By My Hands (26 page)

“You were magnificent, as usual,” R.G. said
exuberantly, as he poured Chivas Regal into two glasses. “Worthy of
an academy award.”

“Did I look nervous enough?”

“Positively petrified.”

“So you think they bought it?” Isaiah took the glass
of Scotch from his friend.

“I guarantee that tomorrow night the Sports Arena
will be packed to the rafters, to see not only Paul Isaiah but also
the Healer.” Then, raising his own glass, he said, “Till tomorrow
night.”

“Till tomorrow night.” They drained their
glasses.

Friday, March 27, 1992; 11:20
P.M.

“DID YOU SEE IT?” Even over the phone Rachel’s voice
carried a restrained excitement.

“You mean Priscilla Simms’ report on the 11 o’clock
news?” Adam used the remote to turn down the volume of his
television.

“Yes. I know it’s late, but I wanted to know what
you thought.” The hour was no problem for Adam who seldom went to
bed before midnight. “Truthfully, I’m not sure what to think. It’s
all well and good for a news report to imply that Paul Isaiah is
the Healer; after all, it makes good news. But it’s quite another
thing to prove it.”

“You don’t believe he’s our Healer then?” Rachel
seemed disappointed.

“Well, I can’t say that he’s not, any more than I
can say that he is. But something just doesn’t sit well with
me.”

“Like what?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe it’s the way Isaiah handled the
press conference. If he is the Healer, then why not admit it? He
has never turned down publicity before, so why now?”

“I don’t know how you preachers think. You tell me.”
Adam could tell that Rachel was exasperated.

“Look,” Adam said soothingly, “I know you want to
have this whole thing over with. So do I, but we can’t assume that
the first guy to stand up and say ‘I’m the Healer’ will be the one
we’re looking for. We must be careful. We’re dealing with more than
a mysterious Healer who walks pell-mell through a hospital and
heals folks of diseases. Members of my church are missing as a
result of this, and two other families have disappeared.”

“Are you saying this guy isn’t worth
investigating?”

“Not at all. I think he should be investigated.”

“Good,” Rachel said. “I am planning to attend
Reverend Isaiah’s show tomorrow.”

“Service,” Adam said matter-of-factly.

“What?”

“It’s called a service or meeting, not a show. The
more I think about it, though, maybe
show
is the better
term.”

“Why?”

“Isaiah doesn’t have a very good reputation with
most ministers and churches. You see, he’s not orthodox.”

“I don’t get it. Do you mean that he’s not orthodox
because he doesn’t belong to the same church as you?”

“Not at all. Let me see if I can explain. As you
know there are a lot of different Christian denominations, and
these denominations differ from one another in areas of worship
technique, government, and some areas of doctrine. For example, if
you could visit several different denominations on any given
Sunday, you might see the different modes of baptism. The Roman
Catholics sprinkle babies, the Greek Orthodox Church immerses
infants three times, Baptists immerse only those who are able to
understand and tell of a conversion experience. So where Roman
Catholics insist on infant baptism, Baptists refuse it. In that
way, they are very different. But, in many ways they are the same,
that is, they hold to the same basic beliefs. Again, for example,
you might visit a Presbyterian, Episcopalian, Catholic, and Baptist
church and find in each worship service the minister preaching on
the death, burial, and resurrection of Christ. Or, you might hear
them preach a message about man’s sinful nature.”

“What you’re saying then is that there are certain
basic beliefs common to all orthodox churches. Right?”

“Exactly. Churches that base their belief and
authority in the Bible will hold certain truths as dogma. These
beliefs would include Christ’s deity; the Trinity—that God the
Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit are one God with three
distinct personalities; Christ’s death on the cross and His bodily
resurrection. There are more of these cardinal beliefs, but you get
the idea.”

“And Paul Isaiah doesn’t hold these beliefs?”

“If he does, he sure keeps them quiet. Some he
flatly denounces. He preaches a message of wealth. It is his belief
that God has intended everyone to be rich. If they’re not rich,
then it’s because they choose not to be. He never preaches about
personal responsibility to man or God. He never mentions sin and
seldom mentions Christ. His services are more pep rallies than
worship experiences.”

“Sounds like sour grapes to me,” Rachel said coolly.
“From where I sit, his message is as good as anyone’s, and these
other preachers are just envious of his fame.”

Adam was silent for a moment. He couldn’t help
wondering about her antagonism toward ministers. He wanted to ask
her about it, but decided that was not the kind of discussion to be
held over the phone, especially at nearly 11:30 in the evening. “I
can assure you,” he said breaking the silence, “that is not the
case. Perhaps when we have more time, I can explain it a little
more clearly.”

“Why don’t you come with me tomorrow and you can
explain it then. It starts at 7, so maybe we can have an early
dinner together.” Adam was taken aback. He was having trouble
understanding Rachel. At times she was hostile to him and his
profession. At other times she seemed to be genuinely friendly.

“That will be fine,” he said somewhat meekly. “I’ll
be in my office all day tomorrow, in case you need to get hold of
me.”

“You work on Saturdays?”

“That’s the best time to finish my sermon in peace
and quiet Besides, I’ve missed a lot of office work because of my
surgery and all the running around I’ve been doing. Shall I pick
you up?”

“Nope,” Rachel said forcefully. “This one’s on me.
I’ll pick you up at your office at 4:30.”

“Let me tell you how to get there from the
hospital.” Adam gave detailed instructions. “Do you think you can
find it?”

“I’ll find it.”

“That will be fine.” Adam hung up.

Saturday, March 28, 1992; 4:40
P.M.

ADAM CLENCHED HIS HANDS in his lap until his
knuckles turned white. The small and agile ’56 Thunderbird in which
he rode darted in and out of traffic along Friars Road in Mission
Valley.

“You’re not nervous, are you?” Rachel asked. “You
know there have actually been those who think that I lack a certain
amount of driving etiquette. Can you believe that?” Rachel brought
her car up tightly behind a car in the left lane and then sharply
veered into the right-hand lane. A car behind her honked its horn;
Adam closed his eyes.

“They may have a point, you know.” Adam slowly
opened his eyes.

“I feel at my best behind the wheel of this car. My
dad gave it to me when I graduated medical school. It gives me a
sense of purpose and self-determination, a feeling of
self-control.” Rachel leaned back in the bucket seat and
accelerated. “A psychiatrist friend of mine says it’s because I
have so little power in my personal life. You’re a man of wise
counsel; what do you think?”

“I think dropping to within twenty miles of the
speed limit would be a good a idea.” Adam said tensely.

“Why, I believe you’re scared, Reverend Bridger.”
Rachel laughed.

“I prefer to think of it as cautious and
expedient.”

“Expedient? How so?”

“There’s a Highway Patrol car just a few cars ahead
of you.”

Rachel decelerated quickly until the car’s speed
matched the flow of traffic.

“Thanks,” she said. “The last thing I need is
another ticket. My insurance would cancel me.”

“I must admit,” Adam said, thankful for the police
car ahead of them, “this is a side of you I never imagined.”

“We all have our quirks, Adam. This is one way I
release stress. When I’m in my car, I am the absolute ruler of my
life. There are no phones in here, no hospital administrators, no
uncooperative patients; just me and my thoughts.”

“I imagine life is stressful dealing with disease on
a daily basis.”

“It’s not disease that bothers me. Disease is never
malevolent. It doesn’t choose its victims; it simply follows
nature’s plan. A virus doesn’t say, ‘Aha, here comes a likely host
for me to live in.’ It infects and grows because that’s what it’s
designed to do; that’s how it lives. People are another matter
entirely.”

“How so?”

“Unlike disease, people can be vicious.” Rachel spit
the words out. “They can be dishonest and unscrupulous—plotting and
planning the demise of others. Odd as it sounds, Adam, I don’t much
like people.”

“Why not?”

Rachel didn’t respond but gazed steadily in front of
her, her hands squeezing then relaxing on the steering wheel.

“Something you want to talk about?” Adam asked
quietly.

“Please don’t play psychologist with me; leave that
to the professionals,” Rachel said curtly. For the next few minutes
they rode in silence. Rachel broke the stillness, “That was
uncalled for. I didn’t mean to imply that you weren’t a
professional. I’m sure you’re very good at what you do, it’s just
that . . . that I’m a very private person.”

“I understand,” Adam said calmly. “I didn’t mean to
pry.”

“Well, enough about me,” Rachel said with mock
cheerfulness. “What about you? How do you deal with your stress?
Or, are ministers exempt from stress?”

Adam laughed loudly. “That is one of the two great
myths people believe about ministers. The first is that ministers
work only on Sunday, and second, that we are free from the normal
stresses of life. The truth of the matter is that many ministers
work far more than forty hours a week, and face more stress than
many believe. Some researchers have placed the ministerial
profession in the top five stress-causing occupations.”

“What could be so stressful about a minister’s
life?”

Adam paused and gathered his thoughts. “It’s not an
easy thing to explain. First, you have to understand what a
minister believes about himself. The typical clergyman believes
that God has called him to be a minister. That is, God, for
whatever reason, has specifically picked him to serve Christ’s
church. That alone is enough to cause stress. To think that God has
chosen you for a task is . . . well, for lack of a better term,
frightening. Of course, the young minister enters his first church
after four years of college and three years of seminary, believing
that he is going to change the world for Jesus. Two years later,
after struggling with personalities and finances, he realizes how
tough a job it is.”

Adam gazed out the side window. “The ministry has
changed over the last few decades. Twenty or thirty years ago
ministers were considered pillars in the community. Their presence
was valued and their counsel sought. Today, many view the minister
as a perpetrator of superstition, and an interloper in the private
lives of people. Actually, all a minister wants to do is improve
the lives of those around him and to serve God; to bring faith into
the lives of the faithless, not for personal gain, but because he
knows it makes a difference.”

As Adam spoke, Rachel directed the car onto a
freeway off-ramp, down a frontage street, and then adroitly parked
the car near the entrance to the Great Wall, a popular Chinese
restaurant. The parking lot was nearly empty; the general Saturday
night crowd wouldn’t arrive for another hour.

“I didn’t mean to sound bitter,” Adam continued.
“Actually, the ministry has great challenge. I wouldn’t change
careers.”

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” Rachel
asked. “Come on, let’s eat.”

The restaurant was decorated in the typical
Chinese-American style with an abundance of red and gold on the
walls. Large plastic dragons hung everywhere. A large gold relief
of the Great Wall of China dominated the entrance foyer. An
uncommonly tall Chinese waiter led them to a corner table. Only
four other people were in the room.

“Allow me to order,” Rachel said taking the menu.
“If I mention anything you don’t like, just say so.” Without
looking at the menu, she ordered several dishes—cashew chicken,
Mongolian beef, sweet and sour pork—and a large bowl of won-ton
soup. She also requested two pairs of chopsticks. “You do know how
to use chopsticks, don’t you?” she asked.

“I think I can manage,” Adam replied.

“Good. Somehow Chinese food just doesn’t seem like
Chinese food without chopsticks.”

“I have some news you might be interested in,”
Rachel continued. “You remember that list you gave me of hospitals
that had similar experiences with healings?” Adam nodded. “Well, I
must admit that at first I was embarrassed that you found out about
them before I did.”

“I was lucky.”

“No, you weren’t. Don’t play humble with me—you were
just plain smart. Anyway, I’ve been doing some calling, and have
found out a few things.”

“Like what?”

“Well,” Rachel said, pulling a small packet of
papers from her purse, “the first thing I discovered is that no one
wants to talk about this. I had to really bend some arms. Most gave
in when they found out that I was from Kingston Memorial Hospital.
I guess they’re glad it’s our hospital with this problem and not
theirs. Anyway, here it is.” She handed Adam the folded papers.

“As you can see the only pattern is the cities in
which the healings occur: San Francisco, Fresno, Los Angeles and
now here. Of course, all that means is that our Healer is moving
south.”

“What about the people healed?” Adam asked.

“No pattern. Only one healing in each city. In San
Francisco, a woman was healed of severe psoriasis, a skin disease;
in Fresno, a child with leukemia was suddenly well; and in Los
Angeles, the most dramatic case occurred: a young man who had been
in a motorcycle accident was found sitting up in his ICU bed, which
is a remarkable feat considering his pelvis was fractured and his
spinal cord severed at the neck.”