This morning had the makings of a special day. I awoke surprisingly refreshed early Saturday and looked forward to enjoying some quiet time in my den before my three children, with wife in tow, shattered the solemn atmosphere with the clanging of spoons against cereal bowls, followed by the liturgy of Saturday morning cartoons.
I put my Bible on the desk and selected my Stanwell churchwarden from the shelf. This was to be an unhurried time of devotion and the churchwarden was the pipe best suited for the occasion. Its design restrained one from jumping about to answer distractions. It also required one to find a comfortable sitting position well suited to serious thought and random contemplation. I reached for my tobacco pouch and was surprised when my fingers closed upon rough, ancient leather. From where did this stranger originate?
For reasons unknown at the time, I unquestioningly began filling my pipe with the surprisingly supple tobacco contained within. It lit with ease and burned with such evenness that a second match was not required. The taste of the first draw was rich with age and mature sweetness. As I exhaled, I watched the smoke curl upward against rough gray stone walls. Sunlight gave scant illumination as it labored through a small open window. I looked down at the grassy field and saw farm animals feeding, and women laboring to draw water from the well at a field's edge. My dreamy contemplation of this pastoral scene was abruptly ended by a loud knock on the door.
I hastily put down my pipe and lifted the latch to open the door. The young lad's eyes were large. His speech barely contained his excitement in relaying his message: "My Lord, the prisoner has been made ready for examination!" I turned, retrieved my clay churchwarden, and proceeded down the interminably long winding stairs into the dark recesses where the air was thick and moist.
The prisoner was fastened to the wall with shackles. Though deprived of food for many days, he nonetheless met my glance with the pitiable insolence of one that has succumbed to second rate ideas with total devotion. The tools of examination lay at my disposal: a burning torch, a whip, assorted pliers for twisting appendages and, for more energetic tasks, a Master of such tools. It was apparent the Master had already probed the prisoner for his particular weakness.
"Heresy." I spoke with little emotion. "You are accused of spreading damnable heresies against the true faith. How do you answer these charges?"
"Heretic? No. Prophet, perhaps. Bearer of the truth, indeed yes!" He responded with the same insolence that was apparent on his face. The Master looked at me with eyes that requested he be allowed to punish such words. I gave no assent, but instead motioned him out of the room.
"One would do well to consider with great care the words he lets escape from his mouth when in such circumstances. One would also do well to exercise great caution with the ideas he allows his heart to so passionately embrace. Do you not know I have authority to give you such pain as you have never imagined and end your earthly existence without question?"
"Such thoughts are common to any base brute. Do not think you can persuade me to renounce that which I believe and trust. The nation may embrace one religion and the king execute its judgments, but the heart of man shall never fall under such vain authority." I confess I was startled by his ready defense and the underlying strength it revealed.
"Yes, though I represent such power over life and death, it is also true that no such earthly power can enslave the soul of man." I looked over the assorted tools of persuasion, but instead selected my pipe. I lit a straw in the flaming sconce, and took two long drags. I continued, "It is true the convictions of a man are his possession, but cannot the light of reason be a siege engine that confronts the mind of man and perhaps breaches his most fervent convictions?"
He hesitated, then replied, "I see you are wise, at least as the world is wise, for you chose reason as your weapon. You chose well for my body is hard and I fear neither pain nor death. My mind, though, cannot resist persuasive words--if truth is their foundation." The insolence had left his face; that defense was not required for the coming battle.
Our opposing thoughts contended with one another. At times they seemed almost visible, like gray clouds spiraling and tumbling through the air. Each challenge was met with a moment of thoughtful silence while a probing question or a well considered objection was formulated. This was not sparing, but a true battle of ideas that can only be born of sincere hearts. Several hours and many more pipefuls later, I sensed all that could be said had been said. We had reached a refined understanding of each other, yet remained at an impasse.
The examination required a verdict: slow death by torture, quick dispatch by an ax, torment just short of death or, perhaps, a declaration of innocence? It seemed I could choose no course that would not render me an evil man. I smoked with desperation and felt the heat crawl slowly up the clay shank. As I puffed, I prayed for divine wisdom. Had not Solomon said, "Wisdom calls aloud in the street?" When I finally laid my pipe down on a table, I saw myself symbolically reflected in it. I too was lying alone, overheated and useless for the moment. I, a man of authority, an officer of the faith, felt powerless to execute a righteous judgment. I was undone.
My gloom was interrupted by another knock at the door. The lad had returned. As I opened the door, he looked about in anticipation of a gruesome scene, but saw none. "Lord, the council wishes to inquire if a verdict has been reached." I looked back at the prisoner and saw he hung in his chains with resignation. I glanced at my pipe, which gave off a faint wisp of life caused by the draft of the open door. "I will render a decision shortly." I spoke in a monotone voice which I did not recognize as my own. The door was drawn shut. I stood facing the uneven grain of its smoke-blackened surface. I turned with hesitation, feeling that it was I who was on trial, that judgment was to pass upon me for my course of action. I lifted my pipe--now cooled--and found my thoughts had cooled also. I lit the pipe again and found my thoughts clearing in the fragrant haze. I confronted my prisoner.
"I have judged your doctrine unorthodox. I have also judged that your mind cannot be swayed by force of pain or sound argument. Shall I make a martyr of you and add the force of sacrifice to your cause? I admire your courage and pity your destiny. I have determined to release you. I take this action at no small risk, as suspicion will be aroused regarding my motivations. Nevertheless, we must each accept our cross in whatever form it takes. You will spread your doctrine; I will spread mine. Is it not the heart of the individual man that must labor to sort the wheat from the chaff? Better--is it not--the good pleasure of our sovereign Lord, who will elect one for salvation and another for damnation? Perchance the leading of the Holy Spirit will guide our thoughts and convictions until one day we will call one another 'brother'." I lifted my pipe as if in a toast, and gave my farewell. "Until that day."
After I left the room I felt lightness in my feet as I ascended the laborious staircase to my chambers. Seated, I relit my pipe, closed my eyes and felt the serenity of a man who has a clear conscience before God. In the distance were many voices and much clamor as the liturgy of Saturday morning cartoons began.
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