Richard Exley

The Alabaster Cross -- Chapter 1

ISBN 0-97851-370-3
Copyright © 2006 by Richard Exley

Awaking early, after a fitful night in which I slept little, I make my way to the kitchen where I get the ancient percolator going. After pouring myself a mug of the steaming brew, I make my way to the porch overlooking the small backyard. It is not yet daylight, but to the east I can see the first hint of morning breaching the darkness. There is a chill in the air but I know it won’t last once the sun pushes its way into the sky. Here on the high plaines of northeastern Colorado the nights are cool but during July and August the heat returns with a vengence each day. Taking a sip of coffee, I position myself on the porch rail and contemplate my uncertain future.

Although my mother and I were not close, her death has left me more than a little disoriented. I telephoned her infrequently and almost never came to see her; still, knowing she was here seemed to give me roots. Having lost my father at an early age, I now feel totally alone. Of course there’s my sister Helen, but we have almost nothing in common. She’s married to a local minister and to my way of thinking is something of a religious fanatic, while I haven’t darkened a church door since I left home nearly ten years ago.

I am twenty-nine years old, and, although I would never admit it, my life is pretty much a mess. I dropped out of college after two years, and since then I have drifted from one dead-end job to another. Currently I’m a lineman for the power company, a good enough job as jobs go, but not something I want to do for the rest of my life. My divorce was final a few weeks ago, and I’m still reeling from the fallout. Thankfully there were no children, or things could have been worse.

My wife, or I should say ex-wife, said she loved me but she could no longer bear to watch me destroying myself. Protesting, I said, “I don’t drink or do drugs, at least nothing to excess. I go to work most days and come home when I am supposed to, so what are you talking about?”

“Bryan,” she said, her eyes brimming with tears, “I love you, but you are so full of anger and bitterness you can’t receive my love, and it’s killing me.”
I argued with her, professing not to know what she was talking about, but I knew all right. But knowing something and being able to do anything about it, or even wanting to do anything about it, are distinctly different things. Frustrated by my obstinacy she finally moved out and filed for divorce.

Thinking about it now, I realize I am tense with anger. Taking two or three deep breaths, I try to calm myself. Slowly my pulse rate returns to normal, and I find myself listening to the rumble of the big rigs out on the interstate at least a mile away. For a moment I envy their drivers’ solitude and their freedom, but I know it is only an illusion. Like the rest of us they have deadlines to meet, and, though they may be hundreds of miles from home, they pack their troubles with them, of that I am sure.

Taking a sip of coffee, I realize it has grown cold, so I dump it into the flower bed at the base of the porch and retrace my steps into the kitchen. Rinsing out my cup, I place it in the rack to drain, noticing, maybe for the first time, that Mom never owned a dishwasher. Reluctantly I admit that her life wasn’t easy; still, I cannot bring myself to feel much sympathy for her. Difficult though her life was, it was of her own making, at least in large part. She could have remarried. She didn’t have to try to raise my sister and me by herself.

Wandering through the modest house in which I grew up, I realize that I can recall only a few good memories. Mostly I remember my mother’s sadness. She tried to be brave for Helen and me, but her grief tainted everything. Birthdays and holidays were strained affairs in which our forced gaiety inevitably succumbed to the omnipresent shadow of my absent father. Although I was too young to fully understand what had happened, I knew it was something terrible, a tragedy of such magnitude that our family might never recover.

The first few months were the worst. Many a night I would awaken and hear Mom sobbing, a sound so sad I thought my heart would break. Sometimes I would slip from my bed and make my way on tiptoe, down the dark hallway, to sit on the floor before the closed door that shut her bedroom off from the rest of the house. One night, when her sobs seemed ceaseless, I dared to open her bedroom door, something that was strictly forbidden. When I did, so great was her grief that it seemed to suck me across the room and into her arms. For a moment she let her defenses down, and we clung to each other, mother and child, taking what comfort we could from one another.

Things might have been different if we could have built on to that moment, but too soon she reverted to her rigidity and sent me back to my room—an act so grievous to me that I have never been able to forgive her. In my more magnanimous moments I am almost able to believe she thought she was protecting me, but she was wrong. By trying to shield me from her grief she left me to grieve alone, a burden no child should have to bear.

Looking back, I think that was when my grief turned into anger. For years it was just a wordless knot in the pit of my stomach, a smoldering resentment I could neither deny nor explain. I knew it was related to the tragedy that had befallen our family, but I couldn’t explain how. My mother eventually worked through her grief, at least to some extent, but I have never been able to rid myself of this toxic rage. More than any other factor it defines who I am and charts my destiny, whatever that may be.

The ringing of the telephone jerks me from my troubling thoughts, and I hurry across the living room to answer it. Holding the phone on my shoulder, I manage a hello while fumbling through my pockets for my watch. It’s my sister, and her condescending tone immediately grates on my already frayed nerves.

“Bryan, I just wanted to check in with you and see if there is anything we can do.” When I don’t respond, she continues. “Would you like for us to come by and pick you up on our way to the church? It’s no trouble.”

Forcing myself not to react, I reply, “Thank you, but I prefer to drive my own vehicle.”

“Are you sure? It’s no trouble.”

“I’m sure.”

“And Bryan, please don’t be late.”

Although I have a lifelong history of tardiness, I resent being mothered by her. Refusing to dignify her request with a response, I allow a sullen silence to hang between us. “One other thing,” she ventures at last. “If you don’t have anything to wear to the funeral, Rob would be more than happy to loan you a suit, or if you prefer, a sport coat.”

“Helen,” I reply, making no attempt to disguise my anger, “I’m quite capable of taking care of myself so stop mothering me!” 

Slamming down the phone, I pace the cramped living room as my anger subsides. At first glance her concern seems genuine, but I know better. What concerns her is not my well-being, but the family image. Rob is the senior pastor of a prestigious church, and she is afraid I will embarrass them in front of their congregation.

(Watch for Chapter 2. I will post it next Friday.)

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The Alabaster Cross

 

Prologue

Amazon Basin 1970

 

I watch as the old Indian makes his way across the open area toward me. He is naked except for a loincloth that is held in place by a leather string around his waist. A lifetime of exposure to the sun has made his dark skin coarse and left his face a web of wrinkles. In his hands he carries a stained canvas satchel. The careful way in which he handles it makes me know that it is valuable to him.

As he approaches I stand to my feet. He stops before me and speaks solemnly in a language I do not understand. The first thing I notice is the dark stains on the canvas, and then my eyes are drawn to a leather patch that is stitched to the flap between the buckles. Although the leather is old and stained, there is no mistaking the initials carved into it.

In an instant, I am taken back to a night more than twenty years ago. It is raining, and the drumming of the rain on the corrugated tin roof of the mission house is all too familiar. The rainy season is just beginning, and the thought of being trapped inside for weeks on end is nearly more than I can bear. My sister Helen, who is four years older than I am, is reading a book by the light of a kerosene lamp. Unlike me, she is an easygoing child. Nothing seems to bother her.

I am more like my father, who is intense and sometimes impatient. As far as he is concerned, life is serious business and must be lived with due sobriety. He comes from Puritan stock, and the generations that have separated him from his ancestors have done nothing to dilute their genes. Tonight he is muttering under his breath as he hastily stuffs supplies into packs for his trip into the interior. Already there are two large bundles beside the front door, and a third one is nearly finished.

The table is covered with supplies—rice, beans, coffee, smoked meat, bandages, medicine, and other medical supplies. My mother is helping him pack by checking things off of a long list as he stows them away. On more than one occasion, this careful attention to detail has meant the difference between life and death. In the jungles of the Amazon Basin a person seldom gets a second chance.

Although Father likes to pretend that these forays into the interior are routine, they are not. Danger lurks everywhere. Travel is treacherous, especially during the rainy season. In addition, there is the ever-present threat of accident or illness, not to mention the hostility of the Amuacas.

So why does he insist on going? Why does he risk leaving his wife a widow and his children without a father? There are at least two reasons for every trip. One is foundational, and it never changes. My father is nearly consumed with a desire to take the gospel to those who have never heard. As far as he is concerned, no risk is too great if he can but preach where no one has ever preached. The other reason varies with each trip, but it nearly always involves some kind of emergency.

Tomorrow’s trip was occasioned when an Amuaca Indian stumbled into the mission compound more dead than alive. Using a combination of Portuguese and Indian dialects our indigenous workers were able to determine that his village had been stricken with a killing plague. Knowing that penicillin often opens the door for the preaching of the gospel, my father immediately began making preparations.

I listen as he carefully outlines the route he intends to take. It makes little sense to me, but my mother seems to understand. She is very supportive, but even I can tell that she is more than a little concerned.

According to my father, the stricken village is located four or five days upriver in an area previously unreached by any missionary. In response to my mother’s concern he acknowledges that the trip will be grueling. Battling against the current of a rain-swollen river will be exhausting and make for slow going, not to mention the very real possibility of a flash flood now that the rainy season has set in. Still, it is the only way. Trying to go through the jungle on foot would be impossible.

Having carefully closed the third pack, my father sets it beside the other two near the front door. Putting on his spectacles, he draws the kerosene lamp close and reaches for his Bible. Without being asked, we all cease what we are doing and give him our attention. Following a prepared reading schedule, he turns to today’s passage, Isaiah 43:1-3, and reads aloud:

 

But now thus saith the Lord that created thee, O Jacob, and he that formed thee, O Israel, Fear not: for I have redeemed thee, I have called thee by thy name; thou art mine. When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee. For I am the Lord thy God, the Holy One of Israel, thy Saviour.

 

Although I am only seven years old and find much of the Bible hard to understand, even I cannot miss the significance of this passage given the present circumstances. Tears are glistening in my mother’s eyes, and even my father looks pleased. Taking her hand, he says, “The Lord has spoken to us through His Word. No matter what dangers I may face, he will see me safely through.”

After a brief prayer he bids my sister and me goodnight and sends us to bed. For some reason I cannot sleep, so I slip out of bed and make my way to the doorway that opens on the kitchen. A flimsy curtain serves as a door, and I pull it back the tiniest bit in order to peer out. My mother sits in a chair, her face in the shadows cast by the lamp. My father is moving about, gathering a few personal items for his trip. As I watch, I see him wrap his Bible and a leather-bound journal in an oilcloth and place them in his canvas satchel. Carefully he buckles the flap closed before reaching for my mother’s hand …

How Does a Pastor Become an Embezzler?

“The root cause of virtually all spiritual failure is disobedience in the little things.”

Corruption is as old as the human race and none of us is immune. If we do not guard our hearts at all times and practice absolute integrity in all things, even the smallest matters, we risk falling prey. One of the most heartbreaking examples of a good man who fell into corruption involves a former staff member of a Bible Church in Steamboat Springs, Colorado. He went to jail for embezzling almost $42,000 from the church over a six-year period. When I first learned of his crime I remember thinking, How could a minister do such a thing?

I was tempted to conclude that he was an aberration, an impostor, an evil man masquerading as a minister. Such a conclusion made his sinful dishonest easier to explain and it made it less likely that I might be capable of the same thing or something similar. Unfortunately it doesn’t fit the facts.

More likely he was a sincere man. No better and no worse than the rest of us. Somewhere along the way he took a wrong turn. Probably it seemed insignificant at the time. Perhaps he padded his expense account or hedged on his income tax return. Or maybe he was short of cash and “borrowed” from church funds until payday. He intended to pay it back, but somehow he never got around to doing it. After a while it was easier just to pretend it had never happened.

Had Satan tempted him to steal $42,000 in one lump sum it is not likely that he would have succumbed. Undoubtedly he considered himself an honest man, and there would have been no way he could reconcile a theft of that magnitude with his image of himself. Therefore Satan tempted him with “insignificant” amounts – twenty dollars here, fifty dollars there. And most likely he convinced himself that it was just a loan; he would pay it back.

It is safe, I am sure, to say that he did not plan to embezzle from his church. After all, if a man plans to misappropriate funds there are plenty of places more lucrative than a country church. Undoubtedly he backed into it one small compromise at a time. Somewhere along the line he opened his heart to the enemy, and before he knew it he was in over his dead. At the time of his resignation he told the congregation, “The depth of the deception is so ingrained, I do not know the scope of the amount of my stealing. I am dependent upon the elders and their audit to know the scope of my sin.”

In reality this is not about that minister but about us. The man or woman who wishes to live with integrity will learn from the mistakes of others. They will take those painful lessons and apply them to their own lives.  That being the case let me ask you some hard questions. “Is there any area of your life where you have allowed ‘insignificant’ decisions to compromise your spiritual and/or moral integrity?” “Is there any relationship or behavior, no matter how ‘insignificant’ where you are compromising your spiritual and/or moral integrity?” “What are you going to do the rectify those areas where you have compromised?”

You may be tempted to excuse yourself. Don’t. Not even if you’ve been able to appease your conscience. When it comes to discerning right from wrong, we cannot trust our conscience as the final authority. It is too subjective, too easily influenced by our thoughts and feelings. Our only defense against the lies of the deceiver is the truth of God’s Word. Nothing else will sustain us in the hour of temptation.

“But among you there must not be even a hint of sexual immorality, or of any kind of impurity, or of greed, because these are improper for God’s holy people…For of this you can be sure:  No immoral, impure or greedy person – such a man is an idolater – has any inheritance in the kingdom of Christ and of God. Let no one deceive you with empty words, for because of such things God’s wrath comes on those who are disobedient. Therefore do not be partners with them” (Eph. 5:3, 5-7).

This is Richard Exley straight from the heart.

 

Richard Exley Ministry

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www.RichardExleyMinistries.org

 

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