The scuffing of shoes disturbed the mildewed straw, stirring long-idle dust. Years of dried manure crumbled, joining the sharp mixed coppery odor of blood rising through the lantern-lit barn. It was the smell of God’s creation, which was why his father liked this abandoned and long-forgotten farm. Blood and manure — the beginning and the end — the Alpha and the Omega — the Ying and the Yang — for every start there is a finish.
Each step brought more confidence. Andrew’s pace quickened to a normal gait. His smile broadened and his tears stopped; only moist streaks remained on his dust-covered face. He raised his right hand as if blessing those who knelt in honor of God who had chosen him.
A few feet from his father, he met the old man’s eyes, and saw anger in them. His knees weakened for a moment, and then coursing through his body was the realization that with the click of the hammer he had both become his father’s successor and his father’s adversary. only hours earlier, Andrew had been the Bishop’s eldest son. He thought of Joshua for a moment — now Andrew was his father’s only son.
His father reached out and touched Andrew on his shoulder with his right hand. Even through the light shirt, the calluses on the hand were rough against Andrew’s skin. Calluses that told of the hard labor of many years put into the fields of the farm and the cotton mills of the South. The Bishop looked upward, lifting his left hand, waiting for the prayers and chanting to stop.
Keeping his hand on Andrew, Ezekiel stood. He looked down at Andrew, their eyes meeting briefly. “My son, I am proud of your goodness and faith.” His father looked at the congregation and continued. “Pride is something God forbids in the faithful, and for that pride I accept the small sin for what I feel for my son. God has reached down.” He looked at Andrew. “He has touched you with His spirit and He has returned the son I offered as a sign of my faith and love.”
Andrew dropped his gaze. His father dropped his hand. Andrew cut his eyes upward, watching his father. His father’s head turned slowly as the old man surveyed his loyal followers. In a loud voice, his pastor’s voice, his father took a deep breath and addressed the crowd. “This is a sign. It is a sign that God’s Army continues on the right path. I offered my son to the Lord to prove my faithfulness to Him. To prove to those who think that God’s Army needs a new Bishop, that God’s Army is moving too fast or too slow to hasten Armageddon, and that our direction is too radical for a country founded on the Bible. Let me say and ask each of you to carry this story forth. Carry it to your own congregations. Let it be known that Bishop Ezekiel offered God his remaining son and God, through His benevolence, rewarded my faithfulness by sparing Andrew.”
“God shows His love,” the congregation said in unison.
He patted Andrew a couple of times on the shoulder while never taking his eyes off the people surrounding him. “We will do what God has approved today. We will destroy the evil taking hold of this country — the evil growing in our enemies around the world. We will see the prophecy fulfilled and my son, through His selection, has become a holy weapon for this fulfillment. For without God’s intervention, Andrew would be dead, so his life now belongs to God. He must prove worthy of this selection.”
Prove worthy? Andrew would have laughed if he had the energy. He tucked his chin deeper into his chest and shut his eyes, knowing those nearby watched. He kept the small smile frozen on his face, lifted his head, and turned to face the congregation. Never underestimate the old man. His father didn’t create this Biblical following by being ignorant or stupid. His father would never allow anyone to replace him, least of all his son. When his father was ready to lay down the mantle of the Lord or the Lord laid it down for him, Andrew would be there to step up. To grab the reins of God’s Army and continue the Lord’s march to anarchy and a thousand years of peace and love.
This day, he knew this. He could and he would, with patience as the path. His wearing of the mantle would wait until his father drew his last breath. And when that last breath expelled, Andrew knew his father would die without ever identifying a successor, for his father believed God would never allow him to die. But he would die. Everyone dies.
Andrew raised his face high, looking upward as if seeing something others in the congregation couldn’t. Other eyes followed his, staring at the roof of the barn, seeing the stars poke through the holes weathered through the aged wood or scattered by the numerous bullet holes. Eyes turned away from his father to follow Andrew’s unspoken bidding.
Andrew’s smile broadened. He hoped his countenance shined in the faint light. Strength was growing with each passing second. He was the chosen one. He detected a slight disruption — a slight hesitation in his father’s words. It was small — barely detectable — but it was there. And Andrew had caused it.
His father could preach for hours, so he stood listening to his father explain that he — not Andrew — was the beneficiary of today’s miracle. Swaying those who whispered for a new Bishop. Swaying them back to the continuing leadership of the founder.
Andrew had never had so many epiphanies at one time. God truly reached down and touched him. The people. His father. Everyone’s true purpose glowed in clarity.
Andrew turned and looked up at his father, knowing his face reflected love and respect for everyone to see, even as he thought through about how his father had miscalculated.
It was the anger Andrew had seen moments earlier when he approached him that had revealed to Andrew that his father had also fully understood what had happened. Throwing his son into the selection — watching his son nearly fall from fear as he was led into the pit — all to chance God’s mercy so his father could keep the leadership. In doing so, his father had unwittingly allowed God to identify his successor. It was as if those maneuvering to replace his father down one path had been stopped because God had chosen a quicker, easier one.
“Andrew, sit down,” Ezekiel said, motioning him to the couch. Even in the small living room, his father’s deep bass voice resonated.
Across from his father, on the other side of the unlit fireplace, Thomas Bucket sat in the straight-back chair brought from the dining room. Bucket’s legs firmly together, his unsmiling face and dark eyes followed Andrew as he crossed the room. Andrew was uncomfortable around Bucket. The man seldom spoke unless asked a question. Usually, the answer was a monotone “yes” or “no.” If more was expected, Bucket would fold onto his knees and entice you to join him as you both asked for God’s guidance.
It wasn’t the taciturn nature of the man that made Andrew uncomfortable. The man had killed at the whim of his father. Bucket was the most loyal of Ezekiel’s disciples, willing to prove his loyalty and worship for the old man whenever asked. If Bucket thought Andrew was other than the loyal, loving son of Ezekiel, Bucket would wrap his large work-strong hands around Andrew’s neck and with the strength of those sinewy arms, snap his neck with as little emotion as that of a chicken chosen for dinner.
“Andrew, God Bless,” Scott Temple said as Andrew walked by the heavyset man.
“God Bless,” Andrew replied.
Scott Temple sprawled on the right side of the couch. The rich black beard of the forty-something disciple failed to mask the smile of a man happy with himself and happy with his God. Like Bucket, Temple would execute Ezekiel’s words without question. These two men were the power behind the throne. Andrew wondered briefly as he sat down what were the last thoughts of those whom these two disciples had dispatched to God’s kingdom on the whim of his father.