One of the younger, bright students in the class, whom I had come to hate for his brightness, and the obvious favoritism Reverend Dilts felt for him, asked, “Will we go to war one day, Reverend?”—and Reverend Dilts said, with satisfaction, “We are already at war with the atheist-enemy, son. It has only just begun and we will bury them.”
War? What did they mean? I would have thought they meant war like in Vietnam, or in Korea . . . It would be some time before I realized that they meant a war within the United States, Christians against atheists for the soul of America.
BUT I SAY UNTO YOU, That whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart.
It is painful to confess that I did not remain faithful to my dear wife for more than three years; and that my betrayal of my marriage and my family came at a shameful time, when I was a student at the Toledo School of Ministry and (you would have thought) I had dedicated to myself to Jesus with all the more fervor, to prepare to serve Him for the remainder of my life.
Even before that time, I will confess that I lusted after women in my heart. In all places, even in church. Even with Edna Mae and my children beside me and a warm child’s hand clasped in mine.
Sometimes the women were strangers to me glimpsed in a store, on the street. Sometimes they were acquaintances, even wives of homeowners for whom I was working.
Sometimes they were not women but girls. Driving along Front Street at Second Avenue, at the high school . . . Suddenly there was Felice Sipper at the curb waiting for the light, toeing the sidewalk in her way that drew my eye to her, helpless. She did not seem aware of me as I stared at her through the windshield of my car hazy with oak tree pollen.
Of course, it was not Felice. I was twenty-eight years old, it would not ever be Felice Sipper again.
Those days in early spring (1987) when the air began to warm at midday and a terrible restlessness overcame me and I could not bear to remain in the overheated ministry school any longer but dared to cut my afternoon class—this term, the afternoon course was “Pastoring.” It was a short drive to the old, inner city of Toledo along the Maumee River where there were many taverns within a few blocks, and in none of these were likely to be individuals who knew me, or had ever heard of Luther Dunphy, or the St. Paul Missionary Church of Jesus. What happiness I felt in stepping inside one of these!—the relief and satisfaction of one who has come to the right place at last, that has been awaiting him.
The particular smells of a tavern, even the smells of a filthy lavatory, urinals, puddled floors, bluish smoke of cigarettes and cigars—tears sprang to my eyes, these were so wonderful. On the mirror behind the bar, a light film of dust. High above the bar a television set perched at an angle and its screen bright with color as a child’s coloring book and even the advertisements were thrilling to me, as they were mysterious and forbidden.
H’lo friend. What’ll you have?
Anything on tap. Ale?
At the bar I would sit on a stool with a worn cushion, that seemed to fit my buttocks. I would sit and lean forward onto my elbows and observe the flickering TV and see in the facing mirror the grinning Satan-face friendly to me and no judging.
Live around here?
Muskegee Falls.
Where’s that?
North of Springfield.
What brings you to Toledo?
The call of Jesus.
Eh? Call of—?
Jesus.
In time it happened that the bartender and certain of the other patrons came to know who I was—a student at the min’stry school whom they called Rev’rend. This made me smile for it was flattering, though I knew they were joking, yet their joking carried with it an awareness of the seriousness of my mission and some respect for me, I think.
Sometimes without intending it I would fall into a conversation with a woman. For always there was at least one woman in the bar, it did not matter which of the several bars for always in the bar there was a woman who might recognize me, and call me Rev’rend. She would buy me a drink, or I would buy her a drink. She would lay her hand lightly on my arm and if it was dusk, on overcast days as early as 6:00 P.M., she would ask if I would like to come home with her for a meal. And I would thank her and explain that I had to drive to Muskegee Falls very soon, to eat supper with my family.
How far is that, to your home?
Eighty miles.
Eighty miles! Isn’t it already too late for supper, Rev’rend?