Root of All Evil

By the pricking of my thumbs,

Something wicked this way comes.

Macbeth Act IV, Scene I --William Shakespeare

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The hackles on my neck flared as a thousand tiny chilled insect feet crawled the length of my spine.

I had just experienced a fright -- but from what? There's nothing here.

I shivered at the sense that something wicked was approaching my door. I rationalized away my intuitive foreboding. That odd feeling just now was merely an evening chill, I said to convince myself. It was embarrassing for an educated professional such as myself, to think I could sense a wicked presence in an empty room. My fear was a silly reaction; funny how the mind works, playing spooky tricks even on thoroughly rational people. Of course I was safe. Why wouldn't I be?

When I am working alone, I always keep the door to the church office locked. It's a necessary precaution unfortunately. One should exercise prudence; anything could go awry when I'm in the building by myself. Anything from members of the congregation dropping by to talk my ear off; down-and-out drifters, often with demands, seeking financial help; or the remote possibility of personal harm. I shook off my eerie intuition, returning to the committee meeting agenda I was putting together.

My initial sense of foreboding returned with a rush. Startled by the slow opening of my office door, I threw a panicked glance across the room. The heavy sense of her unexpected presence, which preceded her, was creepy. I forced myself to muffle a scream as I felt her lurking outside my door. I sensed a dark, shattered spiritual condition loom over me even before I saw her peer through the widening crack between door and doorframe.

Her eyes appeared large and distorted, set behind thick glasses with round, dark frames. Her magnified eyeballs slashed through the space between us, darting about the room, sizing things up before seizing on me, sitting trapped behind my desk with a real sense of terror. With skittery caution she wedged her head beyond the door, sticking her neck into my office. "I have to tell a holy person something. Are you a holy person?"

I was not prepared for this visitor or her question. I stammered, "Well, I am the pastor at this church." I was relieved to discover that the startling presence I'd felt lurking on the other side of my door turned out to be a woman with a question. I was ashamed that I had been so frightened by her presence. Never-the-less, there was something about her that made the hairs on my neck rise as she stared at me from the partially opened door, a door that I wished to high heaven that I had double checked to make sure it was locked. I had intended to take that precaution - too late now.

She hunched in, gripped the exterior doorknob with both hands as she thrust her neck and shoulders further into my space, squinting while she looked me over. "You don't look like a holy person," my intruder said with a dismissive tone. "But I came here 'cause I heard this church had a lady priest. I can't talk to a man priest. A lady priest can better understand what I am going to tell you."

I had no desire to hear her story. Caught by surprise by my late afternoon visitor, I was at a loss as to how to dismiss her. Even if I'd had my wits about me, I doubt I could have gotten rid of her, she seemed determined to seek me out and drop some burden of hers in my lap; whether I looked the part of a holy person or not.

"I am not a priest. My title is ordained minister. If you need a priest, I can direct you toward our Roman Catholic brothers, or if you need a Protestant priest, there's an Episcopal church I can put you in touch with; you'll find a top-notch priest there." Throwing out the technical distinction between denominational clerical offices was the best I could do to deflect this woman under the circumstances. I knew it was a futile attempt to get her to leave as soon as I finished my sentence.

She slipped around the half open door, shutting it softly behind her and locking it before she moved on quick, tiny steps to seat herself in the chair in front of my desk. "I need a lady priest," she offered in a low mumble. "I don't care if you don't look holy. God knows who's holy in His sight. God knows what I've done. God will surely damn me for this, He knows all the evil I've done. I need a holy person to help me, to protect me. God has abandoned me because of my sins and now I'm vulnerable and in danger from dark forces. They're coming through the veil into this world to steal my eternal soul on All Hallows Eve. I need holy protection -- if you have the holy power to do that. I feel a lady priest is my best chance. That's why I came here."

This woman was not here with the typical request for help with rent and utilities from the church. No, she was here for serious spiritual counsel. I came back around to my first impression of a shattered spiritual condition emanating from this woman. I had a committee meeting to prepare for, so I offered the pesky intruder my best standard diversion; "How about we set up an appointment for us to meet at a convenient time? That way I can devote my full attention to your questions and concerns. When you come back for your appointment, just ask for Pastor Dinah. I invite you to name a date and time and I'll check my calendar, that way I'll be sure I have the fullest opportunity to do what I can for you. Until then, I'll keep you in my prayers. Let me walk you to the door."

I stood to escort her out of the building and this time I intended to lock the door behind her. My visitor threw slashing glances around the room, making me uneasy. I took a step to show her out. She bolted from her seat, landing on her feet and poked a finger onto the local newspaper folded at the edge of my desk.

"There! Right there. That's me." She jabbed at the photo below the front page fold. "I'm Leah. That's my picture after I won." She placed an open palm on the photo covering it up, then dropping her head as if in shame. "Now that my picture is in the paper, everyone will see what bad, bad things I have done." I saw her shoulders shake as she silently sobbed before raising her eyes to freeze me in my tracks.

I gently nudged her hand off the paper and read the caption under the photo. "Well Leah, it seems to me congratulations are in order; looks like you won in two categories, 'Largest Pumpkin' and 'Most Unusual Gourd.'" I smiled, "You know, I always wanted to win a gardening prize at the Halloween Fall Festival or the County Fair; but I'm not much of a gardener. When you come back for our appointment, you'll have to tell me your secret to a winning garden."

"Yes!" she hissed. "That's why I had to find you this afternoon. God knows my terrible secret and what I've done. I grow bad things, evil things in my garden. That is my secret. It's a dark secret. I cultivate evil from the earth. Oh, help me. They're coming for my soul. Please help me." Leah finished her plea with a wilting sob as she deflated back into the chair.

I was feeling my chance to rid myself of Leah slipping away with her strange confession, a confession that I wasn't sure how to deal with. I didn't want to get involved in her story, certainly not at this moment. I thought a little humor might settle her down and ease her out the door. "Leah, if you're talking about growing zucchini squash, I am in absolute agreement with you. My mom grew zucchini in her garden and then made us eat the infernal things, year after year they grew larger and more plentiful. Zucchini, it's my definition of pure evil." I chuckled at my little joke expecting that it would disarm the fear I saw in the eyes of my unwanted guest. I continued, "You know, I had to leave home to get out from under the Zucchini curse. Well actually, I left mostly to attend college and seminary. But I was glad to never see one of those bitter green monstrosities on my dinner plate ever again." I again smiled at my own clever parry of Leah's weird confession of cultivating evil in her award-winning garden. My humor did nothing to soothe the fearful look I saw in Leah's features; she had the shifting-eyed look of a trapped animal

Leah balled her fists and placed them on her thighs. Folding her shoulders inward while staring at her shoes she asked in a quiet voice, "Can God receive my soul if I kill myself? I need to know that. Please help me Pastor Dinah. If you're a holy person, maybe you can save my soul."

A chill sunk to my bones at her words. I had a duty as a pastor to offer her comfort and assurance of God's grace. After her words, I was not going to turn her and her ravaged soul out. I had a list of excellent community resources that could help a troubled soul like Leah. I would listen and offer recommendations for professional mental health counseling after our conversation. I backed into my chair, took a pastoral posture as I looked into her downcast eyes. "It's alright Leah. We are in the presence of a God of love. God is full of mercy. I'll help you bring your concerns to our forgiving Lord; He is quick to offer forgiveness of our sins." My assurance and my seminary endorsed authority usually carried the day for any penitent who sought me out. Not this time.

"No! No!" she shrieked, pinning me back in my chair. "You don't know! Your churchy words just show what you don't know or understand. If the veil that separates our world of the living from that dark realm of demons and vengeful ghosts is torn open, I'll be snatched away and my soul eternally tormented. Pastor Dinah they're coming to find me on All Hallows Eve. I'm in eternal peril if they're able to pass through the veil on All Hallows Eve. I know this haunting comes at this time of year, a time the ancient Celts named Samhain. I'm doomed unless your holy power can save me from their ghosts."

I didn't want to argue pagan holidays, nor the non-reality of demons and vengeful ghosts with my evening visitor; but I did want to calm her and assure her until she could get some mental counseling services. I began to offer assurances to Leah, "You are safe here in the presence of..."

"No! You don't believe!" She hissed as she thrust her head and shoulders across the desk. "I can't tell if you are holy or not. I doubt you or any priest in these parts knows the wicked strength of evil under heaven. The shadow world is real and filled with the restless souls of the dead. The shadow realm draws close to our world of life and light this time of year. You are blind, you and the rest. If any priest can bear to hear my story, it needs to be a woman. Women are stronger than men in these matters. For me, you'll have to do; whether you look holy or not. You're my best chance. I have fucked the devil and born his wicked seed."

Leah was frightening me. I wished there was a strong wire mesh between us for my safety. Leah might be deranged. I made eye contact and counseled her that I was strong and ready for her story. I silently asked God to forgive me for that lie, as I did not feel strong. I composed myself, leaning in with the body language to show I was interested in her and her tale. I projected a non-anxious and holy presence to the best of my ability. "Leah, I am ready to listen to you. Please tell me your story so that I may offer you the forgiveness and healing you seek through our Lord Jesus."

***

For the love of money is the root of all kinds of evil.

The First Book of Timothy Chapter 6 Verse 10. The Apostle Paul

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The Apostle Paul warns that the love of money is at the root of evil. Perhaps Paul knows more than I do. Who can say?

If I were to quibble with the source of evil as written in Holy Scripture, would God strike me as a blasphemer? I think not. Not after what I heard confessed to my own ears; one of the eeriest, most unbelievable tales of evil to ever be spoken of in hushed breaths. Evil springs from many kinds of seeds, not just the love of money. If the inclination toward evil, which is planted in all of us, finds fertile soil in our souls through our jealousies and wounding disappointments, it will grow and ripen into a toxic and evil fruit. It is the devil's own harvest.

I was once confident as an ordained Presbyterian Minister of the Word and Sacrament that there was no personified evil, no real devil; all those beliefs could be explained by our modern understanding of psychoses, unbalanced brain chemistry or even diagnosable physical ailments. But after hearing Leah's story of growing evil in her garden and wickedness that followed, I've come to doubt what I thought I knew of this world and the root of evil. My prayers are now more fervent as I have come to fear that our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the powers, against the world forces of this darkness, against the spiritual forces of wickedness in the heavenly places.

I spoke soft words to Leah, asking her to speak from her heart. My pastoral demeanor allowed her to dial back the intensity. She again clenched her fists into bulbs, pressing them as if she were going to force them into the wood at the edge of my desk. She peered at me through her heavy glasses in silence for an uncomfortable span of time. She squinted and drew a breath as I waited to hear her tale of a dark evil sprouting from her garden. I had no idea what to expect from Leah as she began to tell her story in a rasping whisper.

***

Pastor Dinah, I just wanted to be loved.

I never planned to be an evil person. I just wanted to be loved, admired, appreciated for what I had to offer. You're a woman Pastor Dinah, you understand what I'm saying.

I fear God will have to destroy my soul since it has been stained so dark by evil. I invited something into my life that turned out to be evil. I only did it because I was denied the love I deserved. The shadow of evil grew slow, so slow that I never realized that I'd turn my soul over to dark powers. The dark magic and the control I found in it filled a hole in my life. We women are cursed by the deep desire to be appreciated and loved above all else, you understand this Pastor Dinah, I know you do.

I wish I was beautiful. If I was beautiful like my younger sister Rachel, I don't think any of this darkness would have overpowered me. If God had answered my prayers and made me pretty, I wouldn't be wearing ugly glasses and looking like a plain dirt woman. If God hadn't made me ugly, I could have kept Jake as my husband. I would have loved Jake and he would have loved me because I would have made him happy. God knows I wanted to make Jake happy and I prayed to God that I could keep Jake. But God made me ugly and God made Rachel beautiful. Rachel took Jake and my happiness away. I had to fill the hole that Rachel left inside me when she took Jake out of our bed and into her bed. I filled that hole that was left in my heart and in my bed with bad things. Dark and evil things.

Jake arrived in town in his junior year. His mom moved her boys and her blind and disabled husband back to the area to be close to her people. Jake needed a job more than most kids since his mom could use the extra money Jake brought home. Jake was a clever kid, a good talker with a quick mind.

Dad hired Jake to stock our family's office supply store. Jake's first day on the job, he showed up to find Rachel unloading heavy stock from the delivery truck. Jake made Rachel go inside the store like a princess, telling her to not lift a finger. He carried all of the heavy stuff inside and put it where Rachel told him while Rachel watched him work.

Dad soon grew to appreciate him. Later dad would say, "Jake's a natural born salesman. He's good for business on the floor with the customers and he has a knack with the bookkeeping too. The boy is good at sales along with the accounts. He's as good as anyone. Remarkable for a high school kid. I sure like that kid."

Rachel liked Jake too. I could tell by the way Rachel talked that first night that she was smitten with dad's new hire. I was a year older than Jake, a senior, and almost three years older than Rachel. I never had a real boyfriend and I could tell Rachel was setting herself up to snag Jake as her boyfriend. Rachel had the looks and was a natural with her feminine wiles, always flirting with the boys. I was hurt that my little sister had already gotten her claws into him before I even had a chance. I was older, I deserved a chance.

I was quiet, studious and smarter than Rachel. I'd be a good match for an ambitious man like Jake - if I got the chance. I saw that Rachel was stealing my chance for love from me.

Jake was a regular at our supper table and hung around a lot, obviously because of Rachel. I made the effort to be attractive and complimentary to Jake in my own mild, awkward flirty way when he was visiting, but with my glasses and plain appearance, I couldn't compete with my little sister.

I graduated a year ahead of Jake, but I stuck around town working in Tillinghast's plant nursery, still living at home. I had two green thumbs; I could make everything thrive and bloom at the plant nursery where I worked. I wasn't sure if I wanted to go to college or what I wanted to do with my life. I wished I had a boyfriend. I wished that Jake would notice me and make me his girlfriend. I knew I could make Jake very happy.

Jake enlisted in the air force after graduating from high school. He didn't have to report for duty until September, so he worked at the family store and hung out at our house that summer, killing time before he left for the military. The day after his nineteenth birthday, his friends took him out to party. I wasn't expecting to see him since Rachel and my parents were out of town for my cousin's graduation party. They'd all be back tomorrow.

I was home alone when his car hopped the curb and knocked over our mailbox. I heard the crash and went outside to see what had happened. Jake was trying to straighten up what his car had knocked over. He was doing a poor job at it since he couldn't even stand straight himself.

Jake dropped the splintered mailbox post before spinning to the curb where he retched into the gutter, splattering his jeans in the process with his drunken aim. Wiping the puke from his lips with his t-shirt, he slurred, "I can't go home. I can't let mom find out."

I left Jake genuflecting before the furies in his head as the late evening lawn spun before his bloodshot eyes. I turned off his car's headlights and backed it off the grass, bringing it alongside the curb, parking it away from the pile of puke. I helped Jake to his feet, escorting him into the house. I saw my chance. I just wanted to be loved. That's all I wanted.

Somehow a little plan just popped into my head. I believed it was God's answer to my prayers. But now I don't know if it was God or the devil giving me those thoughts.

I didn't think I was planning an evil thing.

I only felt that I deserved to be loved like any girl. Like Rachel.

I led the way as Jake leaned into the wall as we descended the staircase. I braced against his body, supporting him as he wobbled his way step by step into the basement. I loved the chance to press tight into Jake's body and feel his weight against my chest. I loved that he needed me in his time of crisis. I was so good for him. I knew this was my chance to show him that I would be the ideal girl for him.

At the bottom of the stairs Jake struggled to form his question, "Why... why we going down to here? Why in the basement?" Safely reaching the bottom step, Jake leaned heavy against the concrete wall, gallantly trying to keep it from falling on top of us.

I ran my fingers over his chest as I pressed to stabilize him, caring deeply for him. "Jake, you are going to need a dark room to sleep this off before you go home to your mom. The basement guest room is better since it is darker than the upstairs. It's the best place for a guy in your condition."