Blood of the Lamb

very name means laughter, because of how hard his decrepit old parents had laughed when they received the promise, demands that Abraham give him back. Not just surrender him, but sacrifice him with his own hands.”

Several inmates in the congregation winced at my words, and gave me looks like they wondered where I could possibly be going with this.

My response to them, that which Frederick Buechner had convinced me should be the foundation for every sermon-most of all this one-came from Shakespeare: “‘The weight of this sad time we must obey,’” I said. “‘Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.’”

If I was right about who had killed Nicole, there could be no better source for a quotation than King Lear, but if my audience perceived the message within the message, they didn’t give any indication.

“I am here to tell the truth,” I added. “No matter how tragic it might be.”

The only response I got was a sea of blank stares.

“From the very beginning, Nicole has been compared to Isaac; Bobby Earl, her father, to Abraham.”

Bobby Earl nodded earnestly as Bunny looked up at him admiringly.

“And though the connection was never obvious to me, it has caused me to meditate a lot lately on Abraham, his God, and his son.

“How could God ask for the sacrifice of this innocent lamb whose very life was the heartbeat of his father?

“How could Abraham do it? Was he mad? Or was he, as the three world religions that sprang from him claim, the most faithfilled and faithful man ever to live?

“These questions are as old as mankind, and they’ve been asked by so many of us at one time or another in one way or another. And in the deepest part of our hearts, I think we’ve all come to the same terrifying conclusion: We don’t know.”

Anna’s intense eyes rested heavily upon me, her head nodding agreement and support. I looked at her often.

“Just as we don’t know why God allows bad things to happen to good people. We don’t know why God lets children suffer and die. We don’t know.

“I’m not saying there aren’t answers to these questions. In fact, there are some pretty convincing ones, but none of the answers, no matter how logical or convincing, can ever remove that wordless darkness from the corners of our hearts and minds that says we don’t know. Not really.

“Let me ask you the real question in my heart and on my mind. Why did God allow little Nicole be murdered?

“I don’t know. I wish to God I did. She knows I’ve asked that question a thousand times.

“But I’ve been thinking more and more that perhaps that’s not the right question anyway. God didn’t kill Nicole. God didn’t ask for the blood of this little lamb to be shed. So, really, shouldn’t the question be: why did you kill Nicole?”

Time seemed to stand still. No one moved. No one made a sound. No one looked directly at me.

Unfortunately, no one answered my question either.

“Whoever killed Nicole,” I continued. “That’s who we need to ask. Why’d you do it? How could you? We can ask God, ‘Why’d you let them do it?’ but only the murderer can answer ‘Why’d you do it?’”

As I spoke, I thought about Susan and how often she had sat in a church and listened to me preach. She had been a good wife in so many ways, and now that there was a possibility that we might have a future together, I found myself missing her.

“So why was Nicole taken from us?

“I don’t know.

“I do know that God was the first one to grieve. Tears fell from the eyes of God long before they fell from anyone else’s.

“Abraham, the madman of faith, lifted his knife to plunge it into the heart of his son, Isaac, and God said: ‘NO! Don’t touch him. It was just a test. I just wanted to see how much you loved me. How much you trusted me.’ Then Abraham looked, and there in a thicket was a ram. God had provided a lamb.

“One of the names of the place where Abraham did this unspeakable thing means: ‘the Lord shall see.’ God saw Abraham’s heart. And that was the whole point. Not the sacrifice of innocence. Not murder. God provided a lamb. Not Abraham. God.

“The blood of the lamb shed in this building was not for God. Not because God wanted it, but because of the evil in her murderer’s heart. And just like on Mount Moriah, God sees. Sees that heart of hate and darkness. Sees the heart that has rejected the lamb God has provided.

“I don’t understand. I don’t have the answers. But I trust in love. Trust in God. Trust that if my heart breaks for Nicole then God’s breaks all the more.

“What can I offer you today?

“What Christianity, my religion, offers. ‘Christianity,’ in the words of Frederick Buechner, ‘points to the cross and says that, practically speaking, there is no evil so dark and so obscene-not even this-but that God cannot turn it to good.’

“What do we do then? Let me tell you what I’m going to do. I’m still going to question, still going to doubt, still going to struggle, but I’m also going to hang on, to hold on, to have faith, to trust. Because…

“I believe. In spite of myself-in spite of all I’ve seen, I still believe. I trust. I choose love. Choose to believe that God is love.

“God asked for Abraham’s trust. Not his son. Today she asks us for the same thing. To trust. To trust that her heart is broken even more than ours. To trust that Nicole is with her, in the warm embrace of her love.

“Trust God.

“Jesus did,” I said.

And look what happened to him, a voice responded inside my head.

“Nicole did,” I said.

“And I’m trying to.”

CHAPTER 50

“I’ve been trying to get up here and see you,” Dexter said, walking up to me as soon as the service had ended. “They said you were gone.”

“I have been,” I said. “Just got back today.”

Most of the other inmates, staff, and visitors seemed to be getting out of the chapel as quickly as they could, including the Caldwells, though I had asked to speak with them when the service had concluded.

“I’m glad you’re back,” he said. “I’ve been needin’ to talk to you.”

“How have you been?” I asked, motioning for him to walk with me toward the back.

“I’m all right,” he said. “I really appreciate you coming to Mom’s funeral. It meant more than you’ll ever know.”

“I was glad I could,” I said. “Would you mind waiting in here for me? I need to see the Caldwells before they-”

“Your dad’s arresting Bunny Caldwell,” Pete said, running up to us.

“What?”

“They’re in your office.”

Without waiting for Dexter’s response, I ran across the sanctuary and into my office, Pete following right behind me.

Inside, Dad and Jake were cuffing Bunny Caldwell as Daniels read her rights. Bobby Earl stood behind them, demanding to know why they were doing it. Beyond Bobby Earl, next to the door, DeAndré Stone looked on without obvious emotion.

“What’re you doin’?” I asked Dad.