The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.

The Boaz Secrets, written in 2018, is my third novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

Fifteen year-old Matt Benson moves with Robert, his widowed father, to Boaz, Alabama for one year as Robert conducts research on Southern Baptist Fundamentalism.  Robert, a professor of Bible History and new Testament Theology at the University of Chicago’s Divinity School enlists Matt to assist him as an undercover agent at First Baptist Church of Christ.  Matt’s job is to befriend the most active young person in the Church’s youth group and learn the heart and mind of teenagers growing up as fundamentalist Southern Baptists.

Olivia Tillman is the fourteen year old daughter of Betty and Walter Tillman.  He is the pastor of First Baptist Church of Christ.  Robert and Matt move to Boaz in June 1970, and before high school begins in mid-August, Matt and Olivia become fast friends.   Olivia’s life is centered around her faith, her family, and her friends.  She is struck with Matt and his doubts and vows to win him to Christ.  Over the next year, Matt and Olivia’s relationship blossoms into more than a teenage romance, despite their different religious beliefs. 

June 1971 and Matt’s return to Chicago comes too quickly, but the two teenagers vow to never lose what they have, even promising to reunite at college in three years after Olivia graduates from Boaz High School.

The Boaz Secrets is told from the perspective of past and present.  The story alternates between 1970-1971, and 2017-2018.  After Matt left Boaz in June 1971, life happened and Olivia and Matt’s plans fell apart.  However, in December 2017, their lives crossed again, almost miraculously, and they have a month in Boaz to catch up on forty-six years of being apart.  They attempt to discover whether their teenage love can be rekindled and transformed into an adult romance even though Matt is 63 and Olivia is 61.

In 2017, Olivia and Matt are quick to learn they are vastly different people than they were as fifteen and sixteen year old teenagers– especially, when it comes to religion and faith.  Will these religious differences unite them?  The real issue is the secret Olivia has kept.  Will Matt’s discovery destroy any chance he and Olivia have of rekindling their teenage relationship?

Chapter 6

December 4, 2017

Yesterday’s ten-hour drive from Chicago, along with the near half a century jaunt my mind had traveled, had left me exhausted, so much so that I had spent the night at the Hampton Inn in south Guntersville.  It was like a mighty wind kept me from ascending the mountain after crossing the last body of water before leaving the beautiful little town encircling the Tennessee River. 

I had slept until nearly noon, eaten the Hotel’s continental breakfast and now was within a mile of College Avenue in Boaz.  After looking at Google Maps, I had decided to take Highway 205 from the bottom of the mountain in Guntersville, through Albertville, and on into Boaz.  I passed the Downtown Mini-mart and turned right onto College Avenue.  At 1:15 I was sitting in the swing, what looked like the very same one Olivia and I had sat on the night before I left Boaz over 46 years ago. 

When I drove into the driveway of the now empty rental house I had not intended to get out of my car.  Was it the same force that kept me in Guntersville last night?  I had thought about this during my entire ride this morning.  If I didn’t know better, I would think I was being guided or prompted by some unseen hand.

I lay my head back and reminisced.  Soon, I was sitting at the dinner table of Walter and Betty Tillman.  Wade was there.  It was what we had called dating practice since Olivia had not been allowed to start dating until she was 15.  Olivia sat across from me, her parents careful to protect their young and inexperienced, somewhat naive daughter.  For some reason my subconscious had skipped over the first several weeks that I had tried to persuade Olivia to see me as more than an evangelical project.

“Sir.”  At first, I thought someone was standing outside the Tillman’s window hollering to get the Pastor’s attention.  Suddenly my mind was jolted forward nearly half a century.  “Sir, may I help you?”  The young lady stood halfway down the sidewalk from the street.  She had on a painter’s smock and was holding a paint brush.

I almost tripped forward as I stood up.  “Hello.  I’m sorry.  I used to live here.”

“The house is for rent if you are interested.  I can go get the key if you want to see inside.” 

“Do you own the property?”  I asked for some strange reason.

“I inherited it and the one next door.  My grandmother left them to me when she died.  I live two doors down from here, in the bright yellow house.”

“Was your grandmother Clara Rollins?”  I asked.

“Yes, did you know her?”

“I sure did.  But, she didn’t own this house when my father and I rented it in 1970.  I think it was a Mr. Adams who owned these two houses.”

“He sold them to a Mr. Weathers.  My grandmother bought them from his estate after he died.  She then passed away in the early 90’s.  She was ninety -seven when she died.”  The woman by now had walked onto the porch steps and had laid her wet paint brush on a towel she had placed on the concrete ledge that encircled the porch.

“By the way, I’m Matt Benson.  May I ask your name?”

“I’m Brandi Ridgeway.  What brings you here?  I assume you don’t live around here anymore?”

I gave Brandi a brief, but thorough, accounting of my story, including the year that my father and I had spent in Boaz.  She responded with her own story.  It turned out that Clara Rollins was really Brandi’s great-grandmother and Belinda Rollins was her mother, now deceased.  After a Q & A between us I figured out that Belinda would have been a classmate of mine during my eleventh-grade year.  I apologized for not remembering her mother.  For some reason she brought up the pending criminal cases against several residents. 

“It’s rather funny to me that the largest church in town is holding a prayer meeting for two of its former pastors.”  Brandi said, now sitting directly across from me on a concrete ledge.  She had encouraged me to resume my seat in the swing.

“Would you be talking about Walter and Wade Tillman?”  I asked.

“Yes, every Thursday night at 6:30 First Baptist Church of Christ holds a prayer meeting in the old auditorium.”

“Are you referring to the Sparks Avenue location?”

“Yes, around the time Grannie Clara died the Church built a huge new facility, but they still use the old one for the Hispanic services and other stuff like these prayer meetings.”

“I think what has happened in this crazy town is ridiculous.  And now, ninety-nine percent of the locals believe that God can be talked into saving these men from what seems to me a certainty they will spend the rest of their lives in prison, and that assumes they don’t get the death penalty.”

“I take it you are not much of a fan of the Tillman’s.  What about James Adams?”

“To me, he’s no different.  Do you know James?”  Brandi asked.

“Yes, I knew him in high school.  It’s been years since I’ve seen or talked to him.  After I left Boaz we kept up with each other for years and years.  Even though we haven’t been close in probably twenty years I wanted to come, surprise him, and hopefully encourage him, just show my support.”

“I guess you have a right to support a murderer if you want.  You should fit right in with the big crowd that comes to the weekly prayer meeting.”

“I’m not much of a prayer warrior.”

“Me either.  Well, I’ve got to get back to my painting.  I started yesterday on the outside of the back porch.  It’s time to turn yellow into green.  Nice to meet you Matt.”

I stood.  “Nice to meet you too Brandi.  Maybe I could buy you a cup of coffee while I’m in town. I’m planning on being here until New Year’s.  At least that’s what I’m thinking right now.”

“Thanks, but you are a little too old for me.  I don’t see older men.”

I couldn’t help but laugh.  I guess in the South asking a woman to go have a cup of coffee is a come on, unlike in Chicago where all it means is, ‘I would enjoy talking with you.’  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean it that way.  I simply meant I have enjoyed talking with you right here today and I just thought it would be nice to continue our talk.  I’m sorry if I offended you.”

“No big deal.  Come to think of it, you are cute for an old man.  See you around Matt.”  With that, Brandi picked up her paint brush and towel and headed back toward her house.

I sat back down in the swing and laughed out loud.  Cute.  Old man.  I was 63.  I certainly didn’t think I was cute, but I’m a long way from being old.  Sixty-three was old when I was sixteen, but now it is, at most, middle aged.  I laughed some more.

At 6:30 p.m. Thursday night I slipped into the back of the old First Baptist Church of Christ auditorium.  Outside, I had almost turned back after I reached the landing at the top of the stairs.  I now realized that Brandi was right.  I was not only old, but I was crazy old.  Why else would I be here?  It made no sense at all.  I tried being quiet as I walked inside.  There was no one seated under the balcony.  As I turned the corner I could see a man at the front behind the podium with his head bowed.  Nearly every pew was occupied, most full of folks leaning forward, also with their heads reverently bowed.  I decided to turn right and take the stairs up to the balcony.  I would like nothing better than to become invisible.  Maybe no one was upstairs.

I was correct in one respect.  No one else was upstairs.  The problem was I was anything but invisible.  As soon as the man concluded his prayer he looked up at me and said.  “Sir, the balcony is not safe.  We are having it renovated.  I encourage you to come join the rest of us.”

It seemed every eye turned and looked at me.  I thought I heard someone right down below me say, “Can’t he read?  There’s a sign at the bottom of the stairs.”

I walked down and sat under the balcony.  I was relieved when dozens and dozens of questioning eyes turned back towards the man behind the podium.

It didn’t take long for me to figure out that he was Warren Tillman, the current pastor, and the son of Wade Tillman and the grandson of Walter Tillman, both former pastors and now, presently, criminal defendants.  After a few other remarks he sat down, and another man took the stage behind the podium to lead the prayer service.  He referred everyone to their ‘prayer list.’  He instructed everyone to break up into their groups and go to their assigned areas.  A young girl, maybe six or seven, walked back to me, with the encouragement of what should be her grandmother, and handed me a sheet of paper, the ‘prayer list.’  I smiled and thanked her.

“If anyone doesn’t yet have a prayer group please choose one.  For example, if you have been led to pray for Walter Tillman, that group is meeting downstairs in the small auditorium.  The locations are listed on the back side of your ‘prayer list.’

I turned the sheet over and noticed that the James Adams prayer group was meeting in the basement.  This was all too real.  The basement had to be the same basement I had spent a year in with the youth group during 1970 and 1971.  I didn’t know how to pray, didn’t even believe in prayer, but I had to take this opportunity to see, once again, the place where I fell in love.  The basement at First Baptist Church of Christ is where I found my Olivia, my once in life love.

It didn’t take me but a few minutes to follow the path etched deeply in my mind.  When I exited the stairs I turned right, like I knew where I was going.  Directly to my spot in the huge circle of chairs that Youth Pastor Randy Miller always had setup and waiting for us on Wednesday night.  I looked in that direction and saw four or five people standing around a tall woman who was facing the other way.  One of the group, a woman, the grandmother of the young girl who had given me a copy of the ‘prayer list,’ looked towards me and said, “this is the James Adams prayer group.  Is that who you want to pray for?”

As soon as she started speaking, the woman in the center of the circle, the woman who was facing away from me, turned to look at who the grandmother was speaking to.  I nearly fainted.  The tall and drop-dead gorgeous woman was Olivia Tillman.  I would have recognized her anywhere and at any time, even a million years from now.  Although I was probably twenty feet away, her blue eyes penetrated my heart like we hadn’t been apart for nearly half a century.  I stood still.  Frozen.

The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.

The Boaz Secrets, written in 2018, is my third novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

Fifteen year-old Matt Benson moves with Robert, his widowed father, to Boaz, Alabama for one year as Robert conducts research on Southern Baptist Fundamentalism.  Robert, a professor of Bible History and new Testament Theology at the University of Chicago’s Divinity School enlists Matt to assist him as an undercover agent at First Baptist Church of Christ.  Matt’s job is to befriend the most active young person in the Church’s youth group and learn the heart and mind of teenagers growing up as fundamentalist Southern Baptists.

Olivia Tillman is the fourteen year old daughter of Betty and Walter Tillman.  He is the pastor of First Baptist Church of Christ.  Robert and Matt move to Boaz in June 1970, and before high school begins in mid-August, Matt and Olivia become fast friends.   Olivia’s life is centered around her faith, her family, and her friends.  She is struck with Matt and his doubts and vows to win him to Christ.  Over the next year, Matt and Olivia’s relationship blossoms into more than a teenage romance, despite their different religious beliefs. 

June 1971 and Matt’s return to Chicago comes too quickly, but the two teenagers vow to never lose what they have, even promising to reunite at college in three years after Olivia graduates from Boaz High School.

The Boaz Secrets is told from the perspective of past and present.  The story alternates between 1970-1971, and 2017-2018.  After Matt left Boaz in June 1971, life happened and Olivia and Matt’s plans fell apart.  However, in December 2017, their lives crossed again, almost miraculously, and they have a month in Boaz to catch up on forty-six years of being apart.  They attempt to discover whether their teenage love can be rekindled and transformed into an adult romance even though Matt is 63 and Olivia is 61.

In 2017, Olivia and Matt are quick to learn they are vastly different people than they were as fifteen and sixteen year old teenagers– especially, when it comes to religion and faith.  Will these religious differences unite them?  The real issue is the secret Olivia has kept.  Will Matt’s discovery destroy any chance he and Olivia have of rekindling their teenage relationship?

Chapter 5

June & July 1970

Three days had gone by since I had first met Associate Pastor Peter Grantham on the front porch steps of First Baptist Church of Christ, and I still hadn’t met Olivia Tillman.  That didn’t mean I hadn’t learned more about her.

That night, Dad and I had walked over for the 6:00 p.m. Wednesday night fellowship meal.  He then had attended the 6:30 Prayer Meeting and I had, reluctantly, sat and listened to a Raymond Radford lead a handful of kids, most seemed younger than me, in a short Bible study taken from Genesis, centered on what made Eve eat the apple.  I later learned that Mr. Radford owned Radford Hardware and Building Supply Company in Boaz and his son, Randall, and about 40 other members of the ‘Explosion’ team, whatever that was, were in New Mexico on their annual summer missions trip.

Mr. Radford shared with us that six junior high aged kids had already been ‘saved’ during the Vacation Bible School the youth were holding at the Mescalero Apache Indian Reservation in southern New Mexico.  The youth were holding this two-week school while their adult chaperons were helping the Tribe complete three Sunday School rooms on the back of the church building they had been working on the past three summers.  I gathered that the team had left last Saturday morning and had arrived late Sunday night.  By lunch time Monday, all sixty adults and youth were busy working diligently to spread Christ’s gospel.

Dad dropped by the youth center down in the basement shortly after Mr. Radford had released us for what he referred to as ‘hang time.’  I told Dad to go on home, that I wanted to stay.  I whispered to him that I was on a mission.  He smiled and winked at me and walked away. 

Within a few minutes I was talking with the only other kid who looked older than 13.  He was sitting in the corner eating cookies and drinking Kool-Aid from a table I had noticed when Dad had left.  James Adams was the son of David Adams, the man who Dad had rented our house from.  I wasn’t hungry after the fellowship meal, but I did join him in the red bean bag chair sitting across from him.  We seemed to hit it off very quickly.  He was laid back and easy going.  He asked me where I was from, what had brought me to Boaz, and if I played basketball.  I gave him my pat answers to the first two questions and told him I liked basketball okay but had never played except in pickup games in our Chicago neighborhood.  He seemed to want to talk about nothing else, which didn’t interest me, so I finally asked him did he want to play ping-pong.  One of the two tables on the far side of the large room was unoccupied.

He easily beat me in five games.  I think it was his reach.  After he stood up, I noticed how tall he was, several inches taller than my five feet ten-inch frame. His arms appeared to be a foot longer than mine.  During the games, I learned he had been sick with a virus last Saturday when the missions team left for New Mexico.  He said he had planned on going but couldn’t leave the bathroom.  “It was coming from both ends.”  James, no doubt was an open book type of guy. 

I asked him about the youth group and what goes on when everybody is in town.  James said that the youth minister, Randy Miller, and Pastor Walter’s daughter, Olivia, were the heartbeat of the youth ministry.  “Randy is the thunder and Olivia is the lightning.  Even though she’ll only be a 9th grader this year she operates like she is in college.  She’s sold out for Christ.  Let me give you some advice.  Don’t think because you are the new cool guy in town that she will be fawning all over you.  I’m not sure Olivia has ever thought about having a boyfriend.  Now, that doesn’t mean she’s homely.  She’s drop-dead gorgeous, could easily pass for an A-Team cheerleader, that’s the varsity team.  Sometimes I think she’s not fully human.  She’s so dedicated to God, and her father’s work here at the church.”

James and I had talked for nearly two hours, an entire hour after Mr. Radford had ran everybody out and locked up the basement door.  James and I had sat outside on the Church’s front steps.  I had learned that he and Wade Tillman, Randall Radford, John Ericson, and Fred Billingsley were five guys known as the Flaming Five and they lived for the basketball court.  James invited me to start coming to the Boaz High School gym on Thursday nights to watch them scrimmage.  He also said that I was welcome to join them any time.  I quickly declined and told him I would just stick to running.  He said, “see there, you are a natural, all you would have to do is learn to dribble, shoot, and pass.”  I thanked him, told him I might come watch him and the other members of the Flaming Five, and walked the three blocks home.

For the next two weeks I had developed a routine.  Jog or ride my bike around town early every morning during the week.  Divide the rest of my day between watching TV and reading.  Thursday nights I hung out at the gym watching the Flaming Five devour every five-man team that challenged them, except last week when a group from Emma Samson High School came up from Gadsden.  This was a close game but, so far, it was the only time I saw James’ team suffer a loss.   Wednesday night and Sunday mornings, Dad and I went to First Baptist Church of Christ.  Last night, I had thought I would finally meet Olivia since the mission’s team had returned yesterday on my birthday.  I had, as usual, gone down to the basement after the fellowship meal and was astounded by the number of kids.  I could feel an electricity in the air that was clearly absent the other times I had attended.  I was disappointed to learn that Olivia couldn’t make it.  Seems like she had caught a bug like James’ on the return trip from New Mexico.  Word was, she was holed up next door in her bedroom at the Church’s parsonage where she lived with her parents, her brother Wade, and her sister Juanita.  I learned that Wade and Juanita were close to my age and would also be in the eleventh-grade.

Dad and I had spent nearly all day yesterday looking for me a car.  He had told David Adams at Adams Chevrolet, Buick & GMC that we would return today and make the final decision between a 1964 Pontiac Bonneville and a 1965 Chevrolet Corvair. I had instantly fell in love with a 1965 Chevelle Malibu SS396 hardtop coupe.  I knew that wasn’t going to happen.  Dad confirmed that when he said, “too much car, way too expensive.  You’d kill yourself with that much power.”  Dad was insanely particular, about most everything.  This certainly didn’t preclude him from wanting to test drive the Bonneville and the Corvair one more time.  I knew there was no use in trying to argue that nothing likely had changed since yesterday and that he already knew he was going to buy the Corvair.  Why?  It was cheaper on gas. 

After we returned to the dealership with the Corvair, and after Dad and David Adams spent another thirty minutes talking about the reliability of the rear-mounted air-cooled engine, we drove Dad’s truck to First State Bank of Boaz and met with Fritz Billingsley.  I quickly learned that Dad had, two days earlier, gone to visit Mr. Billingsley who had approved a $1,000 loan with Dad signing as co-signor and guarantor.  As a birthday present, Dad was paying the difference between the car’s cost and the money I was now borrowing.  I liked Mr. Billingsley.  He was personable and seemed interested in me.  He asked if I had met his son Fred.  I told him we had met at church and that I was enjoying watching him play basketball on Thursday nights along with the other four members of the Flaming Five.

After signing my life away, Mr. Billingsley gave me a $1,000 check made payable to me and Adams Chevrolet, Buick & GMC.  Dad and I returned to the dealership and signed a few more documents.  Dad was glad David Adams had someone on staff to bind the insurance coverage.  He handed me the keys and I quickly sat down in my very first car.  Dad made me take him for a long ride towards Attalla and back before he would let me drive all by myself.  Even though we had spent weeks in Chicago with Dad teaching me how to drive.  He even had borrowed cars from half of his fellow professors just to expose me to different vehicles.  As I drove down Main Street I let irrationality control my thoughts.  I was now a quasi-adult.  Cool.  Had bought my own car.  Owed a bank money.  I could feel the eyes of the three girls that crossed Highway 168 in front of me as I sat at the red light.  They were thinking, ‘I sure would like to meet that good-looking guy in that cool car.  I wonder if he has a girlfriend?’

By the time I got home, reality set in.  Having my own set of wheels now, not just bicycle wheels, but those of a real car, didn’t mean I wasn’t still a full-fledged kid.  My little car didn’t mean I was any smarter.  In fact, trying to go to sleep at midnight, all I could think about was how on earth I would ever be able to befriend Olivia Tillman.  It seemed from what James had said, she would never even notice me, certainly she wouldn’t become human enough to think I was cool with my new car.  My five-plus year-old car.  As my subconscious rose up to take me towards my dreams, I wished tomorrow was Wednesday and it would be the day I finally got to meet the gorgeous Olivia.  The dreams started with a question, ‘how had she become some sort of goddess to me?’

The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.

The Boaz Secrets, written in 2018, is my third novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

Fifteen year-old Matt Benson moves with Robert, his widowed father, to Boaz, Alabama for one year as Robert conducts research on Southern Baptist Fundamentalism.  Robert, a professor of Bible History and new Testament Theology at the University of Chicago’s Divinity School enlists Matt to assist him as an undercover agent at First Baptist Church of Christ.  Matt’s job is to befriend the most active young person in the Church’s youth group and learn the heart and mind of teenagers growing up as fundamentalist Southern Baptists.

Olivia Tillman is the fourteen year old daughter of Betty and Walter Tillman.  He is the pastor of First Baptist Church of Christ.  Robert and Matt move to Boaz in June 1970, and before high school begins in mid-August, Matt and Olivia become fast friends.   Olivia’s life is centered around her faith, her family, and her friends.  She is struck with Matt and his doubts and vows to win him to Christ.  Over the next year, Matt and Olivia’s relationship blossoms into more than a teenage romance, despite their different religious beliefs. 

June 1971 and Matt’s return to Chicago comes too quickly, but the two teenagers vow to never lose what they have, even promising to reunite at college in three years after Olivia graduates from Boaz High School.

The Boaz Secrets is told from the perspective of past and present.  The story alternates between 1970-1971, and 2017-2018.  After Matt left Boaz in June 1971, life happened and Olivia and Matt’s plans fell apart.  However, in December 2017, their lives crossed again, almost miraculously, and they have a month in Boaz to catch up on forty-six years of being apart.  They attempt to discover whether their teenage love can be rekindled and transformed into an adult romance even though Matt is 63 and Olivia is 61.

In 2017, Olivia and Matt are quick to learn they are vastly different people than they were as fifteen and sixteen year old teenagers– especially, when it comes to religion and faith.  Will these religious differences unite them?  The real issue is the secret Olivia has kept.  Will Matt’s discovery destroy any chance he and Olivia have of rekindling their teenage relationship?

Chapter 4

December 3, 2017

“You will always be remembered here with fond affection, but just as important, for your contributions to cutting edge Biblical scholarship ever since you arrived in 1962, at least a decade before most of the current staff was even born.  With this, we wish you well.  Please come back for a visit very soon.”  Laurie Zoloth, Dean of the University of Chicago Divinity School, ended her detailed biography of Robert Benson’s life and career, and his conversion to professor emeritus.

I had walked across the campus from my post at the Department of Ecology & Evolution to Swift Hall to join my honored Dad and celebrate with him the end of his 55-year career here at the Divinity School.  What made today equally special was Dad’s birthday and its coinciding with his official retirement.  Professors Arnold Davidson and Michael Fishbane had spoken before Dean Zoloth, with them excelling at alternating everyone’s emotions from sad and back to happy through their stories of working with Dad and experiencing his many sides, including his ability to uncover the tiniest of relevant leads from a mountain of, what academics referred to as ‘garbage data.’  The ninety-minute formality was now over and Dad and I, along with Professors Davidson and Fishbane, were continuing our celebration, on a more private basis, at Piccolo Mondo on East 56th Street.

After the four of us sat down at a corner table in the busy near-campus restaurant, and as Fishbane encouraged Dad to try the Fettuccine Apulliana, I couldn’t help but recognize another coincidence.  This one didn’t bode as pleasant as Dad’s retirement and birthday.  Later this afternoon, after a leisurely lunch and a brief meeting, hopefully, with Sally Edgeworth, one of my doctoral students, I was driving to Boaz, Alabama.  It would be the first time there since Dad and I drove away after the completion of my eleventh-grade school year in June 1971.  The occasion was anything but a vacation.  I was going to offer all the support I could to my good friend, James Adams, who was facing criminal charges and a Federal jury trial.

“Robert, just last night I read your article, “A Jew-less Faith” in The Journal of Religion.  A long discussion ensued between the three Bible scholars with me attempting to display interest and understanding.  The article’s thesis was that Christianity had been hijacked by America and its infatuation with Republican politics.  After a lull in their discussion, Davidson asked Dad how his 1970’s Alabama research on Baptist Fundamentalism had affected his career.

“I’ve thought a lot about that question myself.  Looking back, it is easy to say that if Matt and I hadn’t spent that year in Boaz, Alabama, I don’t think I would have pursued my theory.  It was the people there, their beliefs, traditions, and daily lives, that spawned such an interest.  I was fortunate to be in the right place at the right time to capture a preview of Americanized Christianity before it spread across the country.”  Dad said, dipping a french fry into a mound of ketchup.  I knew he would reject the Fettuccine Apulliana.  He wouldn’t dare spend $25.00 on lunch.

My meeting with Sally took an hour longer than I had expected or wanted.  After thirty minutes to return to my house on Claremont Drive, I was finally ready for the ten-hour drive to the little town that I would never forget.  It was there that I discovered that love, real love, had the power and capacity to either displace or circumvent vast differences in deep-seated beliefs.  I was both excited and sad.  Forty-six years ago, a wonderful teenage girl and I had held each other for the last time outside a four-room rental house on College Avenue.  Olivia and I both thought at the time that our separation would be temporary.  It was only three short years until she would graduate high school and be able to join me in college.  It hadn’t worked out that way.  She had chosen, or had it decided for her, that I was not worth it.  The love we had discovered had wilted and virtually faded from my mind.  It was as though something more powerful than love had prevented Olivia from taking the road our hearts were seemingly destined to travel.  The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost blasted across my mind, especially the stanza:

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

The last of today’s sunlight faded as I drove south through Gary, Indiana.  I was beginning to despise all of today’s coincidences.  Once again, I had stopped at the same interchange that Dad and I had stopped at for him to fill up his truck with gas and for us to eat breakfast at a Waffle House.  It was the same I-90 and I-65 exit but the 1970’s service station had long been razed and replaced by a multi-million-dollar Pilot Truck Stop.  There was still a Waffle House but no doubt it too had been completely transformed.  Even still, I couldn’t help but pull in, fill up my truck—Dad’s influence here too—and enjoy a quick cup of coffee in the imaginary spot where Dad and I had sat over forty-six years ago.

South of Nashville I had to pull into an I-65 rest area.  It was past midnight and I could barely hold my eyes open.  I found a quiet spot on the back side, a parking spot behind the one where the diesel engines of a dozen or more semis were humming their drivers a midnight lullaby.  I slept for over an hour, woke up from a dream about being thirsty while walking across a desert with nothing in sight but an ocean of sand.  I walked inside the Information Center, used the bathroom, and bought a cup of vending machine coffee. 

Between Nashville and Decatur, Alabama all I could think about was the past, what my life had been like since June 1971 when I had left Boaz.  For over a year Olivia and I had communicated, mostly through our letters, but with an occasional phone call.  At that time, it seemed nothing had changed.  During my entire high school Senior year, I firmly believed that Olivia and I would follow our dream and be together just as we had planned when I left Boaz.  Then, I couldn’t see it happening.  I have since reread her letters a million times.  Now, with the benefit of hindsight, it is easy to spot little clues.  I couldn’t help but think that if I had shared them with Dad, he would have spotted them immediately.  As that first year apart passed, Olivia spoke more and more about her prayer life and how she wanted to honor and please God.  I think it was in December 1971, maybe January 1972, she started interjecting her duty to honor her father.  This doesn’t mean we didn’t speak about our love for each other.  Again, looking back over these letters, it was clear that Olivia was deeply troubled about something.  I still wonder if it was about God and Walter Tillman or if it was about something else.  I will never know because during the fall of 1972, during my second month at Harvard I received Olivia’s ‘Dear John’ letter, followed by her late-afternoon phone call declaring she had decided to break up with me.  I will never forget her words, “Matt, you know I love you, but God has other plans for my life.  I can’t keep you hanging on.  I have to let you go.”

I almost flunked my first semester at Harvard.  I don’t know how long it took for me to regain some form of normalcy, but I know without a doubt I experienced post-traumatic stress syndrome.  To me, it was every bit as bad as if I had been blown up in Iraq or Afghanistan.  I’m sure I’ve forgotten a lot of the details, but I know I would never have made it if it hadn’t been for Dad.  From then on, every night for the next four years, Dad called, and we talked for at least an hour.  I now realize what a sacrifice this was for Dad.  He was extremely frugal with his money and his time.  He must certainly have recognized how near death I was to have committed his most valuable resources to saving his only son.

After graduating Harvard with a Bachelor of Science in Molecular Biology, I moved on to Duke University in Durham, North Carolina for my Master’s and my Ph.D.  I then did a two-year postdoctoral fellowship at the University of California, with Timothy Prout, Ph.D.  In 1981, with these excellent educational credentials and, I’m sure, a little help from Dad, I was hired by the University of Chicago’s Department of Ecology and Evolution as an Associate Professor of Evolutionary Biology working under the direct tutelage of the world-famous Jerry Coyne, assisting him in his work with evolutionary genetics.

Of course, my education and profession weren’t my entire life.  I had met Alicia Harrison in 1982.  Once again, I must thank Dad.  Alicia was a new associate professor of linguistics in the Divinity School.  Her office was across the hall from Dad’s and he liked her from the beginning.  Long story short is that he introduced us.  I had walked over to visit him the day before our Christmas holidays began.  Alicia didn’t have family so Dad invited her to share Christmas dinner with the two of us.  Less than a year later we married.  If losing love one time wasn’t enough, fate, God, whatever, visited tragedy once again on my delicate heart.  In January 1984, Alicia died two hours after being t-boned by a drunk driver while she was driving Dearborn Boulevard to begin her day at the Divinity School.  Later, I discovered in her journal that she had planned on telling me that night that she was pregnant.  She had written, “found out yesterday that I am pregnant.  I wanted to tell Matt this morning before work but thought it best to wait until tonight when we have more time to celebrate.  Can’t wait.  He will be overjoyed.”

As I exited I-65 and turned east on I-565 towards Huntsville, I now, once again, realized, why I had remained single after Alicia died.  I was doomed, destined, tainted, to never have love, real love, live in my life.  There was something inside me, something opposite from fertile ground, that was like poison to a long-term and healthy relationship.  As I drove towards Boaz I wished, long ago, I had pursued counseling or psychiatry or a ten-year Himalayan meditation, something, to discover why I could not hold on and succeed with a woman I loved.

Crossing the bridge into Guntersville, across the Tennessee River, I became almost sick thinking I was returning to the place I first fell in love.  I knew beyond doubt that I had loved Alicia, but I also knew that my love for Olivia Tillman was unique, a once in life love.

The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.

The Boaz Secrets, written in 2018, is my third novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

Fifteen year-old Matt Benson moves with Robert, his widowed father, to Boaz, Alabama for one year as Robert conducts research on Southern Baptist Fundamentalism.  Robert, a professor of Bible History and new Testament Theology at the University of Chicago’s Divinity School enlists Matt to assist him as an undercover agent at First Baptist Church of Christ.  Matt’s job is to befriend the most active young person in the Church’s youth group and learn the heart and mind of teenagers growing up as fundamentalist Southern Baptists.

Olivia Tillman is the fourteen year old daughter of Betty and Walter Tillman.  He is the pastor of First Baptist Church of Christ.  Robert and Matt move to Boaz in June 1970, and before high school begins in mid-August, Matt and Olivia become fast friends.   Olivia’s life is centered around her faith, her family, and her friends.  She is struck with Matt and his doubts and vows to win him to Christ.  Over the next year, Matt and Olivia’s relationship blossoms into more than a teenage romance, despite their different religious beliefs. 

June 1971 and Matt’s return to Chicago comes too quickly, but the two teenagers vow to never lose what they have, even promising to reunite at college in three years after Olivia graduates from Boaz High School.

The Boaz Secrets is told from the perspective of past and present.  The story alternates between 1970-1971, and 2017-2018.  After Matt left Boaz in June 1971, life happened and Olivia and Matt’s plans fell apart.  However, in December 2017, their lives crossed again, almost miraculously, and they have a month in Boaz to catch up on forty-six years of being apart.  They attempt to discover whether their teenage love can be rekindled and transformed into an adult romance even though Matt is 63 and Olivia is 61.

In 2017, Olivia and Matt are quick to learn they are vastly different people than they were as fifteen and sixteen year old teenagers– especially, when it comes to religion and faith.  Will these religious differences unite them?  The real issue is the secret Olivia has kept.  Will Matt’s discovery destroy any chance he and Olivia have of rekindling their teenage relationship?

Chapter 3

June 1970

“Well Matt, how did you sleep?”  Dad asked seeming extra chipper this morning.

I was surprised that I had slept so well my first night in the Bible Belt.  I woke up to the smell of bacon and coffee.  Dad didn’t even have to rouse me out of bed.  I concluded that he had gotten up early and found a grocery store.  I doubted the breakfast set before me and the cans and boxes of groceries on the kitchen counters had miraculously appeared. 

“Like a rock.”  I said pouring me a large coffee, thankful that Dad had set up the coffee maker and pulled my favorite cup from the dozens of boxes last night before we went to bed.

“I love how you are practicing.”

“What does that mean?”

“You are talking like a true Southerner, not just a Southerner, but anyone who uses broad language.  How do you know how a rock sleeps?”  Dad said devouring his toast and eggs.  I guess he was finally hungry since he had eaten so light yesterday.

“It’s not meant to be a literal statement.  It’s a figure of speech.”

“Just making conversation.  By the way, I must deliver my Fall syllabus to the Dean this morning.  Then, I plan on exploring the area.  Would you join me?”  Dad said.  I was hoping he wasn’t going to make it a requirement.

“Thanks, but I need some exercise after yesterday’s long ride and given all the heavy food I ate yesterday and now this morning.  If it’s okay with you I’m going to ride my bike.”

“That’s good.  But, as always, use your head and make wise decisions, don’t go anywhere dark, dingy, dilapidated, or deathly.”

“I know.  Your quadruple ‘d’ test.  Dad, keep in mind, we are now in a quiet, almost crime-free Southern town.  This isn’t South Chicago.”

“I realize that but, just be safe, always.”

“I will.”

“Do you mind cleaning up here while I take a shower?”

“You don’t have to ask me that every day.  Haven’t I been head of the mop-up crew ever since Mom died?  I just assumed I’d continue this tradition even while we’re in this foreign land.”  If we had moved to China or Brazil, I would have felt the same way.  I was now living in a country so radically different from where I had been born and raised.  At least that’s how I believed from all the reading I had done since Dad broke the news to me early last winter.

After I cleaned off the table and put the groceries away I sat on the front porch.  I had enjoyed last night with Dad out front.  Our place in Chicago didn’t have a porch of any kind.  This one even had a swing.  Something, another something, I had never experienced.  Come to think of it, the back and forth motion could have been the reason I had slept so well.  Lullaby.  It was a motherless way of being rocked to sleep.  Will I ever go a day without missing my mother?

“Good morning.”  The voice bolted me out of my dream or subconscious wanderings.  I looked over to an older woman standing in the front of the house on the sidewalk.  “I’m hoping I have some new neighbors.  I’m Clara Rollins from two doors down.”

“Hello, I’m Matt Benson.  My Dad and I just arrived last night.”

“I’m happy to have you in the neighborhood.  Where are you guys from?”

“Chicago.”

“That’s a way from here.  What brings you to our wonderful town?”  Clara said inching towards the front porch steps.

I was just about to respond when Dad walked out with his briefcase.

“Dad, this is Clara Rollins.  She’s a neighbor.”  I said, trying to use my best manners.

“Hello.  I’m Robert Benson, Matt’s father.”

“Dad is here to teach at Snead State Junior College.”

“It’s a great school and right up there.”  Clara said pointing in the direction behind where I was seated.

“Maybe we can talk more very soon.  I’m sorry but I have a meeting in five minutes with Dean Naylor.”

“You two have a nice day.  Robert, if you will, tell James I said hello.”

“James?”

“James Naylor.  We’re friends.  We also go to church together.  First Baptist Church of Christ.  On Sparks Avenue.  You both are invited.”  Clara seemed to hardly catch her breath as she appeared to have several more paragraphs to follow.

“Thanks again Clara.  We’ll probably take you up on your invitation.”  Dad said walking down the porch steps and towards the sidewalk alongside College Avenue leaving me with perky Miss Rollins.

I stood up and hollered at Dad, “I’ll work on those chores right now.”  He didn’t respond.

“I’ll be going now.  Please feel free to come visit me anytime.  I’m the pale-yellow house on the left with all the flower pots on the front porch ledge.  By the way, we have a great youth group at church.  I think you will enjoy getting involved.  You know now is the time to be making the right decisions for your life?”  Clara seemed ready to launch into a sermon.

“I appreciate you telling me.  I must unpack some boxes right now.  You have a nice day.”  I moved toward the front door trying to give Clara the hint.  If I didn’t it seemed she would have no difficulty talking all day.

“Bye for now, Matt.  It’s so good to meet you.”

“Thanks for dropping by.”  I said going into the house.

I unloaded a box of books to kill some time, I guess afraid to leave the house thinking Clara Rollins might return.  My room was furnished with a full-sized bed, a chest of drawers, and a small desk and chair.  Above the desk was two shelves.  The box I had chosen was filled with my favorite books: murder mysteries and a mix of fantasy.  I even had two college-level Biology Textbooks Dad had bought for me at a used book store.  Ever since the ninth grade I had gotten interested in some big questions, things like, ‘where did I come from?’ and ‘why am I here?’  Dad had always encouraged me to think critically and openly.

After placing a few dozen books on one of the long shelves, and reorganizing them a couple of times, I showered and dressed.  It was already hot.  Sitting out on the porch I could tell there was something different about the weather.  Dad had told me yesterday to expect very humid conditions the next few days.  Apparently, he had gotten interested in weather.  I chose a pair of short pants and a tee shirt.  I even left off wearing socks beneath my sneakers.

I rolled my bike down the back-door steps.  Last night Dad and I decided since we didn’t know much about the neighborhood it was best to bring our bikes inside.  Again, it was nice having a porch.  This one, right off the kitchen at the back of the house, was large enough for a washing machine and clothes dryer, and two Schwinn bicycles.

I rode east towards the sun and without thought turned right at the end of College Avenue.  This led to a quaint, older grouping of mostly two-story buildings.  I saw a sign that said Main Street.  I chose the sidewalk for the first block but then nearly ran into a man coming out of a drug store.  He politely informed me that bikes were not allowed on the sidewalks in the downtown area.  I thanked him and told him I was new in town.  I walked my bike across the street and left it by a parking meter.  I visited two of the stores, a department store, mainly clothing, named Dobson’s, and Southern Hardware.  I liked the smell inside the hardware store.  I’m not sure what it was but it was a weird combination of the smell of leather and dirt.  At least from what I remembered about dirt from an Earth Sciences demonstration last Spring when Mr. Watson, our teacher, took us on a field trip to his grandfather’s farm in a little town east of Chicago.  I don’t even remember the name.

After being greeted by four men sitting around what looked like an ancient wood-burning stove, thankfully inactive, like the ones I had seen in a History book, I left and headed back towards College Avenue.  Instead of going home I decided to ride by First Baptist Church of Christ.  One of the older men at Southern Hardware had told me, after I asked, where Sparks Avenue was.  I crossed the railroad track and rode past a Chevrolet dealership and on to Brown Street, then left until it intersected with Sparks.  I turned right and crossed Elm Street two blocks away.  The church building was much larger than what I expected.  It was at least as tall as the tallest building I had seen in downtown Boaz, but had beautiful stained-glass windows along the front and sides, and a steeple with a huge cross that seemed to reach to the clouds.  I knew it was absurd, but the steeple seemed so tall it would cause airplanes to detour.

I laid my bike on the grass beside the sidewalk leading to a set of twenty or more steps along the entire front of the building.  I could see a bulletin board of sorts beside the front door, but I couldn’t read it from where I stood at the bottom of the stairs.  I walked up and saw the times and dates of service on a red felt bulletin board behind glass to block the rain from getting inside.  I saw a listing for a Wednesday night meal, prayer meeting, and youth group, starting at 6:00.  Just as I was turning to walk down the steps towards my bike, one of the huge double-doors opened and a man came out.

He was tall and thin, probably about my Dad’s age, late thirties I guessed.  At first, he didn’t see me since I was standing twenty or thirty feet away in front of the bulletin board that was to the far right side of the large landing at the top of the stairs.  He took three or four steps down and must have someway sensed I was there.  He turned and looked at me, visibly startled.

“Hey, hello sir, young man.  May I help you?”

“Not really.  I was just looking at your bulletin board, wondering what time you hold services.”  I said, thinking I might be in trouble.  Was I trespassing, since it wasn’t Sunday?  I was oblivious as to church rules, especially in the South.

“I’m glad to hear that.  Are you wanting to visit?  I don’t seem to know you.”  The man said, now back up the stairs and onto the landing and walking towards me with an outstretched right hand.

I introduced myself and shook his hand.  I gave him the same short-version story Dad and I had given Clara Rollins.

“Awesome.  I’m Peter Grantham, Associate Pastor here at First Baptist Church of Christ.  Welcome to Boaz, and I certainly hope you will join us.  Today’s Wednesday.  Of course, you know that.  Why don’t you and your father join us for supper tonight.  Afterwards, he can attend our prayer meeting and you can meet with our youth group.”

“I’ll talk to my Dad.”

“I assume you will be going to Boaz High School.  You said you were about to turn 16, right?”

“June 28th.  I will be in the eleventh grade.”  I said, starting to dread meeting new people, realizing I would be answering the same type questions a million times.

My son, Ryan, will be a classmate.  You can meet him tonight if you come.  He can introduce you to Olivia Tillman, the pastor’s daughter.  Oh, sorry, she’s out of town on a mission’s trip.  Olivia assists our Youth Pastor, Randy Miller.  He talks to the group for thirty minutes at most, including a short Bible lesson.  Then, Olivia leads a prayer time.  After that, it’s just you guys hanging out.  The youth department has, in the basement, its own place, equipped with two ping-pong tables.”

“Sounds interesting.  Thanks for telling me.  I have to get back home now but I promise to tell my Dad I met you and pass along your invitation.”

“Take care Matt.  I hope to see you again very soon.”

I quickly walked down the steps.  As I rode my bike home, I was proud of myself for having, by fate or accident I’m not sure, established a connection to the enemy’s camp.  I didn’t really mean that, but it seemed to fit with some of the novels I had read.  The undercover agent befriending the enemy to gain access to the inner circle of those who would attempt to destroy the world.  I had enjoyed meeting Mr. Grantham and looked forward to my mission that lay ahead, mainly because it would be nice to have a friend or two.  I was still surprised at the sad and lonely feeling I had for my three dear friends in Chicago.

The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.

The Boaz Secrets, written in 2018, is my third novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

Book Blurb

Fifteen year-old Matt Benson moves with Robert, his widowed father, to Boaz, Alabama for one year as Robert conducts research on Southern Baptist Fundamentalism.  Robert, a professor of Bible History and new Testament Theology at the University of Chicago’s Divinity School enlists Matt to assist him as an undercover agent at First Baptist Church of Christ.  Matt’s job is to befriend the most active young person in the Church’s youth group and learn the heart and mind of teenagers growing up as fundamentalist Southern Baptists.

Olivia Tillman is the fourteen year old daughter of Betty and Walter Tillman.  He is the pastor of First Baptist Church of Christ.  Robert and Matt move to Boaz in June 1970, and before high school begins in mid-August, Matt and Olivia become fast friends.   Olivia’s life is centered around her faith, her family, and her friends.  She is struck with Matt and his doubts and vows to win him to Christ.  Over the next year, Matt and Olivia’s relationship blossoms into more than a teenage romance, despite their different religious beliefs. 

June 1971 and Matt’s return to Chicago comes too quickly, but the two teenagers vow to never lose what they have, even promising to reunite at college in three years after Olivia graduates from Boaz High School.

The Boaz Secrets is told from the perspective of past and present.  The story alternates between 1970-1971, and 2017-2018.  After Matt left Boaz in June 1971, life happened and Olivia and Matt’s plans fell apart.  However, in December 2017, their lives crossed again, almost miraculously, and they have a month in Boaz to catch up on forty-six years of being apart.  They attempt to discover whether their teenage love can be rekindled and transformed into an adult romance even though Matt is 63 and Olivia is 61.

In 2017, Olivia and Matt are quick to learn they are vastly different people than they were as fifteen and sixteen year old teenagers– especially, when it comes to religion and faith.  Will these religious differences unite them?  The real issue is the secret Olivia has kept.  Will Matt’s discovery destroy any chance he and Olivia have of rekindling their teenage relationship?

Chapter 2

December 1, 2017

Professor Olivia Tillman walked down the long corridor to Lecture Hall 201 in the Harborough Tower to her final lecture this semester.  After her presentation she was leaving for an extended leave of absence to return to her hometown of Boaz, Alabama to support her father and brother who are facing criminal charges.

As usual, the large classroom was crowded and noisy.  The 150 or so male and female students, were first and second year students at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, and most came from Christian homes across the Southeast United States.  As Olivia stood behind the lecture podium and opened her notebook she noticed three older men sitting side-by-side across the front row.  “Good morning to everyone and especially to our three visitors.”

The oldest looking of the three, a man at least 70, short and stocky with a mountain of flowing gray hair that made his body look too small for his large head, stood as the other students grew still and silent, “Professor Tillman, I’m Bert Davis and this is Pete Appleton and Ralph Kindle.  Our lovely wives asked us to join them here today for your last lecture.”  Minnie Davis, Sarah Appleton, and Bernadette Kindle were three older students who both delighted and frustrated Olivia.  It seemed they wanted themselves, almost believed themselves, to be the professor of Olivia’s New Testament History and Formation’s class.

“Nice to meet you and welcome to our class.”  Olivia said with a smile and then looked out over an ocean of youth, all struggling to square what they had been exposed to this semester at the feet of Professor Olivia Tillman who for the past six years had filled the shoes of professor emeritus, Harrison Bolton, who retired in the summer of 2011.  Her students were not the only ones who had struggled.  Olivia, from the mid-1980s until 2011, had served as Professor of Systematic and Historical Theology at Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary in Dallas, Texas where she had taught various subjects related to Systematic Theology, Historical Theology, Early Christianity, and Baptist Heritage.  During Olivia’s last five years at Southwestern she had experienced the complete devolution of her faith.  Skepticism and unease since the loss of her husband in 2008 had grown into a private but exhaustive exploration of every aspect of her long-held beliefs.  Ultimately, the struggle to say and teach one thing to her Divinity students and live and believe quite the opposite, had heralded the complete transformation of her professional life, including a move to the secular world of Chapel Hill where Olivia was focused on teaching historical truths.

Bert responded with, “we’re excited to be here, and I apologize for interrupting.  We’ll sit here and be good students.”

Olivia looked up and scanned the entire classroom.  “Tomorrow is your final exam.  Today, I will review.  I strongly suggest you listen and take good notes.  You might hear something important.”  Olivia said fully present in body, but the true location of her mind was another matter.  She was worried sick about her brother Wade, and father Walter, both former pastors of First Baptist Church of Christ in Boaz.  Leading this church was a long tradition for the male side of the Tillman family.  In addition to Walter and Wade, their forefathers, Rudolph, Morton, and Waymon had also held the same position.  And currently, Wade’s son Warren was the head pastor at the Southern Baptist Church. 

As Olivia glanced at her notes she wondered if there was something else working in her deep subconscious.  She felt almost a foreboding spirit descending into the depths of her mind and heart.

“Class, first recall that we don’t know, historical evidence does not reveal the authors of the four gospels that made it into the final version of the Bible.  We do know they were not Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.  Clearly, they were not written by the named person.  These gospels were written by highly literate Greeks, not uneducated peasants such as Matthew, Mark, and John.  Luke could have been some sort of doctor, but it is undisputed he spoke Armenian and not Greek.  It is difficult, impossible to write in the Greek language if you do not speak that language.  Recall, evidence indicates that the Gospel of Mark was written somewhere around 65 to 70 A.D., with Matthew and Luke following a generation later, say around 85 to 90 A.D. and the Gospel of John, most likely, around the year 120 A.D.  It is important you note that there were many other competing gospels written during these same time frames and none of them were chosen to join the biblical canon.  It may have been, in part, because of some of their more fantastical claims, such as Jesus, as a young man, a carpenter, causing some furniture to suddenly appear, or some lumber to mysteriously stretch to the lengths needed.  Know that all original manuscripts are lost.  And, what manuscripts we have are all copies of copies of copies, all containing countless discrepancies.  As to the Bible, the earliest complete manuscript we have is dated around 900 A.D.”

Olivia spent the next hour covering a variety of topics her New Testament class had covered during the semester, including the Apostle Paul’s writings from 25 to 35 A.D., where he admitted his knowledge of Christ had come strictly from revelation and not directly from man.  Other topics included Second Peter; other forgeries; a mini-lecture on how an illiterate peasant became an itinerant preacher and later developed a reputation of being the son of God.  At 11:45 a.m., Olivia completed her lecture and dismissed the class.  As she was gathering her things, Sarah Appleton approached the podium and asked if she had a few minutes to talk to her and her five friends.

“Sure, I’d be happy to, but I do have a lunch appointment at 12:30, downtown Chapel Hill.”

“Minnie, Bernadette, and I know your story, but our husbands don’t really believe we have been totally honest.  They simply don’t see how a devoted Christian could ever leave the faith and stop believing in the existence of the Christian God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit.  Do you mind giving them a short version where they can hear it, pardon me, from the horse’s mouth.  No disrespect intended of course.”  Sarah no doubt was the queen bee of the sizzling six, the three older ladies and their husbands.

“I’m always willing to share my testimony, nobody knows it better than me. Thanks again Bert, Pete, and Ralph for coming today.  It is an honor to meet you.  I suspect you already know this, but you guys have wonderfully inquisitive wives and I have thoroughly enjoyed my time with them this semester.  They each remind me of myself in so many ways.  Now, let me say it is virtually impossible to give you, in the few minutes I now have, a full representation of every stage I went through in abandoning my faith and belief.  So, keep that in mind.

“I grew up in Boaz, Alabama in a devout Christian home, my father, his father and on back for generations were all Southern Baptist preachers.  From the time I could walk and talk I was sold out on Jesus and Christianity.  I spent as much time in church as I did at home.  I followed my father around like I was his shadow.  From junior high throughout high school I was the ring leader of our youth group.  My number one priority was sharing the gospel message.  About the only regret I can recall from my high school years was failing to evangelize an eleventh-grade boy who had come to Boaz for one year.  He was there with his father who taught at the local college on loan from a big school in Chicago.  After high school I devoted the next ten years to earning four college degrees including a double masters and a Ph.D. in theology.  After three years teaching at Liberty University’s School of Divinity, I spent the following 24 years at Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary in Dallas, Texas, first as an associate professor and then as a full professor.

“In 2008 I lost my husband of nearly thirty years to cancer.  Up until his sickness and death my faith had never faltered.  Of course, there had been times of doubt.  Looking back, these periods all revolved around some science subject.  When Jack got sick I started reading about cancer and cancer research and got interested in chemistry and biology, and my reading expanded to a few atheist authors.

“The big turning point came in 2009, some three years or so after Jack’s diagnosis.  I was sitting in my bedroom lounging chair early one morning having my devotion as I had done thousands of times during my life, when it hit me that I was living a lie.  My thoughts centered on prayer and a study Harvard professor Herbert Benson had conducted in 2006.  I had recently read several articles about the study, even read the peer review article in the Journal Nature.  The results clearly showed that prayer didn’t work.  Over 1800 coronary artery bypass surgery patients at six different hospitals participated in the study.  It was a double-blind experiment, meaning no one, including the patients, their doctors, and anyone else involved with the study, knew which patients were being prayed for and which were not.  Members of three congregations were asked to deliver the prayers, using the patients’ first names and the first initials of their last names.  The bottom line was that prayers offered by strangers had no effect on the recovery of people who were undergoing heart surgery.

“I knew this study, in of itself, didn’t absolutely prove that prayer didn’t work.  But, it sure got my attention and it triggered my interest and motivation to further explore my relationship, and beliefs, concerning prayer.  After weeks of research and contemplating my own life, I realized that I truly had no proof, real proof, that prayer worked.  Oh yea, I had countless stories, from my childhood, my youth, my almost half-a-century as a Christian adult, that, at least on the surface, indicated the power of prayer.  But, that morning in 2009, I let it finally penetrate my closed mind that prayer, praying to the Christian God, worked about as well as praying to Santa Claus or Zeus.  I got so frustrated sitting in my chair thinking what a fool I had been all my life to buy into Christianity.  Finally, after an hour or so of growing angst, I literally threw my Bible, Oswald Chambers’ devotion book, my journal, and several commentaries out of my lap and across the floor hitting against my bedroom dresser.

“This led to more and more thought, contemplation, exploration, and exhaustion over the next two years until I finally was forced, internally, to confess to the Seminary’s Dean that I had to resign and why.  After a few weeks of job-hunting, I wound up here at Chapel Hill.  Now, I’ve never been happier from a spiritual standpoint.  Of course, I’m still human and must deal with the same type things as all people do, including Christians.”  Olivia tucked her notebook under her arm, shook hands with all six of her entranced visitors, thanked them again for coming, turned towards the exit, and walked away.

“Professor Tillman.”  Sarah said standing up.

“Yes?”  Olivia turned and said.

“Please know, we will be praying for you.”  Sarah said as seriously as though she was standing before the twenty members of her Sunday School class at Olin T. Binkley Memorial Baptist Church.

Olivia smiled, waved, and continued toward the exit.