THE BROCKHOEFT REPORT --------- Feedback Box:
Vol I, No. IX May 1994 Federal Prison, Ashland
Part Two of Chapter Nine
"I KNEW YOU WERE SOME KIND OF FED!" John was getting riled. "WHAT IS IT, THE F.B.I.? ARE YOU WIRED FOR SOUND?"
"Take it easy, Johnny, you can trust me. I'm your friend, and God is my witness that I'm telling the truth. I'm no more of a federal employee than you are. You work for the Postal Service. I work for the Smithsonian Institution. I have nothing to do with law enforcement. I'm Chief Curator of the Smithsonian."
"You haven't come all this way just to see me, have you?"
"I've come much further than you could ever dream."
By now they were parked outside the Greek joint. Inside, with two large coffees, they found a corner table.
* * *
The strange museum-keeper looked John square in the eye from across the table and softly, casually remarked, "Those were a couple of nice little fires you set last winter."
"Oh, sure, pal, that's what everybody says. Everybody says they know it was me that did it. Even the BAT Freaks say it. Why should you be any different?"
"But I DO know it, factually, John, and I'm going to prove it to you right now. Then maybe you will understand...you have no choice but to trust me. I'm here to help you learn." Here he paused to let the suspense and gravity of the moment sink in, then continued, "The night before you set those fires you went to Planned Parenthood. After going all around the building and not finding a weak point, you discovered that window inside the crawl space. The five bricks on the window sill were stacked in a disorderly way. After your examination you were tempted to put them back nice and neat but instead put them back in the same disarray as they had been. There! To how many people did you tell that little detail?"
"No one," John answered, stiffening.
"Then, after the fires, on your way home, you pulled up to the dumpster behind the IGA supermarket in Ludlow, Kentucky, and threw in the five gallon jug used at Haskell's killing center. Also into the dumpster went your sneakers. 'So long, old pals, no link,' as you said. How many people know that?"
John was terror-stricken, and, lifting his eyes toward heaven, began to pray softly, but fervently, with all his heart, "Oh Lord, Dear God, oh Jesus, this man knows everything. He knows what I've done. I am finished. Please watch after my wife and children! I took care of them as long as I could. I went to work to earn a living for them, but I had to fight for the lives of our people, too. Now I'm through. Please take care of them, Lord!"
The other man waited for the camouflaged figure to finish his earnest supplication to Almighty God. Then he spoke gentle words of reassurance, "Don't worry, Johnny, everything's alright. You're not in trouble. I won't betray you. I promise. Now do you trust me?"
"As you have said, what choice do I have? I don't believe you are of the devil. Yet, I see you have knowledge of things for which there is no natural explanation for you to be able to have. So you must be either an angel or a prophet of God."
"I'm neither," Jim chuckled softly, "I'm just an ordinary Christian. And these things I know? I have not discovered them by supernatural means. It is only natural knowledge."
An idea was beginning to form in John's head, but he remained silent. The other continued, "You cannot know how, or why, I and others of my generation appreciate your fight for the lives of preborn babies. But to help you understand, let me ask you something. Look at me. How old do you think I am?"
"You look like you're in your late forties or early fifties, but you're a very strange man, Jim, and right about now I'm ready to believe anything."
"I'm glad you said that. The reason I appreciate your fight for the preborn is because," Jim glanced around, and leaning closer to John, whispered, "I am a preborn baby! I won't even be conceived for years to come! I have come backwards in a time machine in search of answers! Do you believe me?"
"Yes. For one thing, considering all the strange things that have happened in the past half-hour, what would be easier to believe? Besides, I sometimes wondered if such a thing could happen. To me personally, I mean."
"Good! Let's go! There is someone eager to meet you. We hid the machines in a cornfield about an hour from here. The corn is tall enough to conceal all but their very tops, but the longer we delay, the greater the chance of being discovered."
* * *
January 2, 1996.
The two friends sat discussing political issues and strategies for hours after the omelets and hash browns had disappeared. It was nearly time to depart. John was speaking.
"I called my parole officer today. I guess I should say yesterday now, since it's three A.M. I asked for permission to go to Fort Lauderdale nineteen days, no, eighteen days from now, to see George Grant. I'm hoping to convince him to amend his history book for an upcoming reprinting. Actually, I'm hoping to get him to go with me to see Dietrich."
"What did he say?"
"He asked if I was flying down. I told him yeah."
"Let's just hope they don't investigate your trip. If they check with the airlines and see your name doesn't appear on any flight manifests they might ask questions. You would have a hard time explaining that you didn't mean you were going to fly through the atmosphere."
"Ha ha, that's true. I'll be okay though."
"Just watch yourself," Jim, Jr. cautioned. Then, looking at his watch, "I don't know about you, but I better head home It's going to be hard to get up at eight o'clock as it is. I'm not shining my shoes tonight. You've kept me up too late. I'll do it tomorrow night."
"Yeah, I better be heading home too."
So, leaving a few bucks for the waitress for good service, the two went their respective ways.
* * *
Bartlett note: This could be confusing to people unfamiliar with time travel. I said the two visits to Bonhoeffer occurred on consecutive nights, but the two trips were nineteen days apart. You see, on January 1, 1996, the pilot programmed the computer to take him back to July 5, 1939. On January 20, 1996, he programmed the machine to take him back to July 6, 1939. So, for Bonhoeffer, the visits were a day apart, but for John the trips were nineteen days apart.
* * *
Mike was John's friend who lived in Pompano Beach. Now retired, he had been a sophisticated art and jewel thief earlier in life. He and John had done time together in the federal pen in Ashland. Mike was finished with his supervision, so the contact did not jeopardize his freedom, only John's. It is a violation of rules to have any contact with other felons while on parole, or supervised release, so John was taking a chance. But where else could he have found such a well concealed place so near to George's house" And Mike's attached garage had a solid wood door. No window.
The garage's side door led into Mike's kitchen. Mike, George, and John came through the kitchen door and into the well lit garage. George let out a long, low whistle of admiration and proclaimed, "She's a beauty! Where did you say you got it?"
"You like it?" John asked. "I was a little disappointed the first time I saw it. But of course, I believed the man who told me he had a time machine, so I was actually expecting to see something."
George gave John a reproachful look. The speaker continued, "But I expected it to be some sleek, streamlined, space craft-looking kind of thing. So the guy who loaned it to me explained that streamlining is only necessary for physical objects traveling through the atmosphere. But at 186,000 miles per second, no amount of streamlining would enable a vehicle to withstand the friction of the earth's atmosphere."
"What?! 186,000 miles per second?!" George marvelled. "Why, that's the speed of light!"
"Uh huh. Light and other forms of radiant energy."
"Are you saying, then, that this contraption travels from place to place as an energy form?"
"Uh huh.
George shook his head. "I can hardly believe we're standing here and speaking in such terms. It seems so unreal, like...like maybe someone trying to pull a practical joke on me or something," and George shot a quick glance at John, who was as sober as a judge.
"That's exactly what I thought when Bomber called me on the phone and asked me to back my car out of the garage," Mike laughed. "He said he needed to park his time machine there for a few hours. I said, 'Oh sure, Bomber, sure, I'll back the car out right now, ha ha ha!' He said he was serious though, and kept saying, 'Be sure, now, be sure you back the car out and close the garage door.' He said he'd be here in a few minutes. I told him I'd do it. I almost didn't though.
"I open the car door and then say to myself, 'What am I doing? This is crazy!' and close the car door right back up. Then I think, 'What can it hurt? If Bomber makes a fool out of me, so what? It cost me nothing. He wasn't in prison with me for being dishonest.' So I back the car out, come back in the garage, and close the door from inside. Then I stand in the kitchen door, there, looking in here and shaking my head like you just shook your head. Couple minutes later I laugh at myself and say, 'What kind of fool did my mother raise?' Right about then, all of a sudden, the garage is full of all these little shooting stars, and next thing I know, Bomber's crawling out of this little hole. I say, 'You got yourself something there,' and I start believing."
"What hole? Where?"
John touched the keyless entry system, the hatch came out, and he tilted it up and back. George stooped over and studied the two seats and console inside. Lying on the passenger's seat was a copy of Christian History, Issue 32 (Vol. X, no. 4). That, of course, was the issue devoted entirely to Bonhoeffer, including twenty-four photos of the martyr. John had brought it along so George would be able to recognize Dietrich. It had not been necessary, though, because, as John had been hoping, there had been a copy right there in George's personal library. Of course such an avid historian as George would have it, but John had brought it just in case.
George got down on his hands and knees to study the craft's undersurface. "It looks like a perfect sphere all the way around. Doesn't this mean you have to land it on a perfectly level surface? Otherwise it would roll downhill."
"The point of destination doesn't have to be perfectly level,: the pilot answered. "Anything within thirty degrees of the horizontal will do. Watch what happens when we deactivate the magnetic field, and roll the machine out of kilter, and then reactivate the field."
John reached inside the open hatch and threw an unseen switch. The three men rolled the vehicle a couple of feet. Then John, the pilot, reached back in and returned the switch to its original position. The sphere rolled back to its "upright" position, exactly as it had been.
"Now watch what happens when we pivot it on its base point." Reaching in again, he threw the switch once more. Positioning themselves around the machine, the three managed to turn it around about a quarter turn, counter-clockwise. When the pilot reactivated the magnetic field the machine gently swung itself back to its original bearing.
"How does it do that?" George asked.
"Think of it as a giant compass," the pilot answered. "Its magnetic field is oriented around an axis twenty-three and a half degrees from the vertical. So as long as the field is activated the axis will stay parallel to the earth's axis in all three dimensions. The inventors realized that a machine which can take us to an earlier time should be able to move geographically at the same time. What if we wanted to go from here to the California gold rush of 1849? If the machine could only take us in time to 1849, but we had to start our overland journey from here in Southern Florida, we'd have a long walk to get to California. No airplanes, no busses, cars, road signs, nothing. It would take us a year...if we didn't get lost or killed by Indians."
"Clever," George noted.
"You won't need that coat where we're going."
"Where are you taking me?"
"New York City," John replied.
"But I saw a national weather report this morning, and the east coast is having a blizzard and sub-zero temperatures."
"Not on July 6, 1939. You can leave your coat here with Mike."
George handed his coat to Mike.
"Go ahead, get in," John invited.
"Why don't you go first?" George said, uncertain.
"Okay, but the first one in goes to the far seat and is the passenger." Patting the seat right inside the hatch, "this is the pilot's seat. You can be the pilot. I don't mind. It's easy. The computer even tells you, step by step, everything to do. But make up your mind now, because you can see how cramped the interior is. We can't switch places once we're inside."
"No, you be the pilot." And stooping over, George sidled in, and over the pilot's seat, and settled into the far one.
1. __________
2. PASSENGER
John stepped in and sat on the near seat.
1. PILOT
2. PASSENGER
"See ya in a little bit, Mike."
"Take it easy, Bomber. See ya, George, nice meetin' ya!"
"And it was nice meeting you, Mike!" George answered.
John closed the hatch. Outside, Mike stood in the kitchen doorway and watched the dematerialization process which has already been described. The craft gone, Mike shook his head, and with a smile, said to himself, "Mommy didn't raise no fool after all."
* * *
As soon as the hatch opened, the occupants were greeted by the dank, damp smell of an old, dilapidated barn. After stepping out, John offered his hand to George, helping the ordained minister through the hatch.
"Where are we?" George asked.
"About twenty miles outside New York City. Now do you believe me?"
"Well, of course, I can't recognize our present surroundings as being anywhere in the state of New York, but it does seem to be summertime here, just like you said. This could still be a practical joke, but it's getting harder and harder for me to deny your claim."
"It's three miles to the bus stop, so we've got a little hike ahead of us. Ready to do a little walking?" John asked.
Glancing at his wristwatch George replied, "Okay, but remember, I have to leave for the airport in three and a half hours."
"No, not three and a half hours, George. If need be, you have fifty-seven years to get back to the airport."
The two Christians had to wait less than five minutes at the rural bus stop. In the meanwhile George noticed several nice, old antique cars putter by. Across the road was a barn much newer than the one wherein they had left the machine three miles away. A huge advertisement painted on the barn's side promoted Mail Pouch chewing tobacco. A bib-overalled farmer came out of the barn, and noticing the two men at the bus stop, raised his hand and waved hello enthusiastically. John and George waved back.
"Do you know that guy?" George asked.
"No, but people were friendlier in this era. Here comes the bus. Let me pay the fares. Keep your money in your pocket. And please let me do the talking till you get used to things."
It was an antique bus, but it certainly didn't look worn, old, or weathered. It looked almost new. John boarded first and dropped a silver dime in the meter, telling the driver, "two," and motioning toward George. There were about fifteen riders, all dressed in clothes of the period. George could scarcely deny, any longer, what was really happening. For this to be a joke, John would have had to rent an antique bus (where do you go to rent an antique bus?) as well as hire all these actors and actresses to ride the bus, plus the driver. Plus all the antique cars and their drivers who had passed in the meanwhile. George was feeling a little light-headed. All the cars going the other way were antiques, as well as the one in front of the bus. It was too much.
Finally the bus pulled into the terminal, and the two de-boarded. On their walk to another stop, to transfer to the bus which would take them to Dietrich's host's house, they went by a news stand. George got an idea.
"Hold up a minute, John. Let me get a newspaper." George reached into his pocket. Alarmed, John grabbed his arm.
"Let me pay, George, please!" Pulling a nickel from his pocket, he held it up before George's eyes. "Isn't this a nice nickel, George? Look at it."
It was a buffalo head nickel, year 1928. He handed it to the man behind the counter, a mustached red-head wearing a derby hat. He appeared to be in the same age bracket as our two friends. The red-head handed George a paper. At the top of the front page George noticed the date: July 6, 1939.
"Excuse me, sir," George addressed the paper man, "could you tell me today's date?"
"July the sixth," the New Yorker answered, bending over to fuss with a stack of papers.
"Yes, but could you tell me," George continued, "what year this is?"
The New Yorker straightened up quickly, and, eyeing George with his head cocked to the side, sneered, "What?! Oh, a wise guy, hun? Here it is July, already, and he still doesn't know what year it is, hun? It's 1939, and this is the planet earth, for your information. Welcome to my world." Then, turning to John, he asked, "Where'd ya find this guy, in a loony tune?"
Without saying a word John raised his index finger to the side of his head; made a few little circular motions; thrust his thumb toward George; and rolled his eyes.
The New Yorker winked and said, "I see what you mean. Keep an eye on him. Look out for the poor fellow. And good day to you, gentlemen!"
Needless to say, that's not what John really thought about George. He respected George for his intelligence. The artifice had only been a diplomatic attempt to smooth over a potential confrontation. Fortunately, it worked.
When the two had walked several paces away John said, "Let me see one of your coins."
"I know. You don't have to tell me. They have the wrong dates."
"Exactly. Before this trip I went to a coin shop and bought a bunch of low-priced, old change that had little numismatic value. George, the thing to remember is: don't think 1996 thoughts. Think 1939."
"Oh, John, I'm not stupid."
"I know, brother."
"I won't goof up again. Understand me! until now I was not thoroughly convinced. But it's true! You do have a time machine!"
With George's acknowledgement they arrived at the second bus stop just in time to board the vehicle which would take them the remaining short distance to the meeting with the martyr. On this bus John asked George, "You don't still think I'm crazy, then?"
"No, of course not. But let me ask this: what's the chances I could borrow the machine sometime?"
"Sure. Why not? With your superior knowledge of history you could make better use of it anyway. Maybe I should turn it over to you and Paul deParrie. Paul has used it. In fact he kept it for me for nearly the last two years I was in prison. Shelley Shannon had it for a little while before that. Seeming to sense something was about to happen to her, she handed it over to Paul."
Having arrived at their destination, the two alighted from the bus.
* * *
If any doubt had remained in George's mind it would have been expelled the instant the martyr answered the knock. George had studied the face in the photos too well not to recognize it. It was him. Bonhoeffer.
John began going through the formality, "Rev. Dietrich Bonhoeffer, I'd like to introduce you to..."
"Say no more, John," the smiling martyr interrupted. "Don't I already know our brother George Grant?"
With a sidelong glance, John caught George registering his astonishment, blinking furiously behind his glasses. George and Dietrich, hands now clasped, were pumping away.
John continued, "Rev. George Grant, please meet..."
"Dietrich Bonhoeffer," George muttered.
"Come in! Come in, and let's get better acquainted and enjoy the fellowship while there is time." The martyr led the other two into the study. Dietrich sat in a swivel chair behind a mahogany desk. George sat in the red velvet chair John had occupied on the previous visit. John sat alone on a long, comfortable couch. It was too comfortable, as we will see momentarily.
John initiated the discussion. "Dietrich, the last time we talked you were telling me about how you were once a pacifist, but you later abandoned, and even renounced, that position. Would you be kind enough to expound on that a little further?"
"Gladly. There were a number of factors affecting the decision. For one thing, I came to realize that, as a pacifist, I was being a better Hindu than a Christian. Though I never looked to Ghandi as a spiritual mentor, yet on this one thing, I was using him as an example to follow, whereas there were any number of Christians who could have served as examples far superior. Not a few of them were of your own country, including George Washington, Theodore Roosevelt, and a fellow named York, a WWI sergeant.
"But before I start rambling, let me point out the two factors which most strongly affected my decision. One was the urgency, or, as we might say, the severe degree of the oppression. These poor people are being killed in Europe even right now as we speak! And I don't mean soldiers. I mean civilians, including women and children! They are no threat to anyone, yet they are being killed! They are helpless. Why are they helpless? Because of pacifism, pacifism! Because of their own pacifism only? No, no, no, no! We cannot even accuse them of pacifism. Because they are powerless to resist. Their oppressors are an overwhelming force. So to call these poor Jewish people pacifists would be as nonsensical as calling unborn babies pacifists.
"The beginning of the oppression was not marked by killing. No, that came much later. Oh, if only you could have seen the degradation and cruel humiliation these poor people were subjected to even before the killing began! That alone could have been enough to condemn pacifism for anyone who has a heart!
"Yet it was worse. Because we were not dealing with ideological pacifism. If it had been only an ideology it would have been easier to deal with, because we can reason with a man's head, but not with his heart. You can tell a man, 'look at how cruelly these people are being treated,' but how can you make him feel sorry for them? If we can find that out we can save the world from this rampage. God help us! So rather than an ideology this kind of pacifism would better be called 'idleness' or 'non-involvement.' It is a pseudo-pacifism that is born of indifference, lack of love, apathy, pitilessness, or whatever.
"The obvious injustice and invalidity of pacifism lies in that it is only possible for a man to be a devout pacifist as long as it is someone else being heavily oppressed, someone else's children who are being killed, someone else's wife who is being ravished. Now when I speak of pacifism, let it be understood that I am defining it as only existing at such times as when unjust aggression is occurring. Because what sense would it make to talk of pacifism at any other time? In a world where everyone were a pacifist, pacifism would be irrelevant. A genuine virtue, then, but irrelevant.
"For innocent people to be killed as a matter of governmental, public policy requires not only unjust aggression but unjust pacifism as well. Pacifism defeats its own purpose. By discouraging defense, it encourages offense and aggression. Pacifism damns its own self when it kills people through acquiescence. Then it is too stupid to understand it has brought about its own damnation.
"Aggression stands there, with its hands and arms spattered with blood, and roars, 'These worthless people deserved to die!' And pacifism is standing nearby, with its pretty shoes spattered with blood, and tells the world, 'See how nice I am? See how virtuous I am?'
"As I said a moment ago, the level of oppression and injustice had already become intolerable before the killing began. It already warranted a militant defiance. So, can you see? Pacifism killed not only the thousandth victim, but the very first one.
"But all these things I saw later. The main thing that drew me out of pacifism was much simpler. It was so basic that Jesus called it the second greatest commandment: that which calls us to love our neighbor as ourselves. And without this one we would automatically be in noncompliance with the single greatest commandment, which is to love the Lord with all our hearts.
"In all my studies of the New Testament, over so many years, I had read those words of Jesus again and again. Surely a hundred times, maybe two hundred! But not once had I stopped to think of what these two things really mean. Why had I never paused to meditate on them? Because they had always sounded so easy to understand, that's why. There could not be any deep, hidden meaning in such plain words, could there? Love your neighbor as yourself? I already understand what that means, don't I? I don't need to slow down and reflect here. I can continue my reading.
"Then one day in my morning devotions I read it again. The expert in the law asked Jesus what the greatest commandment was. An alarm went off in my head. What? The greatest commandment! This is important in the extreme! I must pay close attention here. I must be absolutely certain of the exact meaning. These commandments are for me. So I rephrased them in a personal way and said, 'Love the Lord my God with all my heart.' Do I? A feeling of dread seized me. I don't know if I love God with all my heart! I don't think I do! But I must fulfill it. How? I don't know. Suddenly, I do not even know what those words mean! Could it be that here...here where, before, the words had always sounded so simple...here where I had always thought nothing was hidden...could it be that this is where everything is hidden?
"Then I read Jesus' statement that the second greatest commandment was 'love your neighbor as yourself.' Again, I rephrased it and said, 'love my neighbor as myself.' I felt the same dread as before. Do I love my neighbor as myself? I don't know! I don't even understand what these words mean!
"Suddenly I became frustrated and angry with myself over my inability to answer these most basic questions. I slammed my Bible closed and decided I would read no further until I understood these most fundamental points. I was already a pastor and a seminary graduate. Truly, I knew everything; yet, I understood nothing! I saw nothing at all.
"So I hung my head in shame before God and admitted to Him I was blind. But I thanked Him for letting me realize my blindness and begged Him to heal it. I promised I would search for nothing else until I understood these two most fundamental things: What does it mean to love the Lord with all my heart? What does it mean to love my neighbor as myself?
"Since I had been reading the Bible for so many years and still did not understand these things, I wondered how long it would take to find the answers. A month? A year? Would I ever find them? The Lord opened my eyes that very hour.
"I decided just to keep repeating those words: 'love my neighbor as myself' over and over in my mind and thinking about them. I did not know how else to seek the answer. Half an hour later I had run those words through my mind, God only knows how many times. But suddenly my old way of interpreting the words tried to regain control...love my neighbor as myself...love my neighbor as myself...love my neighbor as much as myself. What? That sounds different! Had I always read it wrongly before? Had I mistakenly been adding something that wasn't really there? And if so, did it change the literal meaning? I had always thought the words meant to love my neighbor as much as myself. Of course that would be a desirable goal in any case, but my main concern at that point was to discover the words' literal content.
"The old interpretation was so deeply ingrained in my thinking that suddenly I wasn't even sure what the exact words were. I was at the bathroom sink getting ready to shave. I ran back to my Bible and found the verse. It did not include 'as much'! Jesus said simply, 'Love your neighbor as yourself.'!
"A thrill raced through my heart. I had the sensation something wonderful was about to be revealed to me! I had to stop adding the extra words. Without them it only says '...as yourself.' I said to myself, 'There is a key to understanding somewhere in those two words: as yourself!' Is there another way to interpret them?"
Here the excited martyr rose to his feet and began gesturing wildly, his arms flailing. "YES! It was coming to me! IT MUST MEAN SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT than I had always imagined! I knew what 'love your neighbor' meant, but what did '...AS YOURSELF' mean? Then I saw it! Jesus was saying to love your neighbor as if he WERE yourself! Not...as much as yourself...but as if he were yourself!
I saw that this new interpretation made all the difference! The beauty of it was that, although it was even more forceful than the old way, yet it made compliance much easier! Now I could obey the commandment after all! I would start applying it by ceasing to think of my neighbor as if he were an entirely separate person. I would pretend he is me. It was now possible to fulfill! If, when we love our neighbor, we are thinking of him externally, as a completely separate person, how in the world could we ever love him as much as we love ourselves? Who could ever succeed?"
Here the martyr fell to his knees as an illustration. "So I fell to my knees thanking and praising the Lord for this new understanding and for making it possible to obey Him."
Still on his knees, Dietrich hobbled the few feet to where John sat, grabbed him by the shoulders, vigorously shook him, and cried, "Please John, never forget, Jesus did not tell us to love our neighbor as much as ourselves! The commandment was stronger than that! He told us to love our neighbor as though he IS ourselves! Please remember!"
"Okay."
Dietrich then rose to his feet, went back behind the desk, and sat down, seeming more composed. "So I went back to the sink to shave, repeating the whole time, 'love my neighbor as myself.' Now I was looking in the mirror, watching the razor on my lip, and still saying these same words. As I started to say the last word I raised my eyes to my mirrored eyes and said '...MYSELF!' It struck me as peculiar that I was looking at myself in the mirror at that very instant. I said, 'That's it! See how you are looking at yourself in the mirror? You must train your heart to look at your neighbor the same way...as surely as if he were this same reflection you see in the mirror. As if he were yourself.' I decided to practice it with the first person I saw and everyone I saw that day.
"Then I heard the sound of an old man's voice pleading for something in the street. There was such an urgency in his tone that I ran to the door and stepped out. About twenty feet away a small group of people had gathered. In the middle was a government officer holding a club over a terrified old man. Seeing the old man's face, I was terrified too. Then it happened. The officer pulled back the club and bent over low, to swing at the poor man's left shin. When he swung, I grimaced, and reflexively lifted my leg and bent my lower leg back as if trying to avoid the blow which was being dealt twenty feet away.
"But the club fell on the old man's shin bone with an awful sound, and the air was split by a scream followed by pitiful moaning. Suddenly I realized the moans I heard were coming from my own throat. The policeman turned to look at me, and our eyes caught for a second. Then he swaggered away in the opposite direction. I rushed over to the group and offered assistance. Fortunately the leg was not broken. His friends were helping him hobble across the street and were eager to get him to the safety of his home.
"My leg hurt still! Although I knew the pain was imaginary, yet it was still so keen it was almost physical. I even limped the first few feet back into my home. I sat on my couch and wept. But after a little while I understood something that brought rejoicing. It is better to feel pain for others than to feel nothing at all! I felt more alive than ever before in my life! I said, 'This is what it means to love your neighbor as yourself. Above all else it means to share fully in his suffering, to feel his pain as your own.'"
Dietrich continued, "I believe that God and suffering are not a contradiction but rather a unity. The idea that God Himself is suffering has always been one of the most convincing teachings of Christianity. I think God is nearer to suffering than to happiness, and to find God in this way gives peace and rest and a strong and courageous heart. I now understood that to love the Lord our God with all our hearts includes sharing in His suffering.
"So I began to see things from below, from the perspective of the outcast, the maltreated, the powerless, the oppressed, the reviled in short, from the perspective of those who suffer.
"When I arrived at these new understandings about loving God and loving my neighbor, I saw I should take all my old philosophies and doctrines and measure them against these new things, to test the validity of the old ideas. Anything that contradicted these new understandings had to be thrown out.
"Europe is awash in innocent blood. Let us divide the people into three categories with the aggressors, personified by Hitler's Nazis at one end; the victims at the other end; and everyone else in the middle. See, I am not a Nazi participating in the killing, nor a Jew whose life is in danger. It is only possible for someone in this middle group, not directly involved, to be a practical pacifist. That was me, not so long ago. See, the factor which condemned my pacifism beyond dispute, in addition to the other factors, was that the victims were helpless and powerless; and so any effective defense would have to arise from the uninvolved people in the middle taking pity on the victims. Moreover, because the aggressors are so greatly determined to brutalize the victims, the most effective defense, perhaps the only effective defense, must seem to be a forceful one. It is easy to overlook this fact ONLY as long as it is someone ELSE'S life which is in danger. And even then, ONLY as long as I fail to fully identify with the victim, not looking at him as if he were me myself!
"When I looked at it from that perspective I saw that my pacifism, in the face of aggression, was wrong. I thought, 'Oh, dear God, if I really were the victim, oh, how easy it would be for me to see that the use of defensive force is justified! And if I really were the victim, and saw a man in the middle embracing pacifism, oh, how easy it would be for me to see that his pacifism was unjust! Then I would feel certain that the man in the middle was embracing pacifism ONLY because it was MY life in danger and not his own. Oh, dear God! Whenever in the past I have said, 'I am a pacifist,' what I was really saying was, 'I do not love my neighbor as myself'! I was saying it as clearly as if I were using those very same words! What's worse, I was saying it was right and encouraging others in the middle to think the same way! Jesus, I have been guilty of a great sin in not loving my neighbor as myself! Please forgive me!'"
The martyr then concluded his exhortation by saying, "And so, my brothers, that is how I came to reject my old pacifism once and for all. Unjust pacifism is such a strange and deceitful error! With its own mouth it confesses its sinful lack of love, but then brags about his unlovingness as if it were a virtue!"
Here the martyr, smiling kindly at George, asked, "As one theologian to another, please tell me, George what are your positions on pacifism and defensive force?"
Clearing his throat, George replied, "Clearly, everything John and I have just heard is irrefutable; and so, now, how could our positions differ in any way from yours? Yet, I cannot let this opportunity slip by, Dietrich, without asking: are you a pre, mid, or post-tribulation theorist?"
The two theology scholars, Dietrich and George, began talking over the untrained John's head. As the other two droned on and on, his eyelids grew heavier and heavier. Finally, never one to be shy, he unlaced his boots and, leaving them on the floor, stretched out on the couch. Two minutes did not pass before he was fast asleep.
A little later Dietrich glanced at the figure on the couch, whose breathing had become audible, and, motioning in that direction, asked George, "Can he just conk out like that anytime he wants?"
"I suppose so. Although I don't see how anyone could sleep through such a historic moment as this a meeting with Dietrich Bonhoeffer!" And the two scholars shared a moment of laughter.
* * *
Someone was gently shaking the sleeping Brockhoeft's shoulder. "You better get up or you'll miss breakfast. The chow line shuts down in ten minutes." It was the art and jewel thief.
John sat bold-upright on his bottom bunk and demanded, "Huh? What year is this, Mike?! What year is this?!"
Laughing, Mike answered, "Whata ya mean: 'what year is this?' Wake up and smell the coffee, Bomber. It's 1994."
Glancing around the cell at the lockers, the sink, and the bars on the windows, as if to confirm to himself that he really was still in prison, John moaned and remarked, "That's right. It is 1994. Oh, well, it was good while it lasted. Besides, 1996 isn't so far away, is it, Mike?"
"Of course not. But what are you talking about? I thought your release was next year. Don't you get out in '95?"
"Uh huh. That'll be good too!"
Shaking his head, Mike left the cell and walked through D House toward the chow hall.
Left alone in cell B-10, the anti-abortionist muttered, "No, 1996 isn't so far off. I've waited this long, I can wait a little longer. In the meantime I know I can count on Paul deParrie to take good care of the machine."
Incidentally, that cell is located at:
NORTH 38.5019967
WEST 82.7451091
* * *
THANK YOU
PLEASE TOUCH KEY MARKED
"ADVANCE" NOW.
* * *
Ed Rutledge closed the booklet and looked at the front cover. Prayer 'n Action Weekly News. His keenly concentrated thoughts wrinkled his forehead in a frown. Naw. Silly! It couldn't be!!
A minute later he lay the P&A on his coffee table, picked up the phone, and dialed (503) 288-5423. He had gotten the number from inside Life Advocate magazine, whose editor is Paul deparrie. But before the phone was answered at the other end he hung up, muttering, "Naw, this is crazy! What's gotten into me? It couldn't be possible! What am I thinking of? Silly!"
The second time he dialed that number he hung up again, not waiting for an answer.
The third time he waited.
"Life Advocate."
"May I speak to Paul deparrie, please?"
"Just a minute, please."
Briefly, another voice, "This is Paul deparrie."
"Paul, my name is Ed Rutledge. I'd like to ask you one question. Maybe I should have my head examined for even asking you this. Anyway, I read this wild, short story in Prayer 'n Action written by a guy named Joe Bartlett. In the introduction the claim is made that at least some, if not all, of the story is true. I'm trying to figure out how much. I feel like a fool for even asking this, but..."
"You need not feel so foolish, Ed," Paul interrupted. "I know what you want to ask. You must be the twentieth person who has called me today asking the same question. You want to know if I'm really keeping John Brockhoeft's time machine till he gets out of prison. Right?"
"That's exactly it."
"I can only tell you what I tell everyone: that information is top secret. And even if you have a security clearance within our organization I can't divulge that information over the phone."
* * *
THANK YOU PLEASE TOUCH KEY MARKED "ACTIVATE" AT WILL
* * * * *
Note from Joe Bartlett: My appreciation to John's publishers, Dave and Dorothy Leach, for letting me butt into John's usual space (John was also willing). I hope not many readers have resented the intrusion. Thanks for reading it through. The good Lord willing, look for John's more regular writings to resume with next month's issue.
Your friend in Christ,
Joe Bartlett
Editor's comment: The larger question, than whether the readers have resented the intrusion of Bartlett's writings into Brockhoeft's usual space, is whether the readers will welcome the return of Brockhoeft's writings after having received a taste of Bartlett's superb writing. We'll see.
In any case, the next /C/ issue will be late, that being the time I have scheduled for a trip to Portland to examine the machine for myself, in person, it not being possible to learn about it over the phone. Watch for our exciting eyewitness report.
Please send $100 (in advance) to reserve your copy of the special report
Order extra copies for your friends!
Sometimes people say they have trouble telling when I'm serious, so I want you to know I have never been more serious than I am now. PLEASE SEND $100!
IF YOU TRY TO PLEASE EVERYBODY, NOBODY WILL LIKE IT.
Chapter 10, The Brockhoeft Report
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