Answering the Call
by Colin McKay Miller

Thicker than one finger, but slimmer than two, the tall man flicks the glint of the blade across the pastor’s face. The pastor, still seated behind his desk, puts his hand up, but it’s too late. The light is already in his eyes.

The tall man came in at the start of the evening, walked right into the office because there was no one else around. The pastor had sent the church workers home to spend the Sunday evening with their families.

He intended to do the same soon after, but the tall man walked in and pulled the door behind him.

With the click of the latch, the pastor looked up from his study, pulling off his reading glasses. “You don’t need to lock the door.”

“I do.”

“No one’s going to come in if that’s what you’re concerned about. They’re gone for the night.”

“That ain’t my worry.”

“What is your worry then?” The tall man didn’t answer, so the pastor went on.

“Like I said, there’s no one else here. I wanted them to eat with their families. My family expects me home at a certain time, too, but—”

“Do they?”

“Is there something unbelievable about that statement?”

“It’s you. You’re unbelievable to me; working on the Sabbath. You got no honor for God’s day.”

The pastor tried to reason with the tall man, telling him the history of the Sabbath; about how of the Ten Commandments listed in the Old Testament—the first four on how to love God, the last six on how to love your neighbor—it’s the only one to not appear in the New; about how there’s a debate as to why the Sabbath switched from Saturday to Sunday (some argue celebrating the resurrection day, others argue a more nefarious plot involving the murder of religious leaders) even though the commandment says nothing of worship; about how he believes it’s more important to keep a Sabbath rather than the Sabbath.

When the pastor got done, the tall man said, “I didn’t ask you about you think in your head.”

The pastor scratched his temple. “What are you asking me exactly?”

The tall man pulled the knife from the holster on the back of his belt, causing the pastor put his hands out. “Easy now.”

“I’m talking about honoring the Sabbath, not spouting off facts about it.”

“I still don’t see the need for a knife.”

The tall man smiled. “I do.”

“I’ll ask then: Are you here to kill me?”

The tall man let the words hang in the air.

“Men like you tell everyone to think about what happens when they die. ‘What if you walk out of church and are hit by a bus? What if you get a terminal disease?’ Well, you tell me, preacher—and this ain’t no freak accident, this ain’t no sickness, it’s me standing right in front of you—what if I cut your red heart right out of your chest?”

There was no way to get around the tall man and unlock the door quickly enough. There was room in the office for a desk and a couple of chairs on either side, a bookshelf and a lamp on the back wall.

There isn’t room to run.

The tall man continues to flick the glint of the blade across the pastor’s face, now silent and in prayer. He prays about everything—global salvation to getting a good parking space—all concerns, great and small, because really, what’s big to God? And now he prays for the tall man.

Finally the pastor says, “You talked about honoring the Sabbath. How do you define honor?”

“Why do you need everything defined?”

“People care about definitions. It shapes what they do, how they act. Why else would you walk in here with a knife?”

The tall man sneers, mocking, “Yeah, why else would I walk in here with a knife?”

“Look, the religious leaders of Jesus’ day took the Ten Commandments and warped it into 613 little rules. Suddenly there were debates about what was actual work on the Sabbath. You could only walk so far, lift so much. They lost sight of what it was all about.”

“So the real question is: Do I think it’s work for me to kill you?”

The pastor shakes his head in futility. “No, that’s not it at all.” He goes to stand, holding out his hands again.

“Sit down.” The pastor keeps rising, so the tall man shoves him back into his seat, the blade poised to cut that heart right out.

“You grill me about your interpretation of the last commandment God gives to honor Him and ignore the first commandment He gives to honor your neighbor?”

“Four comes before five, don’t it? Or are you gonna tell me that it’s more important to honor a man—any man, even a supposed man of God—than the Maker Himself?”

The pastor sits in silence again, praying, and stays that way until the tall man coaxes an answer with the blade.

“What do you want me to say? I honor the Sabbath by not working on it. I take Monday off and I rest. I eat breakfast out with a friend, I watch movies during the day and I take my wife out for a date at night.”

“That ain’t good enough for me.”

The pastor stands, pushing away the tall man’s hands.

“I already told you to sit down.”

“And I’m standing because I don’t care about your scale. The Ten Commandments were designed to show people that they couldn’t obey ten simple, reasonable rules and that they needed a Savior to cover their sins. I’ve insulted men and committed murder in my mind; I’ve lusted after women and committed adultery in my heart. Like the Bible says, all fall short of the glory of God, myself included, but I have confessed, believed the forgiveness of Christ on the cross and turned from sin. That’s what it’s about; not some weird game you’re playing.”

The tall man’s hands begin to shake. The phone on the desk starts ringing and he immediately says, “Don’t answer it.”

“That’s my wife calling. Like I said, she expects me home at a certain time. I’ve usually called to let her know I’m leaving by now. When I don’t, she calls the office. If I don’t answer, she assumes I’m on my way and calls my cell. She’s very particular about that.”

“Make your decision, preacher. Think about what happens when you die.”

The phone on the desk stops ringing.

“I already made my decision before you ever came along. And the truth is that you made your decision before you ever met me, too. You made it before you locked my door; you made it before you packed that blade on your hip; you made it long before you ever decided to visit me on a Sunday evening when no one else was around.”

“I did, huh?”

“You did.”

The pastor’s cell phone starts ringing and he pulls it out of his pocket and holds it out the way the tall man holds out the blade. He raises an eyebrow. “You ready?”

The tall man tightens his grip on the blade.

The pastor answers the call.