Jonathan: A Novel

By Robb Hasencamp

Jonathan Bark is a young Southern Baptist minister living in Coral Gables, Florida. But he's not a normal pastor. Indeed, he believes that God is calling him to a special life of radical spiritual discipline. As this strange project unfolds, it profoundly disturbs his ministry, his family, and especially his wife, Jana.Jana is a traditional Christian wife but with strong leanings toward feminism. She struggles mightily with Jonathan and his supposed holy vocation. But when he insists on introducing celibacy into the matter, she fights to keep her head barely above the water. And, of course, their two children suffer greatly.Because of his righteous call, the Evil One storms Jonathan's dream-life. Indeed, these reality-bending visitations are a frontal assault on his friendship with God, and manage at times to deeply shake his faith.Jonathan's best friend is a rowdy agnostic shark expert named Stephen. He works out of The University of Miami Oceanographic Center where he is obsessed with large bull sharks. He does his best to inform and protect the Bark family from their primordial wickedness. Yet, even he cannot shield them from a primal fate.Theodicy is a major theme: With evil all around us, how can we say that God is good? No ready answers are forthcoming. But throughout, the reader is given ample grist for their personal search and encouragement to work out their own salvation with grace, fear, and trembling.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 13, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098029487

Book preview

1

Journal

June 1987—The Plantation

On this first day of our story, my heart brims with gladness yet smolders with a secret dread. Despite the exultation in my soul, I know the path holds unknown perils, and even with my strong faith I can’t be certain of the ultimate outcome.

Thus, the backdrop to this first chapter is that I had been feeling my heavenly Father’s hidden call on my life—and stubbornly resisting as all men do—for quite some time. But at this point His message had recently achieved more clarity in my heart. Whereas before I had been able to conceal my anxiety from Jana and the kids, this opening chapter recounts the first time when the interior conflict surfaced in Jana’s presence.

Memoir

April 1974—Coral Gables Home

Our home on Alhambra Circle had a long front porch, with thick pine beams overhead and tall screened Florida windows its entire length. Rust-colored Cuban tiles covered the floor. The porch swing hung at the far end, nearby heavy oak doors which led into the living room—large, airy, with windows extending from eye level up to the spacious ceiling. Above the fireplace a mirror stretched skyward to reveal, depending on the angle, almost every nook and cranny. Jonah, then nine, had finally succeeded in leaping the ten steps from the second floor to the landing, a feat which Sarah—his elder by two years—had summarily accomplished at seven. During the summer a gentle breeze coursed wistfully through the house.

It was a blessed home, and I loved every room. The front porch, though, was my favorite. It held such spectacular memories. Jana and I would sit for hours on the porch swing and listen to the night—the palm trees rustling their lonely fronds at one another, the bats barking after insects, the chain creaking in the darkness. In truth it was a sacred sanctuary.

The night on which this Memoir begins, actually opens on the front porch swing. I had already completed preparations for Sunday’s sermon. Jonah and Sarah were upstairs asleep. Jana took my hand. She snuggled up and nipped me lightly on the lip.

Ow!

That doesn’t hurt, she murmured.

I bent to kiss her precious hairline and then nervously turned away. A three-quarter moon shone off the two palm trees in our front yard. Down the block the old city water tower rose from the earth and touched the night sky with its odd glass helmet. Its light shone dimly. An owl leapt from the wooden railing and screeched at the world and suddenly tears caught in my throat.

Let’s make love, Jana sighed. And I, glad to have a diversion from the lump in my throat, closed the big oak doors, picked her up and stepped to the Persian rug, let her down slowly, gently. She pulled me to her and whispered insistently in my ear, Jon, God has been so good to us.

And we made marvelous love there beneath the whir of crickets and the tree frogs singing and the soft clacking of the ceiling fan. It was hot and muggy, with the rainy season still to come in late August—even those clouds which passed overhead refused to grace us with cooling rain. At the end, Jana fell to my chest, her wet hair clinging like delicate tendrils to her flushed face. She lifted slightly, leaned her forehead on my heart, and dug her nails into my shoulders.

God, she said, through dry, parted lips. God, how I love you, Jon.

We lay there for long moments. Languorous swirls of night air from the ceiling fan settled about our bodies, expanding the moment outwards into a rippling, deepening circle of silence. I clung to my wife, the perspiration of our love binding us together as though one solitary spiritual being. Jana mewed, and my arms fell to the rug; the gripping vice of my legs eased.

Then, with Jana still stretched out on top of me, inexplicably the tears I had earlier managed to suppress seeped out again and I began to cry. My head rolled side to side. Jana felt my trembling and reached to hold me. She pressed her face to mine, and kissed my cheek, tasting the warm salt water droplets, and sat up.

Jonnie, I hope these are joyful tears, but maybe something else is going on? Jana asked tentatively.

I found no words. All I could do was shake my head and search through my tears beyond Jana to the darkened pine ceiling. Then with slender fingers she held my face so that I was forced to face her. But even then, I couldn’t speak. I pinched my eyes shut.

Jon, she implored, where are you? Baby, don’t go away.

I’m here, I’m here.

Jana dropped her head with a soft cry. What is it, Sweetie? You never cry like this.

I wrenched myself free and stood unsteadily, leaving her there alone with her face lodged on the carpet. I leaned against the window-sill with my hands and looked out into the front yard at the glistening palm trees, now almost motionless.

Is it me? she asked, not looking up.

After a moment, I replied, Jana, how could it ever be you? But even your question tells me you don’t—you couldn’t really understand. It’s so complex and so deep spiritually I’m not even sure that I grasp it.

She sat up. Well, excuse me, Jon, she fairly hissed. So ‘complex,’ too ‘deep spiritually’ for little ol’ me to understand. You’ve always said how much you respect my intellect and insightfulness. What is going on with you?

Okay, I said almost angrily. Here. I believe that God is leading me to a more holy life. I’m just recently beginning to discern the real meaning of this call, and so far it just frightens me.

Well, strange as that sounds, it doesn’t frighten me one bit. In fact—

Maybe it should, Sweetie.

So we talk about it, she quickly replied. We talk about everything. Pray together, get some Christian counselling. And she found my foot and clasped my ankle. She was laid out on the rug now, so I gazed at her back twisted angularly in the darkness. At this and subsequent times I felt such sadness, such prodigious sorrow for the potential estrangement, that I thought my heart might shatter and I would fall to the tiles like a doll.

How could she fathom my growing grief, when our years together had been so immeasurably blessed? How could I explain that I loved only her, that she was my wife, the love of my life? It was just that her light—our earthly love—had begun to falter, to dim. And yet, only in comparison to the light my Savior was beginning to reveal.

It was not that she or our marriage were at fault, or evil. It was more that, in comparison to the GOOD of God, the light and goodness of our love was simply less. Different, yes, but still somehow less. While Jana was the finest wife a man could hope for, and our marriage the best conceivable, Jesus’s love was of another realm altogether. And I was beginning to feel desperately unsettled, adrift, alone, no longer really at home in the world.

Jana, I begged her, come, stand with me.

She stood and nuzzled into my body like a little girl. Oh, Father, I moaned.

Jana lifted and bit the skin over my collar bone and licked the trace of blood. I winced, Yow! Jana, that hurts.

I meant it to, she replied coolly.

Sweetie, you can’t blame me for what the Lord is doing.

Oh, I might, she said confidently. Especially if this journey of yours doesn’t include me, if I’m left behind without the husband I know.

Jana circled my waist with her arms, rested her head against my chest, beneath my chin. I’m coming with you, Jon.

Oh, Lord Jesus, I groaned, craning my neck to glance at the shadowy light of the water tower. Jesus, help me please.

2

Journal

June 1987—The Plantation

Forgive me for waiting this entire week before writing again. But I wasn’t prepared for that first scene with Jana. The close, clinging night, our wondrous time of love, the sweet sharp scent of the pine ceiling, our troubling words, my tears—it was all too much!

My heart almost burst. I lay awake all the night. Next morning Natalia peered anxiously at my swollen eyes. I spent much of the week resting in prayer. Only yesterday did she coax me outside to the garden for a spell of badly needed sunshine.

It must have helped. For I am back at it now and feeling a bit better already. Besides, I can’t withdraw, for we have a covenant, gentle Reader, and I honestly welcome the voyage. That Jesus is with me I have no doubt.

So let us continue. And now I think it would help to introduce you to Stephen. At the time of our story he was my best friend who was constantly struggling with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). Still Stephen was the best friend I’d ever had. And he wasn’t even a Christian.

He was a gentle bear of a man—earthy, exuberant, even a bit profane—whom I had met earlier in Vietnam. And this serendipitous meeting was the beginning of a grand twenty-year friendship.

Memoir

Spring, 1967—Dongha/KheSahn, Vietnam

It was early April. KheSahn, the firebase just inside the Laotian border, was under assault, with the lone supply road controlled by the Communists. As a junior officer with my Army artillery battalion, I was flying from Dongha to KheSahn as a forward observer for our 175mm guns back on the hill at Camp Carroll.

Once airborne our Chinook climbed perpendicular from the Landing Zone to about 150 meters and then shot west on a path parallel to the Demilitarized Zone. I pulled my duffel between my legs. Some of the other men were already dozing—a bunch of Marines, five or six South Vietnamese Regulars, two LRRP’s, a few other Army guys. Across from me a chunky, bearded Marine lieutenant fingered something attached to his webbed belt, dark purple or black like beef jerky. He caught me looking, bounced his bushy eyebrows, then folded his dark hairy arms.

Ever seen one of these? he inquired.

What?

Nothin’. he shrugged. Don’t mean nothin’. And he leaned back and closed his eyes. But after just a few moments he sat up again and said, You pop cherries, now, don’t you. This was a statement rather than a question, directed at my Artillery insignia.

Yeah, I said. 175 guns.

Cool.

We passed Camp Carroll, took a left at the Rockpile, saw the bunkers and remnants of LZ Stud, and then picked up the river issuing from the mountains.

The mist blanketing the river valley itself opened briefly. Suddenly the Chinook shuddered and we accelerated into a sweeping right-hand curve. The river was calling us west into the mountains so we rose higher, banking and turning, watching the water below nestle into the rich valley.

In ten-minutes we came soaring out of the valley to see KheSahn shining out of the mist a few long clicks down and to our left. We came at top speed from the northwest, careening through a corridor in the mountains. Now 1,000 meters ahead the LZ glittered in the blistering sun. The intercom rasped and the side door gunner cupped his hands, Goin’ in, boys. Have a nice day. I clutched the webbing, others grabbed the safety line, the pilot cut power and we faltered.

Now the Marine lieutenant grinned with his enormous white teeth; he shook a chunky fist over his head and shouted at the bulkhead, God save the Queen!

"What is that supposed to mean?" I asked quizzically.

He tilted his head at a funny angle, furrowed his lips, and said, Got me.

Then we were plunging towards the strip, the rotors idled just enough to keep us on course. At fifty meters the pilot increased power and we swept now forward and down, at last running horizontal only inches above the steel mesh.

The rear tipped, we slowed, the gate fell open.

Go! Go! Go!

We jumped, two, three at a time, stumbling and falling as the Chinook was bounding along in slow, looping movements like a frightened deer. Catching my balance, I pressed my helmet tightly and ran for a hole in a bunker marked by a dark plank with yellow lettering—Operations. Shells whined overhead and fell randomly about the firebase. A small round landed with a dull crack on a bunker to my right. A Chinese rocket exploded twenty meters to my left, popping shrapnel through the air and slicing into my duffel. The concussion knocked me on my side, fear tore the breath from my throat. I clung to the ground but then, in a wild fury, regained my footing to race for the hole only to trip over a downed commo wire.

Again I gathered myself and, with a groan, started to rise but felt a ferocious weight pinning me to the dust. Stay down, Cherry. This is not, I say again, not the Fourth of July!

Under this protective presence, I relaxed slightly and spit the caked dirt from my mouth. Then the shelling paused and I was hoisted by my flak jacket and shoved rudely towards the bunker. I hit the first narrow step and stumbled into the dank darkness.

Once inside I leaned against a bunch of sandbags, looking for my bearings in the sallow light. As the Marine crashed down the steps, in exhaustion I slouched my butt against the slanted plywood wall. But my eyes were adjusting quickly, and I saw a brighter light coming from the Operations room down the hall. The Marine lieutenant had shed his flak jacket, M16 and duffel roughly in the corner; he flipped his helmet on top of the pile. Wildly he ran his fingers through a shock of black curly hair. Mother! he snorted. Then, leaning down to peer at me in the shadows, he asked, Hey, Cherry, you okay?

I nodded, inhaled deeply and replied, Yeah.

A few more meters and that rocket would have sliced you into sushi, he chuckled. Don’t mean nothin’, though. You did fine, stud muffin.

He fell back on his haunches against the opposite sandbagged wall, and tossed his head to and fro with a rough rolling, laughter. As for me, I simply stared, collecting my breath.

Give it up, man, he wheezed. You made it, we’re both alive. Praise God and all His angels and saints and mothers’ sons.

I sat up, astonished. You’re a Christian?

Jesus. he lowered his head and laughed.

Then, looking up at me from beneath his dancing eyebrows, he said, We’ve got chaplains, huh? They’re holy for the rest of us. And he jumped to his feet, stood to punch the plywood over his head with his meaty fist, stepped to me and thrust out the same hand, now with muddy blood on his knuckles. Stephen Crawford. And you, my friend, you owe me a beer.

3

Journal

July 1987—The Plantation

Let me say that despite attempting modesty with this Memoir, it seems, due to my moodiness this week, that Natalia has discerned something special is afoot. So, this morning after helping me from bed into my wheelchair, she bent tenderly to tuck the dark heather spread beneath my night clothes. She stroked my knee, humming a little something. Then she rolled me to the wide garden window. Sunshine good for you, no?

I nodded, smiling, and heard the curtains stir on each side of the sliding glass doors. On my tray today, Natalia prepared something different. Normally I have a simple breakfast, like yogurt with bran and a cup of green tea. But today she had set out a bowl of bran with wheat germ, soy milk and dark strawberries, fresh orange juice, hot comfrey with honey in a wide-bottomed cup—all accented with an intricate lace napkin enclosing the silver utensils.

But then, to slightly dampen the day, she spilled some of the soy milk on my pajamas. I said it was nothing, only a few drops, and today was wash day anyway. But Natalia was distraught. I knew instantly that if her guilt was not relieved it would take twenty Hail Mary’s, aspirin and a full night’s sleep for the cloud to lift from her soul. She was indeed a nervous, terribly devout Catholic who carried that baggage around as part of her very being.

I remember early in our marriage, when Jana was nursing first Sarah and then Jonah, that she would suckle me like a child. How we would hoot when a willful droplet found its way to her navel. There was no sin in this, simply another way of celebrating our love.

But Natalia saw today’s milk as milk, a wet sign of her frailty which God could not help record in his eternal log. She bustled about with a damp cloth napkin.

Stop, Natalia, it’s nothing.

It comes out with this napkin, please.

It’s fine, really, I insisted.

No, no. And she dabbed at the small spot.

I rested my head on the smooth leather top of my wheelchair. My eyes closed. I inhaled slowly, deeply as Natalia completed her ministrations. Then I raised my head and gently took her hand. Natalia, listen to me. God loves you. And I love you, I do. There’s no need to feel ashamed or guilty, truly. It was a silly accident.

Natalia looked at me tentatively. Then her eyes rolled heavenward, and with a curtsy she clutched my good hand and said rapidly, Thank you Reverend Bark, muchas gracias. I squeezed her hand firmly, and after a moment’s hesitation she curtsied again, reached to pat my knee and scurried from the room.

Once she had left, I adjusted my blanket and turned to gaze out at the garden. The three pine trees shimmered with great dewy spider webs. At the bird bath, where a squirrel was washing its tiny paws, the coleus and periwinkles encircled its base like a Spanish skirt. Over in the southwest corner our tomato plants braced beneath the sun. For three years now the tomatoes, plus leaf lettuce and snow peas, were the only ones to survive in the bitter South Miami soil. Again the carrots have sprouted only half-way—in the night someone nibbled at the bushy green florets.

Natalia is so unlike Jana. But then she is Cuban and so unlike any other woman I have known. Tutored as a girl to insolent grandeur, in her new country almost overnight she succumbed to servitude, domesticated to the life of the poor. Her skin, though worn, is smooth and tawny. At mid-life her hair is tired—were it nattier, the old term Negro might easily apply.

But like Jana, Natalia is truly a gift from God. Prior to her arrival I had been buffeted by a parade of inept, heartless and slothful attendants. Then out of nowhere Natalia appeared, and she has cared for me with saintly charity for the past six years. Ironically, it is my vile affliction that has helped support and care for her and the family of five children—see how God’s economy works!

And with like economy, perhaps we should move right along to the next chapter of our Memoir. Besides, I think this little update on my situation here with Natalia has been helpful. So, let us forge ahead!

Memoir

April 1974—Segovia Baptist Church

Doc Chisolm had pushed by my secretary, Rosemary, and now stood before me in my study. My eyes twitched as the sun bounced off his shiny comb-over coif. Beady eyes surveyed my office. The $95 tie blared that this was a man to be reckoned with. A fulsome belly draped over his wide yellow belt. $285 crocodile-skin boots completed the ensemble.

Jonnie! Doc yelped, positing his hands on the front of my desk. What’s up, my friend?

You charge into my office like you own the place? What’s up with you, my friendly friend?

And Doc plopped down in one of the chairs reserved for parishioners. His slacks spun a little squeak as he adjusted his bulky self. He started to rest his boots up onto my desk, but I glared quickly and he desisted. Instead, he sat there stolidly and simply smiled. Good news, Buddy. Well, bad news first. You know that terrific property on Kendall Drive we were considering as a new church location?

Oh no, I demurred.

Yep. The county’s bought it for some new-fangled rehab center, so we’re SOL. You know, on our own again.

That’s not so good, I said. We both know that Segovia needs to expand, we’re busting at the seams. And we’ve no extra space here. So what’s plan B?

Doc beamed. And that’s where Chisolm Trail arrives on the scene. You betcha! There’s a new listing for some tremendous property way down on Old Cutler. Forty acres of land that used to be a plantation for mangos, bananas and alligators. Haw! Alligators! Anyway, Chisolm is thinking of buying the parcel for a multi-use project—

And what does this have to do with Segovia? ‘Way down on Old Cutler’ means we would have to move away from our parishioners’ home base.

Jon, slow down! Who said anything about moving the whole kit-and-kaboodle down there? No can do. You’re right about losing people. That’s not what I’m planning anyway.

Again, I demurred. You?

Pastor. Doc seemed hurt. Looka here. I’ll build luxury homes for them rich Cubans on twenty acres, and then—get this, Jon—reserve twenty for a new retreat center for Segovia. How’s them apples?

I lifted my eyebrows and leaned back in my