He Wept

• Fiction
• Religion
• Short story
• Spirituality & New Age
• Drama

								
"Jesus Wept."

    It was the shortest verse in the bible. Yet, St. John 11:36 - - "the compassion" verse, as some called it - - played around the edges of Pastor Martin David's conscience and prickled like an unseen bramble bush that, from time to time, he'd accidentally brushed up against: usually when he was least expecting it. It came to him in his devotional prayer today. And seemed to draw blood.

    "I haven't wept in years." Martin said aloud.  

    "Why, God, why?" he prayed, "It's really something of a paradox; isn't it, because I'm not a happy man."

    When Martin was "called" into the ministry, so many years ago it seemed now, he had an idea of what his life would be like. He would live in a small town and see babies born into his congregation. He would perform the
funeral services for members of his faithful little flock when their days on earth ended. He would perform marriages.

    "I knew there would be trials, God ," he said, "and bickering, and all the other problems that go with church growth and planting. I bargained for that. I was raised in the church. It was my lifelong dream to be called into service and become The Reverend Martin David. 

    But this, God, why this?"

    The reality was nothing like the dream. He had been sent to a Los Angeles, inner city pastorate. He hated it! His congregation was made up of young punks and prostitutes: street people; the homeless; the derelicts and drunks. He despised it - - and them - - more than he could admit.

    "And what about Cindy?" He continued aloud, as he questioned and challenged his God. "Cindy is the epitome of everything I hate about this ministry."

    She must have shuffled her feet or cleared her throat. Because it was Cindy, herself, who interrupted his devotions.

    He saw her, now, standing in the sanctuary - - as if she had every right. She was there, he was sure, for no other reason than to be indoors,
sheltered from the uncharacteristic cold of the LA night. 

    It was heavy with damp, gray fog. The kind that sinks through and through, making bones and blood thick with chill. Cindy was smoking. Flicking ashes onto the holy floor beneath the
beautiful picture of Christ and the Children, with no more reverence for her surroundings than if she had been standing at her usual corner, soliciting Johns.

    It took everything Martin had in him to remember that his job was to witness Christ to her. He must try to evangelize her, no matter now repugnant he, personally, found her to be.

    "Hi, Cindy," He forced himself to say. "How are tricks tonight?" He immediately regretted his sarcastic, cruel choice of words.

    She gave him a cold, hard glare of pure hatred. "Just fine and dandy," she said. "My tricks are always just fine! I make sure of it."

    Martin blushed. I should apologize, he thought; but he couldn't make the words come. He just stood there, awkwardly staring at her. He wondered what color her tangled hair would be if it wasn't always bleached out to that disgusting dry, look of a bleached platinum, straw--blonde. She was too thin, and wore thick make-up, especially around the
deep-set icy-gray eyes. He couldn't tell how old she was, but it didn't matter.

    A girl like Cindy, he thought, has never been a child. But then she isn't much of a woman, either. Not the kind Proverbs 31 calls to mind.

    "Who can find a virtuous woman, for her price is far above rubies."

    Still, he was uncomfortably aware that there was something about her: a crude, raw, vulgar sensuality.

    "Are you going to tell me to get out of your church, Martin? " Using his first name, with no title, no respect, as if they were friends. When she spoke, he physically jumped back away from her. She laughed: a laugh that
echoed in the sanctuary, bouncing off of the ceiling beams and white statuary
of Jesus. "I won't bite you, Martin," she cooed, "Not unless you want me to."

    He hated that she was flirting with him. Hated worse that she called him "Martin," not "Reverend" or "Pastor David". Even "Pastor" Martin would do.

    "No, of course not " he answered - - and it was hard to tell if he meant about getting out of the church or biting him. But he haltingly continued:

   "Jesus says: 'Come unto me, all who are weary and heavy laden. And I will
give you rest.' "

   Cindy tipped her head back and puffed smoke rings that smelled stale and out of place amid the deep scented cedar and pine of the chapel. She looked bored.

    "Please, do put out that cigarette in the holy sanctuary," Martin growled.

    Cindy threw her cigarette onto the floor, and crushed it into the plush carpet with her spike heeled shoe.

    "So it's out." she smirked. Martin cringed and wanted to slap her insolent face. She leaned against the wall, or more precisely, against the painting on the wall. Letting her hair mat against it. She turned into it, as if caressing it with the side of her face.

    The picture of Christ and the Children was especially precious to Martin. He'd had it since Seminary, and brought it with when he was assigned to this parish. He looked to it for strength. Christ, his God-incarnate of this
earth, surrounded by children. Innocent; loving; beautiful; with no malice in their hearts. It was the kind of congregation Martin longed for: Godly people with childlike faith. The kind he felt maybe didn't even exist, but was only
the desire of his naive heart.

    It suddenly occurred to him that perhaps he could reach something deep inside Cindy. It was obvious that she, too, loved his painting. Perhaps there was something redeemable about her, after all. He would approach her
from a different angle. He handed her his card, for future reference. And puffed himself up in all his holiness to begin to preach to her.

    He would try to determine what it was that she really wanted out of life, and then proceed to direct her to the Savior as the answer to those sincere desires - - if, in fact she had any "worthy" desires.

   "Cindy, " he said, "did you know that you could be anything you want to be? Jesus told us, 'with Christ all things are possible.' 'Ask and it will be
given to you. Seek, and you shall find.' "

    He thought he saw a glimmer of something in her mascara rimmed eyes. "Isn't there anything you want to ask, and test God to change your life, Cindy?"

    Cindy seemed challenged, momentarily. A little half-smile curled at one side of her lip and a touch of mischief glinted in those eyes. "All right," she said at last. "I'll play your little game. There really is something. Something that He could do for me: if He's real."

    Martin felt the first excitement he'd felt in weeks. Was this prostitute going to turn her life around for Christ? Would he be the instrument? If she really changed, what a mission he could begin - - using her to convince and convert other street people!

    "What is it?" he prompted, trembling inside.

								Rate this book:5.0 / 1 vote