Winter Issue 6
The Kindness of Strangers
By Steven Gomez
Bethany Sullivan watched as the strangest prairie schooner she’d ever seen came in out of the east, just ahead of the storm clouds.
The wagon had a rusted metal frame, clearly the salvaged remains of the ancient thing called on Earth a ‘pickup truck.’ Large fenders curved over the two front wheels—which themselves were thick and wooden with wide spokes, jury-rigged sturdily onto the axle. The cab’s windows and windshield had long since vanished and were covered by wooden planks. Over the truck’s flatbed was a square, canvas-covered overjet, broad and tall and covered in dusty grime from travel.
Sitting on the bench that was fixed to the hood, underneath an awning to keep off the weather, was the driver—or perhaps to call him a passenger was more appropriate since he held no reins, but instead lounged in the seat with his nose buried in a book. His clothes were plain, trousers and boots with a waistcoat over his shirt, and a wide-brimmed hat resting on the back of his head.
But it was the creature pulling the wagon, unsteered, that made Bethany stop her weeding and gape there in the front yard. Its body was large and strong and shaped like a lion. Folded to its side was a pair of eagle’s wings. The face was curiously undefinable; that nose could almost be a snout, but the mouth and eyes were human. From its forehead grew an impressive pair of ox’s horns, and a golden mane swept from the top of the head to cover half the creature’s back. It wore no bit or bridle, but a cleverly contrived harness allowed it to pull its burden.
Bethany knew at once she was looking at an angel. It could have walked straight out of the bedtime fairy tales Pa used to tell her. The angels who guided lost travellers and rescued those in need. The kind she prayed for every time she carried a crate of Pa’s empty bottles to the garbage ditch in back. An angel pulling a wagon was coming towards her from out of the east.
Without a signal, angel and wagon stopped at the gate of the homestead. The man didn’t move or even look up from his book. The angel turned its head back to look at him. “Hold on,” the man murmured. And a moment later he lay the book open and face down on the bench beside him, then hopped to the ground. He adjusted his hat, straightened his waistcoat, and walked through the gate.
“Afternoon,” he called. “Your folks home?”
Before she could answer, Bethany heard the front door and the clunk of Pa’s wooden leg on the porch steps.
Pa was a stocky man, but unsteady in his gait. Missing a limb and being often in drink will do that to a person. His grizzled hair was usually unkempt and his beard seemed to be perpetually only three or four days old, on a face scored deeply by time and other wounds, though which was now wide in wonder at the sight in front of the house.
“Afternoon,” the man said to him.
“How does, stranger?”
“Does fine. Storm’s coming.” Bethany felt a rain drop hit her cheek. “Wouldn’t be able to put me up for the night, would you?”
Pa stared openly at both the angel and the man. “Where be you going?”
The man seemed to hesitate a moment before replying: “North.”
“I was born up North,” said Pa. “I heard tales of what happens there, of those who commune in the Valley of Elijah.” A long pause. “Is’t true? You be one of the Blessed?”
The stranger gave a long sigh and looked resigned. “Yes. I am a saint.”
Pa barked a laugh and slapped his thigh, the one that ended at his knee. “Knew soon as I saw your beast!”
“He’s my friend, and no beast.”
“They say it’s lucky to have a saint under your roof.” Pa turned his head and spat on the ground. “Some say otherwise.”
The man reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out some silver coins. “I can pay,” he said. Pa didn’t reach for the money, but he looked hard at it and then at the saintly countenance. He turned to Bethany. “Go get the spare room ready.” To the saint he said: “Your wagon and your…friend can fit in the barn once we push the hay cart to the back.”
The wagon was stowed and the angel bedded down in a stall just before the first thunderclap.
Rain pelted onto the kitchen window. Lightning broke the blackness outside. Pa had a strange look in his eye as Bethany made the stew for their dinner. She thought it was hunger, but the look was still there as she scraped the dregs from her bowl and considered the two men. Pa never took his eyes off the saint, who never lifted his from his bowl.
“Water pump’s fixed, Pa,” said Bethany.
“Easier to do the washing then. Get to it.”
She cleared the table and filled the dish tub. As she did, the men sat by the hearth and the wind howled down the flue.
“Any name?” Pa asked.
“Call me John,” replied the saint. “And yours? You’ve been very hospitable.”
“You offered payment. What say you: a favour for a favour?” Pa leaned forward in his chair. “I be a widower seven year gone. Hay cart overturned and I lost both leg and wife. This here’s the only blood left to me. Mighty hard sometime, working fields with a wooden leg and naught but a girl.” He glanced at Bethany and she felt the familiar wave of disdain.
“What tales have you heard of the saints?” asked John. He remained in the same relaxed pose, but Bethany noticed not a muscle twitch. He was rigid and tense.
Pa got up on his one-and-a-half legs and took down the rifle that hung above the mantle. He carried it over to the sideboard and took bullets from a drawer. As he loaded, he chanted the old rhyme.
The saints of old stand with the least,
And flowers grow where they tread;
They speak to bird, they speak to beast,
And even raise the dead.
“I cannot return your wife to you.”
“Wouldn’t ask. My leg”—he pushed the rifle bolt closed—“is another thing.” And he pointed the muzzle at his guest.
The storm blew hard outside, but the air in the house was still as the grave. Bethany stared and the saint still didn’t move or even change expression. “My gifts are neither for hire nor extortion. If I’m to become a martyr for the sake of an old man’s stump, then so be it.”
Bethany’s heart stopped at the crack of the shot, and then she realized that it was only thunder; the rifle stayed silent. Then slowly it lowered. “Girl,” Pa called. “Come here.”
She came as ordered, but stopped a few steps away. “Yes, Pa?”
Bethany found the black eye of the rifle staring into hers. Pa’s face was stone. “Martyrs are brave to end their lives,” he growled, “but slow to sacrifice others. The leg.”
Not a mote of dust in the air moved. Bethany didn’t even breathe. She saw a bead of sweat trickle down Pa’s nose and drip off the end in the time before the saint replied. “I will restore your leg; your faith in my charity can make you that well at least. The rest of your evils are beyond my power to cure. Put away that demon and sit down in your chair.”
When the rifle was down, Bethany held shaking hands up to her face and realized it was wet with tears. She trembled as Pa planted himself back in the armchair and fumbled with the harness of his wooden leg. It took him near five minutes to undo the buckles, so crazy was he for his boon.
The saint came to him and kneeled in front of the scarred stump of flesh. He put his hand on it and all sound stopped. Pa’s face convulsed and his neck stretched taut, mouth in a rictus grin. Then came a low drone, growing louder and louder as atoms realigned. It set Bethany’s teeth on edge and forced her eyes shut.
She heard the rain again and the thunder, and opened her eyes to see Pa’s new leg, hairless and fresh as a newborn babe’s.
John stood. “I will stay in the barn and leave before you wake,” he said. “Enjoy your leg. It has cost you dear and will cost you yet more.” He went to the front door, let in the wind, and was gone.
Bethany’s tears were done. She looked at the man she had called father as he gazed on his miracle, wondering if he had even heard what the saint said. His eyes became fearful when they met hers, cold and dark. She turned her back to him and walked up the stairs, slow and deliberate. Pa didn’t call out to stop her. There was much that needed saying, but neither of them was enough of a grown-up to know how to say it.
Lenten Love
By Sandi Smoker
In silent stillness
visceral in-workings percolate.
Spirit wind hovers over cravings’ chaos.
Seeing through a glass darkly,
straining for elusive satiety --
distant and unreachable.
And You, North of the mirror
catching the light south –
and me, in the middle,
soft-silhouetted, delicate-cluttered.
Singleness of eye
obscured by good comforts.
Dust and ashes,
invited by every Word from
the mouth of God.
Turning, and turning again.
Unfurled --
filled up on You,
graced by Lenten love.
RCSA Academic Symposium
On March 6, 2020, the RCSA Council will be hosting our annual Academic Symposium, featuring the students of Regent College and their excellent academic work. There will be a total of six sessions, each focused on a particular area of interest, with each participant presenting a recent paper. We thought you might like a sneak peek at some of the fascinating things you can look forward to learning about at the Symposium. See you there!
Friendship and Political Society in Augustine’s Confessions
Presented by Daniel Sierra
This paper intends to draw a line of continuity between Saint Augustine’s two famous works, the Confessions and The City of God through focusing on Augustine’s notion of friendship. Throughout this paper, I develop the argument that the social communities Augustine writes about in Confessions foreshadow the communities of Augustine’s famous Jerusalem/Babylon dichotomy as found in the later City of God. Utilizing Cicero’s understanding of friendship, Augustine emphasizes the necessity of concordia, a union attuned to the cosmic structure of the universe, between two persons for them to exhibit true friendship. Augustine relies on his exegetical insights of the Genesis narrative to figure the contours of this harmonious hierarchy.
Collectivism and Chinese Christian Spirituality
Presented by Katy Der
North America is predominantly an individualist society. There is so much we can learn from collectivist cultures, both near and far. In my paper, I address how a collectivist worldview influences Christian spirituality through examples from Chinese culture. I argue that the collectivist worldview, marked by honour and shame, can hinder vulnerability but can also encourage community and interreligious dialogue. In understanding these key strengths and barriers of a collectivist worldview, Scripture is brought to life in ways that help us to better apprehend the culture Jesus lived and acted in, while also highlighting areas in which Christians from individualistic cultures can grow.
The Historical Jesus in Theology: From Absconditus to First Theology
Presented by David Raimundo
The historical figure of Jesus of Nazareth was not given a prime place within 20th Century systematic theologies, as exemplified by Karl Barth and Paul Tillich. But recent developments in the historical field legitimate the reassessment of the theological role ascribed to Jesus. Based on the works of scholars such as N. T. Wright and Leander Keck, we argue that the historical Jesus should be brought back to a prominent theological place. In fact, we suggest that the historical Jesus might be fruitfully employed as “first theology,” i.e. as the grounds in which systematic theology is founded.