Author: Henry O. Arnold

I was raised in an era when the different streams of the Protestant churches were clear in their beliefs that they had the corner on the truth and were the only ones going to heaven. If one behaved according to their theological prescriptions and had done enough “good deeds” to nudge St. Peter to granting them entrance through the pearly gates, then, whew, you made it. That’s a lot of pressure on a person to be morally on pointe and to balance out the scales of our good and bad deeds.

All these different religious persuasions, so sure of their future hopes of heaven, had to mean that other denominations had no chance of making it. Each one considered themselves to be the “true” church, a very exclusive club.

There is the old joke about St. Peter leading the new arrivals on a tour of heaven. When they get to a certain neighborhood in the heavenly city, St. Peter asks the group to remain silent as they pass by, “Because these people think they are the only ones here and we don’t want to disappoint them.”

This notion of theological exclusivity is designed to make the ones who believe they are in the right camp to feel superior and to create human structures where oppression of others is allowed to thrive. If you believe that God only likes the things you like and agrees with your opinions one hundred percent of the time, then your god is you.

The feeling of superiority is just a thin veil that attempts to hid a tainted heart. Whether we espouse a faith in God or simply hold to a system of ethical justice, we are all guilty of smug superiority. No institution, religious or secular, however altruistic, will sanitize our human condition. More is required.

Jesus Christ came as a substitute to stand in the gap for our reckless human natures. He invites us into the embrace of his love, and his willing sacrifice distinguishes him from all human systems in the long history of the world. That is a status not achieved by individual effort. What a mercy. What an act of grace. What a joyful relief from the burden of trying to be your own god.

When I was a kid the Arnold household had specific Sunday morning routines. It actually began on Saturday evening with Dad down in the basement cranking out the order of worship programs he designed for church services. Chemicals for the printing were poured the mimeograph machine and the hand cranking began. One revolution spat out one program; two hundred copies were required. Followed by folding and stacking. When I was commandeered to crank, the printing chemicals caused my eyes to water and probably killed a few million brain cells in the process. Explains a lot.

I was a paperboy during those years. The Sunday morning papers were so thick it would test the strength of Superman to rip one in half. Because of the volume of customers that subscribed to the paper, I could not deliver them on my bicycle, so Dad drove me in the car. I sat in the backseat, up to my neck in folded newspapers secured with a rubber band and would toss them out the window as Dad crept down each street.

Once the last newspaper was hurled, the two of us hustled out to church and stuck an order of worship in front of each hymnal in the racks behind the pews. The programs and the care he took in planning each service was Dad’s beautiful aesthetic gift to the congregants.

Then it was back to the house. Cereals, sweet rolls, and beverages were set on the kitchen counter, no time for a leisurely breakfast. In between the kitchen, the bedroom, and bathroom, Mom would shout from the bottom of the stairs for her four children to quicken our pace of getting ready for church all while preparing herself.

Wrangling the six Arnolds out the door to church took concentrated energy. Once in the car—kids in the back, parents up front—Mom had time for her final cosmetic touches. The mirror on the visor was lowered and the applications of foundation, rouge, eyeliner, and lipstick were applied, followed by the sprucing of her coif. About a mile out from church, she popped the lid on the Aqua Net and the hiss of white mist began to permeate the front seat.

Dad pulled into the church parking lot and we scrambled out of the car trying to escape the Chernobyl cloud inside the car. We staggered into the building and plopped down in our traditional pew on time and fully clothed and in our right minds, except for that slight nauseated, dizzy sensation of aerosol spray. Wonderful memories, indeed.

I pondered so many character questions as I set out to write Lion of Judah. The main character of David was king of Israel. Might he have ever experienced a crisis of confidence before assuming the throne? That was one of the numerous character conditions I allowed to simmer in my imagination. While David knows he walks the path of Yahweh’s calling, could he still experience doubts and fear? If so, who does he turn to for encouragement?

Few of us are ever going to assume a throne (Barcaloungers in your media room do not qualify). But we all struggle with doubt and fear and feel levels of anxiety. Who do you turn to when you are unsure of the present or future course of your life? When has it been difficult for you to make a decision to take a risk or move out in faith?

Friendship is a key component in Lion of Judah. In our modern world it can be difficult to establish close relationships. In the biblical record David does not seem to have close ties with his blood family, which was unusual given the clannish familial nature of that ancient culture. He does have a close bond with King Saul’s firstborn son, Jonathan, and a circle of friends he calls his “mighty men.” What does a bond of friendship mean today? What forms does the commitment take? How does it shape and impact one’s life?

Then there were the marriages. Back in the time of Lion of Judah, marriages were arranged between families. The modern experience of “falling in love” was not the norm. But then along comes Mikal, King Saul’s second daughter. The biblical wording states that Mikal was “in love” with David. The text indicates that David was at least infatuated with Mikal. But the road for this married couple was not smooth.

There were many conflicts that eventually caused their separation. While the historical context of the circumstances for David and Mikal are unique to them, we all experience difficulties and conflicts that begin on the playground and continue throughout our lives.

In this fifth and final novel of The Song of Prophets and Kings series, I have taken ancient stories and offered a glimpse into our own modern story. I believe the biblical past illuminates our present day. I believe we can read the stories of David and Mikal (marriages), Bathsheba and Solomon (mothers and sons), Nathan and Gad (dear friends), and Absalom and Tamar (siblings), as our own story. These stories, indeed, all biblical stories, are our stories. This has been my greatest reward as I conclude this series.

What is the work of a novel? To bring reconciliation. A novel is a recorded story that notices the broken pieces of its world and tries to knit them together. My task as a writer is to find agency in relationships with the characters first and foremost. Other factors may play a role in effecting outcomes, but it is how the characters react to situations that makes it all believable and entertaining.

In my new novel, Lion of Judah, I have had the pleasure of living with the characters in my series for well over a decade. At my invitation, they all moved in and refused to exit until I told their stories. Fortunately, Kay and I did not have to feed them, wash their laundry, or share the bathroom. There would have been a revolt. But they dominated my imagination, which is the way I work.

The invitation included a whole host of characters with multiple generations of families all with their unique external trials and internal conflicts. It was a challenge to keep everyone and every plotline straight; reconciled, if you will. I don’t mean reconciled with happy endings. I mean reconciled with believable endings, believable because what each character revealed about themselves and the actions they took had to be true and result in logical conclusions.

I pay very close attention to my characters, watching and listening. While I do not attempt to impose my will, I will not allow them to make false choices or speak inauthentic words. The task is mostly a pleasure. When fatigue strikes I have to walk away even when a character is demanding attention.

Because The Song of Prophets and Kings series is taken from the biblical records of 1st and 2nd Samuel, I had particular facts that had to be honored and a certain narrative structure that had to be followed if everything was to align. I honored the “facts” in Scripture, while allowing my imagination to encompass situations and characters’ personal connections with one another to show a humanity.

Lion of Judah brings this series to a close. As I invited the biblical characters into my life, I now invite readers into the literary results of my imagination. I invite you to sit still for a while, get so lost in the story that you ignore the notifications on your electronic devices. This has been a multi-level creative process that has afforded me great pleasure. I wish the same experience for each and every reader.

My first encounter with cigarettes was at the tender age of nine. During church one Sunday morning, my friend and I sat together in a separate pew away from the adults, the individuation had begun. I was given a quarter each Sunday to drop in the collection plate. On this day it had been prearranged for me to go home with my friend. So when the ushers started coming down the aisles with the collection plates, he whispered, “Keep your quarter. We’ll buy cigarettes with it later.” Oh, how temptation can start in the church pew.

How was I going to pull this one off? Like God, my mother was always watching. But I suddenly had an idea that was sure to fool heaven and earth. I secured the quarter between two fingers, cupping my hand to conceal the twenty-five cent piece, and when the plate came down our row, I waved my hand over it as if dropping my offering into the plate before passing it on. Mother smiled, and I tucked my quarter inside my sweaty palm until she looked away and I could slip it into my pocket. With such slight-of-hand skills I could have become a magician.

My friend lived next to a drugstore, and after lunch, the two of us went outside to play…ostensibly. His mom’s supervision was lax, which meant increased levels of mischief were available, like smoking behind the garage. As we ambled over to the drugstore I reached into my pocket and pulled out my quarter, purloined from God. The money entrusted to me for an offering was about to be spent on tobacco. The grip of sin was cold and hard on my young mind and heart.

Since I had never bought a pack of cigarettes in my life I had to entrust the purchase to my more experienced companion. He made frequent trips to the drugstore on cigarette runs for his smoker mom. Once hidden behind the garage, the preparation to smoke was like a Japanese tea ceremony. Those few seconds before lighting up when that cylinder dangled from my lips was the moment I began to shed the skin of childhood. With my first puff, I was transformed into Prometheus stealing fire from the gods.

Three cigarettes consumed and my joy turned to sorrow. The gods had sent the eagle to feast upon my liver. My head detached from my neck. There was a tingling in my extremities. My eyes began to water. I crawled a short distance on all fours, but my muscles had become like jelly. And then my stomach started to boil and the hurling began. I don’t remember the rest of the afternoon. I don’t remember coming home. What I do remember is entering my parent’s bedroom after my siblings were asleep and bursting into tears. My first cigarette led to my first confession and my first experience with grace. My parents said I had suffered enough and sent me off to bed. That day, I learned that confession and grace are a beautiful thing.

Before Albert Einstein became internationally famous and his face was everywhere, he came to America to give a series of lectures. There was no mass media at the time or press teams mobbing the great scientist. He traveled the university speaker’s circuit with a chauffeur who just happened to favor Einstein in looks and build.

After so many dinners and lectures and giving the same speech again and again, Einstein was weary of speechmaking. The chauffeur had listened to the lecture so many times that he knew it by heart. So they devised a plan for the scientist and the chauffeur to switch roles. At the next lecture, Einstein dressed in the chauffeur’s uniform, the chauffeur in the scientist’s rumpled suit.

Einstein sat in the packed lecture hall contentedly listening to his own words brilliantly recited by his chauffeur. The chauffeur even answered a few simple questions from the audience. Then a supremely pompous professor rose from his seat and asked a complex question about anti-matter formation. The question was worded in such a way as to show off the professor’s great knowledge.

The whole room was riveted by the question and all eyes were fixed upon the imposter who just laughed at the question and answered, “Sir, the answer to that question is so simple that my chauffeur on the front row will answer for me.”

I’ve been an actor for a long time. There is a big difference between playing a character and actually being the man you are portraying. I’ve played a lawyer, but you don’t want me to argue a case for you. I’ve playing a doctor, but you don’t want me to perform surgery on you. I’ve played an artist, but you would never commission me for a painting. You want the real thing.

And the real deal, the real Einstein lived every day with a “holy curiosity” about the universe. “The important thing is to not stop questioning,” Einstein wrote. “Curiosity has its own reason for existence. One cannot help but be in awe when he contemplates the mysteries of eternity, of life, of the marvelous structure of reality. It is enough if one tries merely to comprehend a little of this mystery each day. Never lose a holy curiosity…” This taken from Old Man’s Advice to Youth: Never Lose a Holy Curiosity.

Our world is full of wonders all around us, above and below us. Each of us are also wonders of creation. We are wonders of God’s design fit into this “marvelous structure of reality.” Be filled with a holy curiosity every day.

In a recent The New Yorker article on the use of suspense in literature this phrase, “preaching to the nerves,” jumped out at me. It was used by the highbrow critics in the nineteenth century to describe the “tawdry” and “ignoble” aspects of the rise in modern fiction of the time that appealed more to “provoking curiosity and excitement, rather than offering aesthetic fulfillment.” With my new novel, The Stranger at the Door, I plead guilty for preaching to the nerves, though I might have snuck in some “aesthetic fulfilment” along the way.

The main character, Maxwell Crane, has blood on his hands. The Mercy Seat church may be celebrating Christmas, but Pastor Maxwell takes no pleasure in the season. He is haunted by the accidental fatality of a Hell’s Canyon gang leader and the mother who grieves the loss of her son long after Maxwell took justice into his own hands.

When a mysterious young woman appears at the doorsteps of the church, Maxwell and his family are eager to take in the stranger, but this act of kindness leads to unexpected and dire consequences. The Crane sisters and the young woman go missing, their whereabouts unknown, until Maxwell receives a call informing him the three girls have been abducted by a ruthless cartel. The family gathers. Close friends are summoned. Plans are made, but the strategy for rescue is fraught with danger, one that could cost more in human life than in treasure.

Maxwell is confused and hurt by what he perceives as God piling more agonizing weight upon his already broken soul with the kidnapping of his daughters, but he cannot help crying out to God. He cannot help calling out, demanding that God pay attention. Don’t you see what is happening here? Don’t you care? Who else could Maxwell call upon? Who else might protect and save? His daughters might be lost to him, but are they lost to God? Maxwell would rush into the gates of hell to rescue his daughters, but would he get there in time?

E.M. Forester wrote in his work Aspects of the Novel, that every work of fiction, no matter how lofty, must be built around a story… “and that story must have only one merit: that of making the audience want to know what happens next.” If you’re looking for a good novel to “preach to your nerves,” may I humbly suggest The Stranger at the Door.

When I was wrapping up the final edits on The Mercy Seat, Kay and I had dinner with dear friends Bill and Derri Smith. Derri had recently retired as the director of an organization devoted to rescuing victims of human trafficking. I shared with them the story of The Mercy Seat and that I was considering a sequel that would have human trafficking as a theme. Derri committed to “looking over my shoulder” in the writing of The Stranger at the Door. Thus began a beautiful back and forth of Derri confirming or correcting my choices throughout the course of writing.

As with The Mercy Seat, The Stranger at the Door was plotless when I sat down to write. Because it is a sequel there was much I needed to address. The story begins six months after the ending of The Mercy Seat and opens with Maxwell Crane struggling with emotional and psychological pain as a result of his impulsive choices to defend his son against a real and present danger.

Once I established Maxwell’s trauma, a stranger arrived at the front door of the church and the Crane family takes her in. Life spirals out of control. I created a world that was dark and dangerous but based in a reality that few of us truly know or want to know. Thanks to Derri Smith, the created world of The Stranger at the Door rings true and the twists and turns of the action and the character choices follow a fascinating logic.

I always enjoy the process of writing, but Stranger had a special pleasure because every character (the old ones and the new) had a believable persona and a character path with specific motivations that allowed them to make believable choices—good and bad—in hopes of achieving what they desired. I tried to keep out of their way and let the story unfold as they wished for it to be told. I never knew what my characters might do until they appeared in my imagination. I just prayed my fingers wouldn’t fail me as I kept typing.

The Stranger at the Door takes a hard look at human trafficking that happens in plain sight, yet so often is never seen by the general populace. My desire is that the reader will have a meaningful experience in this journey through unfamiliar territory, and while at times it might make the reader squirm, I hope it will also offer an understanding for those who cry out for rescue from the dark corners of the world.

It should come as no surprise that I love to amble well-worn paths through the great outdoors. I live by Gandolph’s line in The Hobbit, “All that wander are not lost.” Though there was that time on the Isle of Skye when Kay dropped me off along the southern coastline, and she took off in search of the famous Fairy Pools when the rugged coastal path turned east into the emerald hills and I was, huh, bewildered.

When I descended into the valley the trail disintegrated into an open field with a flock of sheep scattering at my approach taking several escape routes, all of which could qualify as the trail I needed. The hills and pastures were before me and the sea behind me. No sign of humanity except for one lone cottage on the other side of the inland. I looked to the north and saw where two hills converged. Even if there was no path, I believed I would gain enough elevation to find a way out.

Eventually, a path appeared, and just at dark, Kay met me on a one-lane road. In our hours of separation, she found no fairies or pools. I found the renewed sense of wonder at the beauty of land and sea, hill and sky, clouds and weather.

I discovered a John Muir quote that references the etymology of the word “saunter.” In the Middle Ages pilgrims would travel to the Holy Land. As they passed through the villages along the way and were asked where they were headed, the response was, “A la sainte terre, To the Holy Land.” The pilgrims became known as “sainte-terre-ers” or “saunterers.”

Muir did not care for the word “hike” or for all that it demands of the person before one even gets to a trail. Muir thought such detailed preparations for “hiking” robbed the soul of the enjoyment being in the presence of natural beauty. Muir said, “People ought to saunter in the mountains—not hike.” He considered our American landscapes “our Holy Land,” and to reverently saunter through them.

I remember as a young boy my father singing this lyric from an old German folk song, “The Happy Wanderer.” The lyric went, “I love to go a wandering along the mountain track. And as I go I love to sing, ‘My knapsack on my back.’” Dad was like Muir, always encouraging his kids to get out there and become a part of the wonder and beauty of nature.

Find a trail. Saunter for a while. Wander.