City of Peace Page 2

  “Sterling needs a high-energy pastor with the ability to keep a lot of balls in the air without dropping more than one or two. You were that guy for five years, Harley, and I’m really grateful to you.”

  Here it comes, he thought. He had lost his family, and now he was going to lose his job. He felt a wave of panic as he thought of himself becoming another middle-aged loser, replaced by a younger man, a woman—or a minority.

  “I could be that guy again. You know it. I just need a little more time. Time to heal.”

  “Unfortunately, Sterling can’t wait,” said the bishop. “The budget is in trouble because people are voting with their feet. Worship attendance is down, and you know how important metrics are in the church today. You are an excellent preacher, Harley, but your anger in the pulpit is not fitting our brand of ‘open hearts, open minds, open doors.’”

  Right about that, thought Harley. Now the bishop was going to show him an open door.

  “Finally,” the bishop stated with some reluctance, “your staff is in a leadership vacuum. They need firm guidance if they are to provide quality ministry, and you have not been giving it to them.”

  “Is this about Jack?” Harley interrupted.

  Sterling had two associate pastors, Jack Stover and Emily Kim. Jack was a hyper-competitive young pastor who never missed a chance to grab a moment in the spotlight. Although he had offered words of comfort and support to Harley in his time of grief, Harley sensed that he was grumbling behind his back and undermining him at every turn. Emily had always been a true team player, but Jack wanted to be the star.

  “Well, Jack has spoken to me,” admitted the bishop, “but so have other staff members. They love you, Harley, but they need your full energy and attention. Remember how I said at a senior pastors’ meeting that the greatest gift you can give your staff is the gift of clarity? Well, you are not giving them the clarity they need to do effective ministry and mission.”

  Clarity, schmarity. Harley gave a half-hearted nod. “Well, it may be that most of them love me, but I think that Jack is sharpening his knives. He has been looking for chinks in my armor for months now. I’ve always heard that associate pastors have a lust to kill the king, but I never believed it till I met Jack.”

  “Come on, Harley, he’s not that bad,” insisted the bishop.

  “Oh really?” Harley smiled. “Then put him on your staff.”

  “Don’t change the subject. I am here to talk about you.”

  “Tell me that you are not going to give Jack my job,” said Harley.

  “Of course not,” replied the bishop. “There’s no way that he is ready. He has a lot of gifts, but he will need many more years before he can handle a complex congregation like Sterling.” She smiled wryly. “He might feel that he’s equipped, but he’s not.”

  Her words came as a relief. Maybe the bishop still knew what she was doing. He realized at that moment that he wasn’t going to be able to change her mind, but he sensed that he could trust her.

  “Okay, Your Honor, what’s my sentence?”

  The bishop laughed. “I’m not sending you to the gallows, Harley. Not even to prison. You are a good man, and you’ve got some promising years in front of you. I’m sending you to Occoquan.”

  “Occo-what?”

  CHAPTER 2

  Riverside Methodist Church in Occoquan had a black Jesus. Harley noticed it the first time he walked into the small sanctuary and looked up at the stained-glass window at the front of the church. At first, he thought that the glass was simply dirty, but as he moved closer he realized Jesus was designed to look more like a Palestinian Jew than an English Methodist. That’s probably historically accurate, he thought, and politically correct. But then he looked closer and saw the date on the lower right corner of the window—1885. The dark-skinned Jesus had been installed in an era when most stained-glass images of him were decidedly Northern European white. This Jesus had a determined look as he calmed the waters of the Sea of Galilee. Harley quickly realized why. Riverside Methodist had been founded by a pastor named Bailey, a former slave, and for over a century it had been an African-American congregation called Emanuel Baptist Church.

  Harley visited the church on his first trip to Occoquan, a small town perched on the southern shore of the Occoquan River. Driving south from Sterling, he took Route 123 through southern Fairfax County and passed the old Lorton prison, now repurposed as an arts center called the Workhouse. The bishop said she wasn’t sending me to prison, he mused as he drove past, but look—there it is. A steep hill, heavily forested on both sides, dropped from the arts center to the Occoquan River. Harley was surprised by the simple beauty of the concrete bridge sweeping across the water into Prince William County, presenting drivers with a panoramic view of the Town of Occoquan to the west. He slowed his car as he approached the southern end of the bridge, and then turned on Commerce Street. Welcome to Historic Occoquan, Founded 1734.

  Having just left the suburban sprawl of twenty-first-century Sterling, Harley felt like he was entering another world. Creeping west along Commerce Street, he saw Auntie’s Pie Shop and Riverside Methodist Church across the street. He turned on Washington Street and eased his car into the parking lot of the church. Looking around, he saw the river, bridge, townhouses, and several blocks of shops and restaurants. He could explore the entire town by foot in less than an hour. The bishop had told him that Occoquan was an Indian word meaning “at the end of the water.” More like “at the end of my career,” he thought.

  The church was renamed Riverside Methodist Church in the late 1990s when the congregation of Emanuel Baptist had moved to a larger and more modern structure in Woodbridge. The church sat empty until 2001 when the Northern Virginia Board of Missions decided that the Occoquan area would be a great site for a new church, especially with the development being planned for the old Lorton prison site just north of the river. They purchased the little church and installed a series of pastors who helped to get Riverside started. Growth was slow through the church’s first fifteen years, especially since so many people were looking for megachurches with praise bands and high-tech sights and sounds. Traditional worship in nineteenth-century buildings typically didn’t draw large crowds.

  Harley put a key in the front door of the church and was immediately assaulted by a wave of warm, musty air. “This is disgusting,” he said aloud, waving a hand in front of his face. He walked through the small narthex and turned on the lights in the sanctuary. Rows of oak pews stood on either side of a center aisle covered with worn red carpet. The front of the church had a pulpit on the left and a lectern on the right, with a Communion table in the center, under the stained glass of the black Jesus. Harley walked down the aisle, trying to imagine himself leading worship in these dank quarters after years of presiding over services in a sleek modern building in Sterling. He spent a few minutes studying the stained-glass window, which the bishop had told him about, focusing on the stained-glass image of Jesus and the frightened disciples around him.

  Harley felt a wave of mixed emotion as he contemplated the scene etched in glass. It was calming instead of the corrosive anger that had been burning him up. Part of him didn’t want to let go of his rage because it felt so righteous. Without it, he was left with nothing but numbness and loneliness, a vast emptiness created by both the loss of Karen and Jessica and the loss of his position in Sterling. Running his fingers along the backs of the wooden pews, he imagined that the space had been the site of countless milestones over the course of a century and a quarter—dedications, baptisms, weddings, funerals. Anguished prayers had been said here, rousing sermons had been preached, lives had been changed. Generations of African Americans, in particular, had looked up at the Jesus in the stained glass and found strength to live with faith and dignity in a segregated society. A trickle of tenderness began to flow into the dry canyon that was Harley’s heart. And yet, he didn’t want to get sentimental. What had sentimentality ever done for him?

  Looking aroun
d the old building and imagining the small congregation that would gather there, he realized that the church was going to be a lot of work. And this realization made him feel frustrated that he had been demoted at the very peak of his career. When he opened the door to his office, which was located next to the pulpit, he was shocked and disappointed. The office was hardly bigger than a broom closet, and the desk had a typewriter on it. Yes, a typewriter. In 2017.

  At least the office also had a door to the outside, which Harley used to escape and gulp a breath of fresh air. He was suffocating, as much from his conflicting emotions as the stuffy little office. But the outside air was not as refreshing as he hoped it would be. It was a hot and sticky June day, and the air coming off the Occoquan River smelled like fish and decay. What a dump! he thought. Even the little white steeple on the roof needed scraping and painting. This was a place for a recent seminary graduate, not an accomplished pastor. Feeling insulted by the bishop’s assignment, he wanted nothing more than to jump in his car and escape.

  As he stood on the steps outside the office door, a man with a gray beard and a tie-dye T-shirt approached. “Hi there,” he called out as he got close to the church building. “I’m Tim. Are you the new minister?” He stuck out his hand and Harley gave it a shake.

  “Yes. I’m Harley Camden. The bishop has just assigned me to Riverside.” He pulled out his car keys to signal he was leaving.

  “That’s good,” said Tim with a smile. “I’m not a religious person, but I hated it when the church sat empty all those years. I really liked Reverend Jones, who was the pastor of Emanuel in the ’60s and ’70s. Good man. Really active in the Civil Rights movement.”

  The man was clearly not going to allow the minister to make a quick escape.

  “So, you’ve been here a long time?” asked Harley.

  “Oh yeah, my family and I, we go back a long way in Occoquan. My last name is Underwood. I’m a direct descendent of John Underwood.”

  Harley nodded, but had no idea who John Underwood was.

  “You know, Underwood the traitor.”

  Harley nodded again, trying to mask his ignorance.

  “You might not know it, but Occoquan was an abolitionist stronghold during the Civil War. My ancestor John was arrested for his antislavery views. In the 1860 presidential election, Abraham Lincoln received only fifty-five votes from all of Prince William County. Only fifty-five votes! They all came from Occoquan.”

  “Huh,” said Harley. Perhaps Occoquan wasn’t as musty as it seemed. He put his car keys in his pocket.

  “Yeah, John was quite a rabble-rouser,” said Tim with a grin. “On the Fourth of July in the year 1860, a group of Occoquan Republicans raised a liberty pole in front of Rockledge Mansion. You’ve seen the mansion, haven’t you?”

  “No, I just arrived. I’ve only seen the church.”

  “Well, you’ll see it soon enough,” said Tim. He pointed and said, “It’s just over there, across from the ruins of the mill. Anyway, the liberty pole had Abraham Lincoln’s campaign banner on it, as well as the American flag.”

  “That must have been quite a statement, being in the South and all.”

  “You’re telling me,” Tim said. “Later that month, the Prince William militia rode into Occoquan. They were coming from Brentsville, the county seat. They chopped down the liberty pole and took the flags and pole pieces to Brentsville. The story even made The New York Times!”

  “Interesting,” replied Harley, although he couldn’t help but think that the pole-chopping was probably Occoquan’s first—and only—fifteen minutes of fame.

  “Lots of interesting things happened around here throughout the war,” Tim continued, “including an encampment by Confederate colonel Wade Hampton. And there were several assaults by a United States ship called Stepping Stones. In 1862, Wade Hampton raided Occoquan and arrested my ancestor John for treason!”

  “Sorry to hear it,” said Harley. “I hope he survived.”

  “He was released in 1863 in a prisoner trade. Abraham Lincoln himself wrote a personal note to the secretary of war, asking him to find a position for John. He became a United States marshal.”

  “So, a happy ending,” Harley said. “Is the Republican Party still active here in Occoquan?”

  “Well, yes,” said Tim with a smirk. “But I wouldn’t say it is Mr. Lincoln’s party any more. We Underwoods were registered Republicans through the 1960s, but Nixon’s Southern strategy took our party away from us.”

  Harley had just a vague recollection of Nixon gaining votes by using race as an issue with white conservatives in the South. “Didn’t mean to get political,” Harley said.

  “Oh, that’s okay,” said Tim. “I love the history of this place, and politics is a big part of it. Want to see the town?”

  Harley wondered what was going on with this guy. It was a brutally hot Tuesday afternoon, and he was walking the streets of Occoquan seemingly waiting for random people to show up so that he could give them a history lesson. The guy was sixty, at most. Doesn’t he have anything better to do?

  “Over here you have the Yarn Shop,” announced Tim, pointing across Washington Street. “It’s run by some old ladies who have been here forever. Names are Doris King and Eleanor Buttress. Occoquan used to be full of places like this, but now it is getting much more trendy, with little bistros and whatnot. You’ll see.”

  They walked north on Washington, toward the river. “Here you’ve got the Gold Emporium,” said Tim, gesturing to his left. “Run by a family of Egyptians, the Ayads. Coptic Christians, I hear. You know about the Copts, right?”

  “Oh yes,” Harley replied. “I preached about Copts being killed by ISIS. That’s why I’m here.” Tim looked at him quizzically. “I gave a sermon that was a little too graphic, and people complained to the bishop. She thought Occoquan would be a better fit for my particular . . . shall I say . . . gifts?”

  “Your gifts!” Tim laughed. “If you got kicked out of a church for exercising your gifts, I’d like to hear you, Pastor. Means you’ve got something to say. When do you start preaching?”

  “This Sunday. I’ll be here for the worship service, and then I move down here next week.”

  “Where will you be living?”

  “Right there,” said Harley, pointing to a Victorian townhouse on Mill Street, on the western edge of the housing development.

  “Pretty fancy, Rev. Those are super luxurious for the Town of Occoquan.”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” Harley admitted. “Seems that the developer was a Methodist, and when he finished the final townhouse, he had to dispose of the model home. He could have sold it, but his tax adviser suggested he donate it to the church. Some big write-off, I guess. So now it is the parsonage for Riverside Methodist Church, and I’ll live there for as long as I serve as pastor. The current guy finished on Sunday and is moving out now; it will get cleaned up this weekend and ready for me. Even comes with a dock!”

  “Sweet!” said Tim. “I assume you’ll get a boat.”

  “Why not? Get a dock, get a boat.”

  “Here is where you will get your mail,” said Tim, pointing left to the small post office on Mill Street. “No one gets residential delivery here. You’ll be assigned a PO box, and you pick up your mail. The postmistress, Mary, knows everybody—and everybody’s business.”

  “So, this really is a small town, isn’t it?”

  “One thousand and sixty-two residents,” said Tim. “Part-time mayor, full-time sheriff, part-time deputy. We’ve got it all.”

  Harley was surprised that a town this size could still exist in the ever-expanding sprawl of the Northern Virginia suburbs. He would have thought that the county would annex it and suck it into Woodbridge or Lake Ridge. But somehow scrappy little Occoquan held on to its integrity.

  Harley was suddenly reminded of a dream from two nights before, in which he was sitting in his first church meeting in Occoquan, listening to two older women engage in a lengthy debate about which color o
f beige should be used to paint the social hall. “Crumb cookie,” said one. “No, cocoa butter,” countered the other. “How about sand trap?” said the first. “I prefer chocolate turtle,” replied the second. Harley felt his frustration growing and growing until he stood up and unleashed a string of expletives. As he thundered at the women, his body grew tall and his muscles burst through the fabric of his shirt and his pants, until he ended up towering over them in the small meeting room. The women cowered, silent and stunned, until he ended the meeting with the words, “The walls will be green.” And then it was over. That was not a nightmare, thought Harley as he recollected the details. Not at all. That was a sweet dream.

  “And here is the American Legion,” said Tim, pointing to the building next to the post office. “I can’t say I agree with their politics, but the grill in the basement has the best breakfast in town. If you can find a member to take you, you’ll enjoy a full plate of eggs, bacon, and home fries for about five bucks, coffee included. And you can have a beer to go along with it—the bar is always open.”

  Harley smiled, wondering how it would look for the new preacher to be sucking down beers at breakfast.

  Tim continued to narrate his tour of Occoquan as they walked west on Mill Street: A dive bar, a dress shop, another jewelry store, a Christmas shop, an art gallery, and even an apartment building with a ghost. “You’ll have to take the ghost tour here at Halloween,” he said, “since you are a spiritual guy.”

  “Tell me about the Riverview Bakery,” asked Harley as he pointed to a shop on the south side of the street.

  “Run by an Iraqi family, the Bayatis. The father is Muhammad, the mother is Fatima, and they have two daughters in their twenties, Norah and Sarah, and a son named Omar, who I think is a year out of high school. They set up shop about twenty years ago, after the Gulf War.”