The Book

While millions of Americans were bemoaning the chaos in the streets and  political insults thrown back and forth in 2020, the author of The Invitation, GM Jarrard, was “binge-watching” the new TV series, The Chosen.

“While I was engrossed in the series by Dallas Jenkins, I felt a real kinship with the people at the time of Christ who were under Roman rule. It occurred to me that we take our freedoms for granted, and that despite the promise of America being the ‘Shining City on the Hill,’ our way of life, even our freedoms are in peril. We need to remember what we learned in elementary school when we memorized the Pledge of Allegiance about being ‘one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.'”

“The Chosen was the catalyst that started my writing The Invitation.”

US“And, unlike our forebears, like the Pilgrims or the Puritans, there is no New World to flee to. My book, The Invitation, proposes such an ‘exit strategy.’ Using the theme of John Winthrop’s speech to his fellow Puritans while en route to New England on the ship Arabella, I cite his vision to establish a place where [we] ‘follow the counsel of Micah, to do justly, to love mercy, to walk humbly with our God. For this end, we must be knit together, in this work, as one man.’”

The book poses the question, “If there were a place, as the Puritan founder of Boston first described it, where the people were of one heart, one mind, live in righteousness and lift one another’s burdens, what would you be willing to sacrifice to go there?”

Chapter One begins in Israel two years after its establishment in 1948 on the beach in Caesarea, right below Herod’s aqueduct. Jonathan Blum, a military attaché with the US Embassy and a veteran of the Nuremberg and Tokyo trials, accepts a strange meeting with a mysterious man named John who has approached him about an intriguing job offer. He is given his invitation.

In a surprising turn of events, Jonathan accepts the position, one where he will eventually become the mentor to a young couple, Joey and Dana Kunz. When they finally give in to a request from the Joey’s 90-year-old grandmother to take her to a place “to rehabilitate in the hot springs at a Grand Hotel and Spa,” their world is turned upside down. They discover that his grandmother does more than rehabilitate and so does everyone around her. When the couple inquires about the “entrance fee,” they learn that to live there, you have to be invited. To quality for an invitation, they commit to gather others to join them. But, along the way, they encounter opposition in the form of media attacks, charges of embezzlement and even a kidnapping. The real challenge comes from within–to qualify, Joey has to make the same decision that the young prince in the New Testament couldn’t make: to sell all that he had and give it to the poor. The Kunz’s story of opportunity and opposition gives renewed hope to readers in a time of chaos to where there is no ‘new world’ to flee. In the words of the Prophet Elisha to his apprentice as the young man’s eyes were opened and he could see legions of angels round about, “they that be with us are more than they that be with them.” (2 Kings 6:16)

Yes, the book is fiction. But, it reminds people of faith about what God has been telling people for generations. As Paul said, “Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him.”For more information, e-mail the author, G.M. Jarrard, at theshiningcitybook@gmail.com.

1950

Jonathan Blum put his shoes and socks back on. “Wading in the Mediterranean would be more enjoyable if you didn’t have to roll up the cuffs on your suit pants and weren’t wearing a tie. This is such an odd place for a job interview,” the 49-year-old lawyer said to no one in particular as he tied his shoes.

He was sitting on history, a block of sandstone, a fragment of the Roman aqueduct at Caesarea, now officially part of the nation of Israel. It was approaching dusk. For nearly ten years, all he had seen was chaos, war, and retribution, and for a brief moment, he had found peace, right here on this beach, where Herod the Great had built the aqueduct right above his head. 

He was a US  military attaché at the US  Embassy in Tel Aviv. Israel was now a state in its own right–already two years old. 

Jonathan Blum was in the Promised Land. When he first set foot in Haifa a year ago, there was a moment when time stood still, a pause, no heavenly choirs, no parting of the sea, rather a calmness that quietly enveloped him. Israel knew him–it welcomed him. For a Jew, he was right where he belonged.

Or so he thought.

Blum turned at the sound of footsteps behind him. A man was approaching. Was he the one? 

There was a vague familiarity in the man’s eyes that transfixed him. Bright blue even in the dusk, brighter than any other he had seen. They were the color of the sea.

“Sh’lam I-ken. Mah lak?” the man said. 

“Sorry, I don’t speak Hebrew. Just some Yiddish. I’m Jonathan Blum,” he said.

“It’s Aramaic. My name’s John. Nice to finally meet you.”

They shook hands. 

His were the strong hands of a working man, hands with history. John had long hair hidden under a headdress that could either be Arab or Israeli–hard to tell and a full black beard. But, his most distinguishing feature were his eyes. 

Blum was a bit shorter and stockier than the stranger but appeared taller thanks to his halo of dark but receding curly hair. His infectious smile and the gleam in his eye had served him well, first in courtrooms and in the halls of power, then in the Army’s Judge Advocate Corps. 

They seated themselves on facing blocks of stone. 

Blum spoke first. “I must say, I have been intrigued by your request to meet me here in such an unconventional place. You’re quite the man of mystery.” 

John smiled. “Yes, I’ve heard that before.” 

Blum opened his small leather attaché and pulled out a recently typewritten vitae. He handed it to John. 

“Let’s walk and talk,” John said. “It’s a beautiful day turning into a beautiful night.” He looked over Jonathan’s résumé as they strode down the strand. 

“So, you left the district attorney’s office in January 1942, to join the Army? And you learned German?”

“Yes, my grandparents often spoke to me in Yiddish, so it wasn’t a stretch to learn the language. I put it to good use interrogating POWs after D-Day,” Blum explained.

John handed the résumé back to Blum. The sun was traveling lower in the sky, and the tide was coming in; the sand was wet, and there were now two long sets of footprints behind them.

“So, what exactly are you looking for? What is the position you need filled?” Blum asked.

“Actually, Jonathan, we are creating a position specifically for you. We need you. As I said, we’ve been watching you ever since law school. We watched you in Germany, first at the camps, then at the Nuremberg trials, and finally at the tribunal in Tokyo. Gruesome business,” John said.

“Yes, gruesome, that’s probably the right word. A stone tied around your leg would be another way to describe it. What I experienced in the camps rarely leaves my thoughts. It’s so unfathomable . . . so heavy. I’m still looking for ways to lose the stone—the burden,” Blum said with a sigh.

“Perhaps we have just the solution. So, here you are now, distancing yourself from Tokyo and the Third Reich, hopefully, one day, distant memories. We were happy when we heard the new ambassador to Israel needed a military attaché. We put in a good word for you. You earned your accolades.”

“Who’s we?”

“We’ll get to that later.” John changed the subject. “So, you were in-country when the Israelis finally sent the Arab armies packing, actually right in the middle of it, is that right?” John asked. 

Blum nodded and John continued. “Not married, no prospects?”

“No, I’m a widower, but you probably already knew that.”

John stopped near a large piece of driftwood that appeared to be part of a boat. He looked around, saw that they were alone, then pulled a valise out of his coat, held it for a moment, and then presented it to Blum.

“This may come as a surprise, but we are extending to you an offer. As you will see, it’s more than just a job. It has many benefits, a generous retirement, and more than a lifetime of service. And also a list of names, a very long list, along with instructions. It provides details about the Invitation.”

“The Invitation?” Blum asked.

“Yes, look in the folder. It’s our offer along with our expectations. If you accept it, be at the Caesarea port Saturday night after Shabbat. Bring your duffel, suitcases, everything. We’ll leave at dark. We’re taking a boat ride. And, I’ll be there to welcome you aboard. Go ahead, you may open it now,” John said.

The envelope looked ancient, crafted out of hand-made paper and closed tightly with a large wax seal. Jonathan put the other documents, the packet of names and instructions into his attaché case and set it all down on the sand between his feet. Now, he was focused on the offer he had just been given.

The sun had set, but there was still enough light to read the invitation. 

He ran a finger across the envelope, turning it over, hoping for a clue about its contents. Tentatively, he was treating it like the Nag Hammadi papyri. Carefully, Jonathan broke the seal and opened it. What he read inside cemented him in the sand. Immovable. Is this possible? He turned to John for an explanation, but he was gone. Vanished!

Jonathan Blum stared at the footsteps in the sand—two sets led back to the aqueduct where they had first met. No footprints were leading away. Where did he go?

Then and there, Blum decided to accept his new assignment.

Decades Later

Blum set the atlas on the back of the trailer, now fully-packed, bulging with law books, tools, and a few modern conveniences. He found the page he was looking for and folded the corner over to mark the spot. Bounder, his Border Collie/Poodle mix, stared at his master in anticipation, tail wagging. 

“Where’s Bruiser?” Blum asked the dog. “Go get him. Hurry!” Bounder obeyed. That was the difference between the two dogs, Bounder obeyed. Bruiser didn’t. Jonathan mused. Brothers from the same mother still pick their own path, don’t they? Just like us. 

He grabbed the atlas and waited for the dogs. Bruiser had escaped to the beach chasing a couple of seabirds until Bounder brought him back, more Border Collie than his litter-mate. 

“Come on, boys!” Blum yelled. He opened the back of his tricked-out custom van, the gas hog that he couldn’t get rid of but knew he should. He wanted a caddy, a restored classic, and had found a few classified ads here and there that were tempting, but he dismissed the idea. It was a weakness, he decided. 

“Wanna go meet the boss? Go someplace with room to run? Get in! Say goodbye to Marco Is-land. We’re gonna miss it.”

• • • • •

Three days, two campgrounds, and nearly 2,000 miles later—and further away from their be-loved beach house—Blum, Bounder, and Bruiser turned down the old country road and parked below the billboard, their appointed meeting spot.

“Let’s stretch our legs, boys,” Blum said. He opened the van and out they ran, sniffing and marking their territory. They were out in the country on an early fall morning with the grass heavy with dew. Bruiser spooked a pheasant who spooked him back, flying over their heads. “Back in the van!” he shouted. They all scurried back in and settled down. Nap time.

• • • • •

Barking dogs awoke Jonathan. He rubbed his eyes and through the windshield saw a man he recognized sitting on a stump next to the signpost, just waiting patiently, a smile on his face.

“Sit still, boys,” Blum commanded as he exited the van and shut the door. He hesitated, took a breath, and walked toward him as he arose.

“Happy birthday, Jonathan,” John said as they shook hands. Blum was momentarily surprised, then remembered who his mentor was; he nodded in appreciation.

John looks so contemporary, Blum thought. He was wearing a Detroit Tigers baseball hat with a capital ‘D’ embroidered on it and a battered, old brown leather flight jacket. His handmade goat-skin travel bag was at this feet. “Want to see your birthday present? It’s a few miles down the road. Let’s go. Hope you like apples.”

• • • • •

Jonathan Blum parked “Big Brown,” his oversized brown and orange van, equipped with two gas tanks, on the gravel between a red barn and a metal building where a forklift was idling just as the overhead door opened. John was talking to a big, rugged-looking man in overalls as Blum released his hounds, both overcome with canine joy. So many new smells! 

First Bruiser and then Bounder made a mad dash for the orchards behind the buildings and the large farmhouse. John motioned to Blum, who walked toward the storage building. Mysterious John’s unusual appearance in person piqued Blum’s interest—he surmised that something important was going on.

“Jonathan Blum, meet Walter Johnson. Walter, Mr. Blum, is our attorney who has been assisting us for years,” John said as the two strangers shook hands.

“Big Train Johnson?” Blum said. “You’re Walter Big Train Johnson? I saw the game with Babe. Sorry about that. I’m a Yankee’s fan,” Blum said.

“That’s okay. I think after today everyone will be a New York fan,” Walter said, “at least for a while.” The comment went right over Blum’s head, but he’d know soon enough what he meant.

“Walter played baseball,” Blum told John as they walked to the house. 

“I know,” John said. “I’ve seen a game or two. Let’s walk and talk in the orchard.”

• • • • •

For the next couple of hours, they discussed the handover of the apple operation from Walter to Blum, from a farmer-turned baseball player, then farmer again, to a lawyer-turned apple grower. Jonathan wondered what could have prompted John to make a personal appearance. It was unusual, but then, today would be unusual in many tragic ways.

“One thing I can assure you,” Blum said, “ is if any apple grown here ever gets into legal trouble, it’ll have the best representation any fruit has ever had.” That comment drew smiles from both men, then John gave Blum an assurance of his own. 

“Whatever these apples need, I’m confident you’ll provide that. I hope you like your birthday present.”

“Love it,” Blum said. “Hope there’s an apple pie somewhere to celebrate it. And it would have to be quite large to accommodate all the candles.” 

But what Blum didn’t know was that there wouldn’t be many celebrations anywhere today, except maybe in Tehran or Kabul. 

It was September 11, 2001.

PRESENT DAY

Margritte Kunz was just one of a couple of dozen residents waiting for dessert in the dining hall at the Columbus Independent Living Center. 

But she was the only one of the inmates, as she called them, who could pronounce apfelstrudel correctly. 

Today’s dessert du jour had always been her favorite.

What’s more, she was the only one in the dining hall who knew how to send emails and text messages, which was what she was doing while waiting for her strudel.

Technology wasn’t the only thing that separated her from the rest of the white-haired crowd. The others knew they were old and accepted it and what was to come afterward. She accepted none of those things. 

“Life was made for living,” she would always tell family and friends, and especially Joey whom she raised from the time he turned ten. Wiry and sporting a wild mop of white hair that would go crazy ‘Einstein’ if she didn’t take precautions, Margritte walked, hiked, and went to the gym as recently as five years ago. But once she turned the corner on 90, even her iron will wasn’t enough to forestall the inevitable. 

And that angered her, especially since the management of her old-age hostel wanted to upgrade her lifestyle, which is why she was determined to finish her long, rambling text message on her new Surface tablet, a gift from Joey Kunz, her grandson.

Texting was a fairly recent discovery, and she was not afraid to let her views be known to politicians, talk show hosts, and—much to the chagrin of her recipients— to them as well. But, Joey? He usually ignored many of her texts and emails or just didn’t see them. 

She raised Joey after his mother died, while his father, a Vietnam veteran, had worked overseas doing unmentionable jobs for the government until he died a few years ago. Joey still harbored some resentment toward his father for leaving him with his grandmother after his mother died and often complained about it to his grandmother. “Why is his job more important than me?” he would ask.

She would try to explain that “It is complicated–a lot of people in high places depend on your dad—his only option would be to quit, and he doesn’t know what else he would do. He loves you very much, Joey. Besides I need you—we’ll have fun, you’ll see.”

She had been true to that promise. Ever since he was a teenager, Joey had followed in Oma’s footsteps, often literally. One summer years ago, the two of them hiked the Adirondack Trail from northern Georgia all the way to the Shenandoah Valley. And when she took a summer-long sabbatical in Germany, Joey went along too. She really made an impression on him. Much of her summer sabbatical in Germany was spent in Heidelberg at the university where she finished her Ph.D. thesis on Mark Twain’s famous satirical essay, The Awful German Language. Despite the difficulty in learning it, Joey could speak a little German when he left, he loved the food and the teenage German girls who all loved him in return!

He always said that the summer in Europe with Oma was his all-time favorite. 

But, that didn’t mean he was going to drop everything, read and reply to every text, email, and phone call from his grandma that came his way. He was already overwhelmed with the daily demands made on him at the start-up that was growing by 10 to 15 percent every month. 

Just the same, she was unrelenting in her demands.

Joey’s wife Dana shamed him into at least acknowledging messages when he received one from Grandma, whom he was supposed to call Oma (German for grandma). So far, he had resisted both Oma and Dana. He was presently swimming in alligators and being chewed up by piranha every day at work. So usually he would ignore the trivial. In this case, the email from Oma. He didn’t have time to do what he wanted, given the unpleasant people for whom he was currently working. 

Oma was convinced that today would be different, that he’d get right back to her once he read the subject line along with the ‘highly persuasive content’ she was just finishing. She was confident of that.

So, there she was, just about ready to send him her digital masterpiece while in the cafeteria, multi-tasking. She was focused. She was possessed, even more so since the center’s management informed her that because of her age and health, she needed to move to the assisted living section for her well-being. She didn’t just say no, she said hell no!

“Charging me nearly $6,000 a month from now on, instead of my usual $2,500 isn’t for my well-being, it’s for yours,” Margritte told the manager. She wanted to tell him what she really thought but that would be unbecoming of someone of her education and upbringing!

Sure, the money was one thing, but she had an even more compelling reason to make the Great Escape—Virginia Tracy. Oma and Virginia had been best friends since their college days. They both were attendants at each other’s wedding, sent cards and gifts at the birth of every child, even though they lived a thousand miles apart, and showed up when each was widowed.

She explained to Joey in detail how a week ago last Sunday afternoon, Virginia showed up at the center. Oma was getting ready to head to the dining hall for paprika chicken breasts and fettuccine Alfredo (two of her favorites) when the front desk called her. 

“An old friend’s here to see you,” Miss Elizabeth said. “And, her name  . . .”

Oma interjected; she was in a hurry so she could get the table by the window. “Well, tell ’em I’m just on my way to the dining hall. I’ll buy dinner if they meet me in the cafeteria.”

Oma wasn’t sure who her guest was, but she hoped it was Virginia; she had heard that Ginny had recently moved back from Illinois. She grabbed her cane so she could get there sooner. Her favorite table was over on the right side of the hall between the window and the salad bar because, as she told her guests, the patrons were so slow that if you didn’t get in the front of the line you’d be wheeled off before you got to the pickled beets.

She put on her glasses and scanned the perimeter. No hunched-over Virginia in sight! Oma looked right, left, and the only person standing there was an attractive middle-aged woman in a pretty red dress. The woman was waving at her. Not to be impolite, she waved back. The woman made a beeline for Oma’s table.

When she yelled, “Maggie, it’s me! it’s me!” Oma thought, “No you’re not, you imposter!” 

The woman had Virginia’s voice and the nicely-formed legs of a young Virginia, the bright smile and flashing white teeth of the coed Virginia she knew seventy years ago, but this was impossible.

Just the same, it was Virginia!

For the first time in her life, Margritte Müller Kunz, Ph.D., aka ‘Maggie’ and ‘Oma,’ was speechless.

“What’s wrong, Kiddo, cat got your tongue? Did you have a stroke or something?” Virginia asked.

Oma didn’t answer. 

“I’m starving,” Virginia said. “Worked out this morning. What’s good here?” Oma didn’t answer, but Mrs. Littlefield at the next table answered for her, “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Virginia was worried. “Maggie? You okay?” 

Finally, Oma was able to form words. “I thought I was okay—until I saw you. Now I feel like I’m one of those walking dead people in those movies, what are they called  . . . ?”

“Zombies, Mrs. Kunz,” Littlefield’s loquacious table-mate said. “They’re zombies. Look at us—we all are!”

Oma gave her the old mind-your-own-business look. That seemed to work.

Finally, Oma regained her focus, looking her old friend up and down. “Ginny, how much did you spend on all of this? Did you go to a wax museum? Will you melt?”

“Dear sweet Maggie, my oldest and dearest friend, in good times and bad. I’m here because I love you, and because I am allowed to give you this.” Virginia handed Oma a 5 by 7 antique-felt envelope shut tight with a wax seal. “This is for you.”

Maggie examined it and looked baffled. “What is this?”

Virginia beamed, tears welling in her eyes. “It’s your invitation!”

“To what?”

“A way out of Zombieville,” she said as she twirled around as if she were revealing a brand new outfit. “To this!”

Oma held the envelope up to the light and even smelled it. “Should I open it?” She was more than just curious. Excited? Apprehensive? Afraid? Maybe all of the above.

“Not yet. There are instructions inside, including a map and contact information explaining where you are to go to take the next step. Sometime soon, you’ll meet someone who will tell you more,” Virginia explained as she handed her a much thicker packet.

“Why should I accept an invitation when I have no idea what is expected of me at the party or event where I’m invited or whatever it is going on. I like mysteries and puzzles, but I don’t get it.”

“Neither did I, but here I am. You have to take a leap of faith. If you’re happy with your cur-rent situation, then just forget about it. But, here I am, your best friend since the fall of 1948—look at me. As you can see, the results are, well, life-changing. I’m 89 years old, and I feel 50 and look maybe 60.”

“So, what are you doing there?”

“Taking classes, painting, and learning to play the cello. But I’m doing what I really love to do. I opened a little boutique making and selling quilts. Always loved doing that.”

“You always were the queen bee of quilting,” Oma said.

“That’s what I’ll call it!”

“What?” Oma asked.

“My shop! Queen Bee Quilts! What a great idea!” They were now back in their old groove. They covered the last 70 or so years in less than 70 minutes. When they were finished, Virginia remembered what Jonathan Blum had asked her to do. ‘Send me a note after Maggie gets her invitation.” Will do! 

• • • • •

It was coming up on harvest time at the Blum Apple operation. Jonathan was checking orders when a long-awaited message arrived. “M. Kunz given invitation.” Good! He had known the Kunz family for decades now, ever since Professor Müller, Margritte’s father, had taught him German at the Army’s Language Institute. She was a pistol as a teenager and hadn’t changed much since then. So, now it was her time. That meant all the pieces had to be in place. He would have to get a message to Walter. The Kunz family was integral to their plans.

Events were taking place faster than he had anticipated. With the apple harvest coming on. Blum would need to get more help.

• • • • •

After she considered the conversation she had with Virginia a couple of weeks ago, Margritte Kunz had made the tough decision. She had decided to jump off the bridge with Virginia.

She pushed the SEND button. She did it!

Now, it was Joey’s turn. She crossed her fingers.

The next morning, Blum and Joey were crunching around on the gravel outside the barn carrying on a conversation while Brady was sweeping the cider house for bugs, the electronic kind.

“Brady was right,” Joey said. “Remember when Francine said she saw somebody snooping around the house and then let the dog out? He ran to the house barking, snooped around a bit, then came back. Somebody was here tapping phones and who knows what else. By the way, I’ve spoken with four of our visitors who took the train up the mountain and said they’d be happy to appear for an interview in Tulsa with us. I told them we’d take care of their travel expenses. I’ve got two more possibilities as well.”

“Let’s walk over to the house,” Blum said. Joey followed him. They sat on the patio while Brady finished the sweep.

“I’ve been thinking about something. When do you think we could do the videotaping in Tulsa?”

“This coming Friday. It works for them.”

“Okay, I have an old friend, a veteran investigative reporter at a station in Las Vegas who’s done a lot of unconventional stories on Area 51, UFOs, and spirituality. He’s fairly well-known; maybe I’ll call him on my cellphone, tell him what’s up, and then call him back on the landline and pretend as if I’m following up on ‘an interview’ set for Friday at the same time as the Tulsa inter-view. Whoever it is, and my money’s on Gunderson, he and/or his stooges will be in Nevada when you’re in Oklahoma. If he does show up there, I want to be there to greet him; I have an idea.”

Brady came out of the cider house and waved at them.

“It’s all clear. Come on back. No bugs except on the phone.”

• • • • •

With Blum and Francine’s help, Joey and Brady had arranged for seven people to participate in the panel for the video interview at the TV studio. Joey had spent the first hour with the host and producer going over the questions and the format. Another reporter just arrived as they were finishing; she was not part of the staff but rather a freelancer who produced features and documentaries. She had been invited, Glen the host said, to ask tough questions and create some “controversy.” 

 Joey was a bit on edge now, not sure where she might take the discussion. But he suspected that the producer wanted to gin up ratings.

Brady was invited in and brought in the other panelists. Joey stepped over and took Brady aside while the crew was seating the participants and wiring them with lapel mics.

“I want you on the panel; the woman at the table might be critical so be prepared; they’re planning on interviewing after the Q&A with our friends.” Brady agreed and found a place in the semi-circle with the other guests who were all seated on the large production stage when an audience of maybe forty people filed in.

Ten minutes later, the lights came on and the host announced the program.

“Good evening, I’m Glenn Hughes for Timely Topics, and today we are discussing a subject as old as America itself, the yearning for “A Shining City on the Hill,” a mythical place first proposed by Puritan leader, John Winthrop, the founder of Boston. These people believe there is such a place because they claim they’ve been there.

“First, let’s meet our guests. If you don’t mind, tell us where you’re from and something about yourself.” One by one, they introduced themselves.

“I’m Mark,” the first man said, a graying, thin man about 60, nicely dressed in a blazer. “I’m a retired chiropractor from Kentucky, a widower, and a choir leader in our congregation.”

Emilie Johnson, the podcaster was up next. “I’m Emilie, a single mom, and small business owner and work from home. I do podcasts.”

“I’m Sister Johansen, a nun in a Catholic order that focuses on people with disabilities,” she said, a cheery woman in her 50s.

“My name is Binh, originally from Vietnam, now a widow living in Iowa with my son and his family; we own a wrecking yard and used-car lot.”

Tom Hutchings was up next, a large powerful man and Tanner’s father. “I’m Tom from Colorado, a retired attorney.”

“I’m Brady, still going to school and have worked as a cop. I also work in online security, among other things.”

Beth, the reporter, wrote a note and handed it to Glenn.

A bald man in a turtleneck with wire-rim glasses said, “I’m Coleman, a history professor from Texas.” 

“I’m Hastings. I write faith-based books mostly for kids and teens,” a young man in a Beatles T-shirt and jeans said.

Glenn asked the first question. “So, this place is real, this place called Salem Crossing?”

They all nodded and agreed.

Beth interjected. “But, it can’t be found on any map, correct?”

Tom answered. “Not on any earthly map, no.”

“Then, how did you get there?” Beth probed.

“We were all on the train . . . an old-time train in the mountains,” Binh said. “We are telling the truth, all of us.”

Joey was sitting in the back of the audience, and he could feel the tension from back there. He looked over to his left and saw Walter, who nodded and smiled.

“So, you are moving there, is that right, and you have to pay to go there. What’s in it for you?” Glenn asked.

The nun answered him directly. “Look around, Mr. Hughes. As it’s written in Matthew 24, even as we speak, there are war and rumors, earthquakes in ‘divers places,’ looting, cities burning, people at each other’s throats, enmity everywhere. Why would anyone want to remain here if there were an exit to a better place?”

The audience burst into applause; she had hit a nerve.

“Why is it that people of faith can’t get on board with everybody else. Wouldn’t there be a lot less division?” Beth asked.

“Why can’t Christians see what is obvious to everybody else?”

Coleman had a ready answer. “Maybe it’s because we recognize that the so-called experts are not only wrong but full of themselves.”

He held up a print-out of a newspaper. “The well-respected London newspaper, The Telegram, ran this headline a few years ago: ‘The Future Belongs to Science. We Will Have the Power of the Gods.’ Here’s another quote from futurist Michael Sherman: ‘Science is My Savior.’”

“I met Coleman on the train back from the town, which is amazing beyond description, by the way,” Hastings said. “We both share a love for C. S. Lewis; mine began as a boy when I read the Chronicles of Narnia. What Coleman, a history professor, is talking about is the notion of ‘Scientism.’ C. S. Lewis hit the nail on the head when he wrote The Magician’s Twin. Scientism is now the official state religion in this country, in western Europe, and even in repressive regimes like Communist China, Cuba, and North Korea. What C. S. Lewis says is that people can’t distinguish between magic and science. They don’t know how their cellphones work; they’re magic. There is a total lack of skepticism regarding anything that comes out of the mouth of someone with a Ph.D. behind his or her name. 

“The result is total obedience to this man-made faith along with the lack of moral judgment. When a physicist says, ‘Science flies us to the moon, and faith flies into buildings,’ we recognize that sooner rather than later, our faith will be totally discounted. And some politicians wonder why we cling to our Bibles and our guns!” 

The audience burst into wild applause. The host announced a break for a commercial announcement which gave Joey a moment to send Blum a text message. “How are things in Vegas?”

• • • • •

Things were hot in Sin City in more ways than one. And the city’s slogan, ’What Happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas,’ Gary Gunderson would soon learn did not apply to him. Blum was with his friend at the Fox station in the city, waiting in the reception area.

Blum saw Gunderson and his latest girlfriend walking to the door. “That’s him,” he whispered to his producer friend who told him to go wait for them in the green room. Blum left just before they entered.

Gunderson looked around, puzzled. 

“Can I help you?” the producer asked him.

“Uh, yes, we were supposed to meet some people for a videotaping about the secret city in the mountains,” Gunderson said.

“Ahh, yes, the secret city! Come with me,” he said.

Gunderson and his girl followed him down the hall and around the corner into the green room. They walked in and waiting for him was not only Blum, but a cameraman, and a grip with a boom mic and lights.

“I assume you know Mr. Blum,” the producer said. “He has someone on the phone for you.” 

Gunderson took Blum’s phone and on the other end was Greg Gunderson in Boston.

They couldn’t hear what the father was saying to the son. All the younger Gunderson did was stammer and say, “I’m sorry. Yeah, I understand. No, it won’t, not ever again.”

Red-faced and shaking, Gary threw the phone at Blum and turned to leave, but the producer and the lighting man were standing there with a microphone.

“Mr. Gunderson, do you have anything to say about the impending SEC charges filed against you for illegal wire-tapping or the allegations of a slander suit?” the producer asked.

“No comment,” he said as Gunderson and his assistant pushed their way out the door.

“That’s what we thought you’d say,” the man with the microphone said as Gunderson made his exit. The producer indicated they were done. They all had a good laugh.

“You’re right, Jonathan; the guy’s a real tool, glad we could help.”

“So, how much do we owe you?”

“Jonathan, you still have a lot of credit on your account here,” he said as they packed up their gear. “I’ll email this footage to you; keep it as ‘insurance.’” Blum smiled, and then his phone rang.

It was Greg Gunderson with a lengthy apology.

“I think we made our point. No charges. Thank you,” Blum said and put his phone in his pock-et. When he was back outside in his rental, he got Joey’s text and just replied. “Went as smooth as silk. Gunderson is chewing on a piece of crow. How’s everything there?”

• • • • •

Joey breathed a sigh of relief. The lights went back on, and the hosts were ready to continue. Would there be more “gotcha” questions?

Beth had one at the ready. “You make it sound like liberal-minded people can’t make a distinction between right and wrong, good and evil. That is emblematic of why there is so much division in our country, even over things like the reality of global warming!”

Mark, the chiropractor, had something to say about that. “Global warming is a reality? Why not let everybody speak their minds about the subject without condemning them as ignoramuses?”

Professor Coleman injected a little more wisdom from C. S. Lewis into the conversation. “When Scientism and Secularism become the state church, people of faith are criticized for being close-minded while secularists themselves are the ones who lack skepticism and never question anything in their arena. C. S. Lewis wrote another book on the subject too, called Willing Slaves of the Welfare State. He said, ‘The new oligarchy must increasingly rely on the advice of scientists, until, in the end the politicians become the puppet of the scientists.’ And why? Because they now own the public’s mind and gain power as a result.”

“But, you didn’t answer my question about the lack of moral judgment in people who disagree with you,” Beth said.

Emilie Johnson raised her hand and began, “You misunderstand what my friend said. Maybe you hear Christians say, ‘I am a sinner, and only Christ can make me whole.’ Why would a law-abiding, tax-paying person who teaches her children good behavior, and volunteers at the local food bank who seems so righteous say such a thing?” She pulled out a 3 x 5 card from her purse and continued reading from her card.

“We had this discussion earlier in the van when we drove over here. Quoting C. S. Lewis, here’s my answer to what you asked: ‘When a man is getting better, he understands more clearly the evil that is still in him. When a man is getting worse, he understands his own badness less and less. A moderately bad man knows he is not very good; a thoroughly bad man thinks he is all right. This is common sense really. You understand sleep when you are awake, not when you’re sleeping. You can see mistakes in mathematics when your mind is working properly. While you are making them, you cannot see them. You can understand the nature of drunkenness when you are sober, not when you are drunk. Good people know about good and evil. Bad people know about neither.”

Glenn saw that Beth was on the ropes and needed some help. So he stepped in. “We all know that the world today is in need of help and improvement. But why just pack up and leave?”

Brady recognized that he had to clarify some things. “Mr. Hughes, you asked a couple of questions that we still need to answer. First of all, we don’t just ‘pick up and leave;’ we are invited,. We receive an invitation that we RSVP to. I was asked if I would like to be invited by Mr. Kunz, who is sitting in the back. I entertained the idea, and so I took my grandmother to Salem Crossing, just as he took his grandmother. 

“It was beautiful beyond description, but it wasn’t the fact that there were all kinds of fruit growing and ripening out of season or that there were tropical flowers and birds everywhere; and it wasn’t the fact that the place looked like 1925 with artisans at work making things with their hands, bakers, potters, wood-turners, weavers, and quilters. What was unique was that they lived their motto . . . namely, that they are of one mind, one heart, dwell in righteousness with no poor among them. 

“Before we left, we watched a barn-raising and participated in the co-operative harvesting of peaches, pears, and apples. My grandmother spent the afternoon making a quilt; young people were assembling hygiene kits to go to the underprivileged here in our world. My grandmother is there because she suffers from diabetes. Is it a better place? Yes, it is a Shining City on the Hill, but it’s not the Shining City that everybody was anxious to visit.

“You have to be invited to go there. And the way it works is quite simple. If you know some-one, anyone who has made a difference in your life, changed it for the better, or did something courageous or unusual for others, log onto the website at www.theshiningcity.org, and share that per-son’s story with us. We’ll pass it on to the people who extend the invitations. It’s all on the web-site. Send a photo if you’ve got one.”

“And, you haven’t been invited yet?” Glenn asked.

“At that time, I wasn’t, ” Brady answered.

“My son was,” Tom Hutchings said. “If you follow football, maybe you’ve heard of Tanner Hutchings. He was supposed to be a top draft pick as a quarterback; he graduated from the University of Colorado last year and was hoping to get an NFL tryout, but last month he was on a bike ride up a canyon and was hit by a truck. 

“He suffered a compound fracture in his right leg, needed a total knee reconstruction, and worse, we discovered after he woke up that he was paralyzed from the waist down. The doctors told us he’d never have the use of his legs again. Then, his girlfriend, Rachel, convinced his mother and him to take a train ride.

“I thought it was crazy, but Tanner insisted I go with them. So, not only did we travel to Salem Crossing, but we went with Tanner further up the mountain to the Grand Hotel and Spa where for two weeks he bathed in the hot springs, in what they call their ‘stirring waters.’ 

“Before I came down here to participate with you, he was walking with a cane . . .” he said, as tears streamed down his face, “and the scar from his fracture was barely visible. It’s just like the healing stories from the Bible which I hadn’t opened in forty years, by the way, until now.”

“And what did all this cost?” Beth, the skeptic asked.

He smiled and tried to answer as best he could. “Nothing and everything,” he said quietly. 

“What?”

“No bill is coming. It’s all paid for,” he explained. “But, for us, we are selling all that we have and going there.” He pulled his invitation out of his pocket and showed it to the audience.

“Someone else paid for us, and now we’re paying it forward . . . for others, for people like you to come. Don’t know what I’ll do there, since there is no crime, no ambulances to chase, and no litigations to litigate. I think I’m going to buy a loom and do some weaving.” He sat down and the place was as quiet as a cathedral.

“One last comment before we open it up for the audience to ask their questions. Why all this animus toward science and technology? It sounds rather . . . Amish,” Glenn said.

Emilie spoke right up. “I was invited to a friend’s birthday party a while back; there were many friends from high school I hadn’t seen in years. I spoke with those I could, but many of them were chatting on their phones, sending emails and texts, or taking selfies. 

“Technology is replacing human interaction and relationships. Soon, if the secularists have their way, we’ll just get checks from the government and let people in faraway places or robots do the work that we should do for ourselves. What a miserable existence!” Emilie added.

Mark, the chiropractor, took out his smartphone and addressed the audience. “This seems like a rather innocent little device, brilliant in construction and beautifully designed. But look at what’s happened to our communities, to our local newspapers, and to human relationships since we’ve all ‘logged on,’ dropped our landlines, and moved to these devices—phones, tablets, laptops, as well as everything else in our homes and cars, including such things as Alexa. 

“Secularists make fun of people of faith when we bow our heads in a restaurant and say grace. And yet they’ll yell across the room and ask Google’s Alexa that’s plugged in on the counter, ‘Alexa, what’s the meaning of life?’ and it will provide an answer derived from a Google algorithm. In other words, according to the tech masters, Google can answer our prayers, but God can’t, because He doesn’t exist. As for me, I choose God over Google.”

The audience erupted in applause and gave the group a standing ovation. Walter gave Joey a thumbs-up from his seat in the back. Time to go.