In the Wilderness - Kim Barnes [36]
Brother Lang said that God had revealed to him the dream and its meaning: the monster was Lola, full of deceit and cunning, revealing her true nature when threatened—she was predatory, destroying the church with false witness. To drive her from our midst would require great prayer and sacrifice: only the purest spirit could hope to face such a demon without losing his own soul to Satan.
The Devil walked among us cloaked in good deeds, a devil who could quote Scripture and pray in the tongues of angels. Wasn’t Satan, after all, once an angel Himself? Brother Lang said we must purge ourselves in order to see the enemy’s true form. He said he would take the burden upon himself so that God might enlighten us all. The next Sunday, he would begin his fast, forty days and forty nights, following the example set by Christ to purify his body before crucifixion.
Each of us had fasted for shorter periods but none could remember when a leader or member had taken on such a trial. When he asked that we gather around him to pray for strength, for God to accept his sacrifice, we reached out our hands, humbled by his willingness to suffer such pain on our behalf.
Over the next few weeks, we watched Brother Lang take on the carriage of an old man. His wide, ruddy face yellowed and shrank; the skin of his forehead tightened across his skull. The belt cinching his waist became riddled with newly punched holes, and his suitcoat hung from the bones of his shoulders as though still on its hanger. We held our breath as his sons helped him from his chair to the podium, where he tottered drunkenly, lisping out God’s promise of retribution.
As we lifted our voices in prayer, I opened my eyes just enough to see the faces of those around me, and I knew they were wondering, Who? Who walks among us disguised as one of God’s own? I dared not look at Lola, who lifted her voice highest of all, calling on Jesus to open our eyes so that we might see the true nature of the devils who deceived us.
Perhaps Lola knew all along that the preacher’s words were directed at her. As the knowledge of his intent spread, the church divided, a few believing their pastor’s words less Gospel than the rantings of a jealous man, but most caught up in the fever of his convictions. He stood before us, willing to die in his quest for truth, while Lola continued to dance, whirling from pew to pew, singing out God’s praises.
Finally, the family was shunned. Cynthia and her brothers, whose eyes no one could meet, filed that last time from the church, following the march of their mother, their father, a tall, handsome man, who rose last, wanting more than anything to fight it out, to grab the skinny man from his shoes and shake him till his bones rattled. No one turned to meet his challenge, offering only their bowed heads in compensation. Brother Lang sat weak and smug, shriveled to a hard, leathery knot.
I think of that letter my mother held in her damp hands as she leaned against the counter, letting the hot water run and drain until steam rose from the scalded dishes. It was written by a woman who, like herself, had been given the command to serve and obey. And like her, even covered and unadorned, the woman was lovely.
Did my mother wonder why Lola did not give in, why she did not submit and allow whatever possessed her to be exorcised, cast out by the elders, by the preacher whose hands trembled to touch her? What secrets had they whispered across the table while we went about our play, children oblivious to our mothers’ lives, their desires, their unnamed temptations?
This was my mother’s lesson,