, to emotional restraint and suppression, to unqualified obedience to church eldership-they were simply too much. Furthermore, Bob never told the congregation how to keep the many regulations he preached about. He just told them to “live utterly righteously, or you will pay the price.” 

   And Brian was paying the price. He was so very tired and worn-out from trying to measure up: emotionally, financially, physically, mentally, and spiritually, the belabored congregant was exhausted. He reminded me of the subway “riding dead” who had looked so weary and heavy laden; certainly, Brian appeared as if he needed a whole lot of peaceful rest and a whole, whole lot of reprieve from Bob’s draconian dogmatism. 

   However, the real clincher came when Brian went to Bob for counseling. He needed help for the overwhelming grief that he was still going through due to his wife’s death, and he figured the senior pastor (who had a doctorate degree in ministry and counseling) was the person to go to. But tragically, the prescription Brian received was one of death, not life.

   Bob brusquely informed the grieving counselee that his spouse’s death was God’s righteous judgment. Brian and his wife were not regular church attendees or even church members before her death, and to Bob that spelled divine punishment. “Just be a completely faithful member from now on and keep tithing, and then God will keep you from the judgment that your wife deservedly incurred. And as you give above and beyond the tithe, God will take some of your grief away. Amen, sow charity, and then you’ll reap it,” counseled the pastor. That callous instruction was like a knife in the heart to Brian. He began to believe that God was just as unmerciful and legalistic-and financially motivated-as Bob had represented, and he became bitter and angry at both the church and God. That was the beginning of his untimely death.

   Brian left church just a few weeks after that counseling session, and within a year, he died from a drug and alcohol overdose. In a suicide note, he explained: “I have nothing and no one to live for anymore. If a compassionate God is beyond reach, what’s the use of going on?”

   At Brian’s funeral, Bob warned the congregation to keep tithing and attending church dutifully or they, too, would lose their souls. “Do not follow Brian’s example,” he preached, “or you, also, will incur the wrath of a holy God.”

   Jesus’ revelation continued with Susan, Bob’s neighbor. She was a stay-at-home mother of three small children, and her husband was the manager of a large Manhattan department store. Financially they were doing well: they lived next door to Bob and his family in a very comfortable apartment overlooking Central Park. But Susan had many problems. She had endured repeated sexual abuse in her childhood and had never been healed of its lingering effects. The anger and hurt she carried in her heart exploded in verbal assaults on her children, husband, and neighbors. She hated doing it, but couldn’t seem to stop. 

   Bob stayed away from Susan; he never visited her or her family. To him, they were the “impious heathens” across the wall. Year after year, Susan bled emotionally from the pain of her past abuse, and year after year, Bob ignored her. “She’s trouble and on her way to hell,” he told himself. “It’s best to stay away from that kind of a mess. Some people are out-and-out trash, and nobody, not even God, can do a single thing about it.”

   Yet Susan’s heart was anything but trash. She was so tired of the emotional pain and so very desperate for help, but she didn’t know where or how to find it. She had tried several psychologists, but they were unable to take any of the mounting hurt away. Her heart felt like your finger does when you hit it with a hammer or close it in a door: it thumped, ached, and throbbed relentlessly from the intense emotional pain, which was stealing her mind away as well. She needed an answer, yet nobody in her circle of life had one. Susan knew that Bob was a prominent and esteemed pastor; all the same, the prominent and esteemed pastor always ignored her. Consequently, she thought that God was ignoring and rejecting her as well. God must hate me, because Reverend Bob, a representative of God, sure does, she conjectured more than once.

   After time, Susan began to pretend the abuse never happened. She simply blocked it out of her mind and tried to put the pain behind her. But in reality, she just kept bleeding and bleeding emotionally. And Bob kept going on with his “successful” ministry. In fact, I remembered then that Bob was going to be promoted soon to the position of district overseer. I began to wonder how he had moved up in church leadership without being a real spiritual leader. Wasn’t anyone paying attention? I marveled.  

   As I watched Susan’s life and Bob’s response to it, I groaned as I remembered the Good Samaritan Bible story I had heard decades earlier in Sunday school. In it, one day a Jewish priest and then a Levite unconcernedly passed by a man who had been beaten and left for dead on the Jericho-to-Jerusalem road. Summoned by the selfishness and apathy of their own sacrosanct lives, the two religious elites didn’t have the heart or the time to help the wounded man. Indeed, a possible unclean corpse was not a regard for those divines. On the other hand, a despised foreigner called a Samaritan eventually stopped and helped the injured man, mercifully bandaging his wounds and even paying someone to take care of him.

   Pondering the story, I then knew firsthand the difference between religion and love. Religion was consumed with self and the glory of self; love was consumed with others and the glory of others. Love had stopped to help the wounded man on the side of the road, and it would have stopped to help the bleeding wife across the apartment wall.

   Suddenly, I felt acutely ashamed of the pastor (and the church) that I had known and served for so many years. Wasn’t the pastor or leader of a church supposed to represent a loving Jesus, not a disinterested and heartless Jesus? But then the thought occurred to me, How many emotionally and spiritually wounded people had I, a very respected church member, passed by on my road to riches and success? I went to church and called myself a “good” Christian, so why wasn’t I loving others as the Good Samaritan did? As I considered the questions, I knew that I, too, had ignored many, many people on my fast-moving road to financial and social success, and I quickly realized that I was not much different from Bob. My life was just as self-centered and spiritually pretending as his was. The only disparity: I wasn’t preaching from a church pulpit-I was preaching from life’s pulpit. 

   Jesus’ revelation ended with Trisha, a beautiful, shapely young teenager whose parents were dedicated members of our congregation. Bob was keenly attracted to her, and he often took her aside to “minister” to her. When he did, Bob told Trisha that it would help her gain access to God if she were physically close to him, because he was spiritually close to God. She believed him and gave in to his advances, which were aggressive in nature and regular in occurrence. What’s more, their liaisons took place right in the middle of the church sanctuary, immediately after the youth group met on Wednesday nights. “As we solidify our union in God’s house, He’ll accept the love we have for each other-love that He wants us to nurture and hold dear,” Bob told Trisha each time he molested her. 

   The reverend also told Trisha that if she let anyone know what was going on with them, it would embarrass and destroy her “unspiritual, unlearned-in-the-higher-ways-of-grace” family, and God did not want that. So the trusting minor kept quiet, and before long she became a confused, rebellious, and sullen young adult. Her grades dropped in school, she began taking drugs, and she became suicidal. Trisha’s worried parents couldn’t figure out what was wrong with their daughter; moreover, when they took her to counseling at the church, she rebelled even more. And of course, Bob-the counselor-was always there to comfort Trisha and assure her that she was loved, beautiful, and a wonderful help to him.

   “God is pleased with your valuable offerings,” the trust-swindling pastor told her. “You’re sowing seeds of love that will grow into a tall, fruitful tree of eternal reward. You, my dear, are chosen and you are blessed.” But the vulnerable teen didn’t feel very blessed. On the contrary, she felt dirty, used, and worthless-and she felt betrayed. With diabolical skillfulness, Bob had taken an innocent life and turned it into one of sorrow and turmoil. Appallingly, the pastor had used his position for profit financially, mentally, emotionally, and sexually.

   “Bob sold me out a long time ago,” Jesus said after showing me those three lives. “There are many people who make a profit out of Me and claim that they are Mine. Judas was just the first to betray Me with a kiss.”

   I couldn’t believe what I had just seen, much less what I had just heard. Bob and I had known each other for years. I had always looked up to him, and he had always personally thanked me for my large donations. My heart incautious when it came to the clergy, I had never expected anything but propriety from him.

   Then again, over the many years that I had attended Bob’s church, I didn’t really want to see or hear much of anything. I simply wanted to fulfill my religious duty and get in and out each Sunday as quickly as possible. With no time to waste, I had a ladder to finish climbing and people to see, and my golden and lofty ladder wasn’t in church-it was on Wall Street.

   In fact, our church had just voted on a motion to reduce Sunday service time from an hour to forty-five minutes, and to my delight, it had passed overwhelmingly. We had all figured that forty-five minutes was certainly enough time to repeat our prayers, sing a song or two, and listen to Bob’s eloquent sermon. But at that poignant moment, I realized just how much we needed forty-five hours a week in church, not just forty-five minutes. Yes, we all needed more than religion: we needed change. And I knew that I needed it desperately.

   Jesus and I continued to stand on the platform until I had seen enough pain and sin to last a lifetime. But as I kept watching, I began to see with different eyes and a different heart. I saw dying people who were thirsting for life. I saw imprisoned souls who were desperate for emancipation from the abusive and tormenting captivity of sin-souls who were longing and crying out for a loving Liberator. I saw people who were blindly walking a path into destruction and eternal death, and my heart ached for them. Yet I knew it was His ache, not mine. Indeed, my heart had been touched by His love, and it would never be the same again.

   “I am the way, the truth, and the life, and I am the light of the world. Those who trust in Me and lean on Me wholeheartedly will not perish but will have everlasting life. Herman, you must tell people of Me. Tell them to come to Me, and I will give them rest. My Spirit will guide you and help you do all that I ask and command. Listen to Him. Unless you abide in Me, however, you will not bear fruit. Abiding in religion or your own works will not profit. You must live and move in Me, and you must take up your cross daily and follow Me. As you do so, I will make Myself known to you deeply. I am calling you to be a light in this dark world, Herman. You have been looking for the purpose to your life, son. I AM that purpose.” 

   And with those gripping words, my dream ended.