Consequence (3 page)

When I get home, my father calls the police. The police officer is large and intimidating. He sits down at the dining room table and listens to my story. He laughs when I talk about no one answering the bell at the firehouse. He says, “Fucking firemen.” My dad and I laugh, too. The police officer says I did everything right. He says they know about the apartment complex. It has a reputation for this type of thing. They probably won't be able to catch the guy, but they'll certainly be looking for him.

The next morning I walk to the apartment complex to deliver the papers. I'm scared. I arrive to find that same police officer parked across the street. He stays until I finish the route.

1.1

Eventually high school becomes a better place. I can do pull-ups. I have friends. I begin dating a girl from church. She French-kisses me in the church parking lot.

I don't think I'm supposed to be kissing girls at church, so I don't tell Don. But it isn't difficult for him to find out from others what's going on, so he pulls me aside and talks about how it's best to avoid shallow relationships at my age.

I break up with the girl from church, but only for a short time. I like the way she looks, I like the way it feels to be next to her, and I like the things she does to me in the church parking lot. And there are other girls too, including ones who don't go to church. But Don's words mean a great deal to me, so I do not have sex. I'm afraid to do something that can't be undone.

In 1988, during my sophomore year in high school, I begin attending youth group meetings on Sunday nights. But instead of the quiet and reserved services I've come to love in the sanctuary, there are drums, guitars, and lots of clapping.

Don does not always attend the meetings on Sunday nights. When he doesn't, volunteer leaders, college students mostly, talk about Jesus and being born again. One Sunday night, a volunteer leader stands up in front of the group and tells us about how Jesus died. He tells us to stand up and lift our arms in the air. When some of us start to struggle, he yells at us to hold our positions. He says we could never handle what Jesus did for us on the cross. You can't breathe, so you have to hold your weight up with your arms, and eventually they give out and you suffocate to death. I don't think that I had anything to do with Jesus dying in this horrible way. I don't think I would ever ask someone to do something like this. I don't think I need to be saved.

When I attend the Sunday night youth group meetings, I sit in the back, stay silent, and watch others clap their hands and talk about being born again.

1.2

In December 1989, the United States invades Panama. In history class, Mr. Deutsch makes us read newspapers. I read an article in the
New York Times
about the 82nd Airborne Division and its role in the invasion. The article says the 82nd Airborne represents the best the country has to offer. They are men who lead by example and do not draw attention to themselves. They are quiet professionals who do impressive things like kill bad guys and feed starving refugees all on the same day.

By 1990, my senior year in high school, I no longer take beatings under the overpass. I take honors-level courses and participate in the high school activities that my guidance counselor says will make me look more impressive on my college applications. I apply to a variety of small liberal arts colleges in Pennsylvania and New England, but I also spend time in the Army recruiting office. The church has played a critical role in my life. Men like Don Hackett offered a safe place where I could grow and mature. I want to offer that same protection to others. I want to be like the police officer who showed up at my paper route. I want to be a quiet professional who saves starving refugees.

Don says a calling is a way of defining our choices in life. We don't hear a voice or have a vision. Instead, we rely on those we trust to help us make good decisions. When the process is done properly, we honor God with the choices we make. I tell Don that I feel called to law enforcement. Don tells me that I can't just make that decision on my own. He says you have to follow a path, not create one.

Don and I talk about the difficulty of being a soldier while still following Christian tenets such as turning the other cheek and loving your enemy. But Don says there are different ways to love your enemy. He says the world can be a difficult place. He says sometimes God calls us to do what is necessary to protect people. I ask him about war. I ask him about killing. He says, “Sometimes it's okay to lie to evil.”

1.3

During my childhood, when my father wasn't grading papers or preparing lesson plans, he was working a second job stocking shelves and manning the register at Pennsylvania State liquor stores. My mother eventually turned her substitute-teaching position into a full-time job teaching high school biology. My parents are supportive of my decision to pursue a career in law enforcement, but they insist that I attend college first. They are adamant about the importance and value of a four-year degree. They have saved their money for a reason. Before I graduate high school, they agree to shoulder the entire cost of my education.

I receive a number of acceptance letters from small Pennsylvania colleges. But there is also an acceptance letter from Gordon College, a small Christian school in Wenham, Massachusetts, so I attend a weekend for prospective students.

I spend the weekend with Roy Carson, a Gordon College sophomore. I go to class with him, eat in the dining facility, and sleep in his dorm room. Roy is fat. He sweats constantly. His skin leaks grease. His slick hair sticks to the pimples on the back of his neck. He talks constantly. He won't let you say anything. He barely pauses to take a breath.

I am embarrassed to be seen with Roy, but Gordon College students are not. They stop and take time to talk to him. They listen intently as he rambles on and interrupts anyone who tries to speak. They shake his hand or give him a hug. They ask him to sit with them at dinner and invite him to evening gatherings. I can picture Roy Carson as a student at Nitschmann Middle School. And I can picture him failing the presidential fitness test. But I don't think anyone at Gordon would care.

The curriculum and special religious focus at Gordon College hold no special interest for me. I don't care about learning economics from a Christian perspective or hearing a biblical viewpoint in a science class. Instead, I think about the terrible days at Liberty High School. I think about the beatings and the sleepless nights and how hard it was to concentrate in Mr. Wetcher's algebra class. If my parents are going to force me to go to college, I want to go somewhere safe. I enroll as a student at Gordon College.

1.4

In the fall of 1990, I spend my first semester at college adjusting to life in a Christian dorm. Wood Hall is the oldest dorm on campus. Half of the building is reserved for male students, the other half for female. There are visiting hours for the opposite sex on the weekends, but only in the evenings. While there is no prohibition against dating, students of the opposite sex are forbidden to make public displays of affection. Some students push the envelope by holding hands. The girl from First Presbyterian Church visits me on campus and we push the envelope even further.

I meet students from a variety of Christian backgrounds. Many attended private Christian high schools that funnel them into Christian colleges like Gordon. Some of them talk about the dangers of a secular education and the effect it can have on faith. During a class on the New Testament, students debate the origins and efficacy of infant baptism. A student stands up and says anyone who was baptized as an infant needs to be baptized again. There is some disagreement, but most students concede that babies can't accept Christ. Someone else tries to argue that if you aren't baptized as an adult you aren't really Christian, but the professor says this is going too far.

The sentiment reminds me of the Sunday night youth group meetings at First Presbyterian Church, where youth leaders taught us that you needed to be saved to belong. I am uncomfortable, but I stay silent. I want to be safe at Gordon, I don't want to be a target again, so I avoid defending anyone my classmates say doesn't belong.

1.5

The week before Thanksgiving of my first semester at Gordon, someone hands me a pamphlet advertising a support group for students from non-Christian homes. At the bottom, there is a series of questions.

Do you pray regularly with your family?

Do you read Scripture with your family?

Do your parents speak the name of Jesus?

Were you baptized as an adult?

I answer no to these questions. I tally up my score. The score says it is possible I do not come from a Christian home.

I attend the support group meeting along with other students who may not come from Christian homes. I meet two other Presbyterians. The leader of the group gives a talk about visiting churches where the congregants don't even carry Bibles. He says this is very dangerous. He says there are houses throughout America where the name of Jesus is never mentioned.

At Thanksgiving, I return home and show Don the pamphlet. I ask him if I should be concerned about my family's Christianity. My parents never talked about issues of faith around the dinner table. My grandmother never talked about Jesus. Instead, my family talked about history, biology, and books. I ask Don whether it's possible that my family isn't Christian at all.

Don is furious. He says, “You don't choose God. God chooses you.” Don reminds me of all the Scripture I've memorized and all the verses about fools and the foolish things they say. He reminds me that I've told him I feel called to protect people, but I won't even defend my own family. He tells me my grandmother is the kindest and quietest person any of us have ever met. He says, “That's the voice you should be listening to.”

1.6

In January 1991 I sit in the common room at Gordon College and watch the beginning of Operation Desert Storm. Someone says they heard the draft will be implemented by the end of the week. Someone else says students from Christian colleges will be exempt. Students talk about just war theory and the writings of Augustine. No one talks about joining the military.

I think about the recruiters from Bethlehem. I think of Mr. Kave and Mr. Gentry. I think of helicopters being shot down with tennis balls and of young children sticking grenades into the pockets of American soldiers. I think of the quiet professionals of the 82nd Airborne Division who feed starving refugees. I think of students skipping out on chapel. I think of long discussions about infant baptism and the pamphlet from the support group that suggested I might not come from a Christian home.

In Bethlehem, Don offers me a summer job working at the church as an associate in youth ministry. I spend the summer leading Bible study groups for middle school students and taking them to amusement parks and baseball games. I organize a popular Frisbee match on Sunday afternoons on the church's front lawn. I lead a camping trip into the Pocono Mountains and I organize work crews to assist the local soup kitchen. In the Middle East, U.S. troops are celebrating an overwhelming victory against Iraq. But the Kuwaiti oil fires continue to burn, and there is talk about Saddam Hussein hiding his weapons. And I'm ashamed not to be involved.

1.7

In the fall of 1991, back at Gordon College, I take a class on Romans and Galatians. The professor, William Buehler, a veteran, has taught theology since the 1960s. During the first class of the semester, Buehler gives a lecture on the dangers of the modern church. He complains about overhead projectors: “When I walk into a church service with an overhead projector, I turn around and walk back out.” He also talks about guitars and drum sets. He says, “And, for God's sake, there should be no clapping in church. It's not a Broadway musical.”

The first chapter of Romans talks about men committing shameless acts with other men, which leads to a debate about homosexuality. Some quote other parts of Romans and say homosexuality is being compared to murder. They say Paul may even be suggesting we put homosexuals to death. As in the conversation about baptizing babies, I choose to stay silent. I avoid becoming a target.

Buehler says the comparison of gays to murderers is the type of thinking he finds at churches with overhead projectors. He encourages us to read through Romans and Galatians before deciding we know what Paul thinks. He tells us to grow up and see the world. “Join the military,” he says. “And while you're at it, transfer out of Gordon, get a real education.”

In 1992, after three semesters at Gordon College, I transfer to Boston University. I doubt Buehler was seriously encouraging us to leave Gordon. But Gordon showed me something essential about how the church could move away from its responsibility to care and protect and instead choose to condemn and accuse. I was too afraid to confront it, so I left.

I move into a Boston University dorm on Beacon Street over Christmas break in 1992. I arrive a few days early, to attend an orientation program designed for transfer students. The room is a double but there is only one bed. With the help of a janitor, I find the other bed stacked in a closet down the hall. I clear space in the room and carve out my territory. I hear footsteps, then keys, then the door. Mike, my new roommate, curses and throws his bags. He says the school promised him he wouldn't be getting a roommate. He has a ton of work to do this semester and he can't afford to have someone in the way. My Gordon College sweatshirt is hanging on the back of my chair. He says, “Gordon College? Oh, fuck no.” He calls the housing office. They deny his request for a single room. He throws the phone and leaves the room.

His girlfriend moves in with us. At night they are loud. In the mornings, Mike says, “Are you sure you don't want to look for a new room?” I spend a great deal of time in the library trying to hear God. I take an introductory philosophy class and read
The Myth of Sisyphus,
by Albert Camus.