The Warrior...Part 3

Part 1 - Upon the Rock

Part 2 - In the Upper Room

Part 3 - The Lord of Hosts

It was a seedy part of town, but Dillon had to go there. 

He had been watching television in his apartment when the undeniable calling came to him.  It was more of a compulsion than anything.  He got off the couch, grabbed a jacket and was out the door before he had given any thought to where he was going.  The train station was less than a quarter of a mile away, so he headed that way, hoping that some clarity of purpose would strike before he got there.

Climbing the stairs to the elevated tramway, he passed through a turnstile and boarded the train heading downtown.  With the exception of Dillon and a middle-aged Hispanic woman wearing hospital scrubs, the train was empty.  No one took the train downtown in the middle of the night and Dillon had a few ideas about the rationale behind that trend.

The rhythmic rattle of the train on its track, combined with a gentle, lateral rocking motion, made him feel drowsy.  Starbursts appeared around the streetlights as they flew past and Dillon realized that, at this hour, he might have boarded the last train of the evening.  He was going to arrive downtown with nothing but a light jacket and no way to get home.  He entertained the notion that he might have made a grave tactical error and went over a short list of people he could call to come pick him up.  It would be Mark, of course, “And serves him right for laughing at me yesterday,” Dillon muttered.

The train came to a stop and the woman at the back of the train stepped off.  Dillon reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone.  Mark’s number was on his speed-dial.  In a moment he heard Mark’s bleary voice, “Dude, this had better be good.”

“Sorry to wake you up, man, but I’m on a train heading downtown and there’s no way for me to get back home.”  There was a moment of silence.

“No, it’s Dillon, I gotta go bail him outta jail,” Mark was speaking aside, that would be to Jill, his wife.  Dillon wondered how long it would take him to convince Jill that Mark had made that up but then decided it made a better story than the truth.

“Do you know where you are?”

“Just passed Washington.”

“Get off the train at the next stop.  That’ll be Jefferson.  Walk east two blocks to First Street.  Wait for me at the park on the corner.  It’ll take me a half hour to get there.”  Mark was as solid a friend as Dillon could ask for.

“Thanks, Mark.”

“And Dillon, try to not look lost and helpless.  They’ll kill and eat you.”

Dillon tried to come up with a clever retort, but all he could manage was, “I’ll do my best.”  Then he ended the call.

The station at Jefferson was radically different from the one near his apartment.  Here the stations were on the level of the street and looked for all the world like the set of a very scary movie.  The mosaic tile was cracked and missing in some places and there was graffiti scrawled on about eighty percent of the available surfaces.  He paused for a minute and tried unsuccessfully to decipher the meaning of the words he was looking at.  To someone who recognized the symbolism, he realized, this would serve as a welcome or a warning, depending on the individual’s loyalties.  To Dillon, it was just a vague, but strong indicator that he did not belong there.

He exited the station and did as Mark had instructed.  Arriving at the park, he did his best to look comfortable examining a piece of trash on the sidewalk, while suppressing the urge to look at his watch.  He spotted a bench near a bus stop and sat down, for the moment, alone.  There was a bit of breeze blowing and he wrapped his jacket a little tighter.  He slouched on the bench and fancied that in the darkness he might appear, to a casual observer, as a non-descript homeless man.

“You’re playing the part well,” a familiar voice spoke from the bench next to him, “Except for the hundred dollar shoes.”

“Caleb.”  Dillon replied, turning his head to inspect his new companion, “You look awful.”

“Got to blend into the crowd, you know.”  He adjusted the brim of his weathered hat so that Dillon could see his eyes and winked.  If he had been a middle-class joe out for a hike on Saturday, tonight he was a homeless, alcoholic getting ready to bed-down on this bench.  He offered Dillon a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag.  “This will warm you right to your toes.”

“Thanks,” Dillon smiled, “but I’ll pass.”

“Suit yourself,” and he capped the bottle and tucked it into the pocket on his threadbare coat.  “Let’s go somewhere that we can talk.”  He stood and walked toward a large church next to the park.  Dillon got up and followed.  He thought it was strange that the church would not be locked at this hour but Caleb walked right in as if it were Sunday morning and led him into a small chamber just to the left of the entrance.  A baptismal font stood in the center of the room and light from outside filtered through the antique glass made a watery pattern on the stone floor.

“This building must be a hundred years old,” Dillon commented absently.

“The cornerstone was laid in 1857,” Caleb said, “So one hundred fifty years is more accurate.  And it was brought here, stone-by-stone, from Scotland where it had been in use for two hundred years before that.”

Dillon, who had been looking around while listening to the history lesson, finally noticed that Caleb’s attention was focused on a large mural on the north wall.  The image depicted a strong king, scepter in one hand, sword in the other, leading a vast army.  They were engaged in close combat with their enemy and from the look of things, were on the verge of a decisive victory.  They had strong, noble faces and gleaming swords.  The overall impact of the mural was heroic, epic.  Dillon felt a chill run from his heels to the top of his head.  It was only after staring at the image for several minutes that he noticed a striking detail.

“They have wings,” he thought aloud.  “The army, they’re all angels?”

“It’s called ‘Lord of Hosts,’ you wouldn’t know the artist.”  Caleb paused, but his eyes were fixed on the King.  “You’ve no idea how we long for that Day.”

“In the meantime?”

“In the meantime,” he turned to Dillon, smiling, “We help get you humans ready for it.”

“Is that why you called me here?”

Caleb laughed.  “I can see why you might think that,” he nodded toward the King, “but He’s the One doing the calling.  Once you begin listening, sometimes it takes you places that you didn’t expect to go.”

Dillon stepped closer to the mural, looking intently into the King’s face.  “But why would He call me, I’m no one special.  I’m not even especially spiritual.  I wasn’t praying when I felt the urge to come here.  I was just watching TV and eating Chinese take-out like a bachelor-slob.”

“You don’t really understand what He’s done for you, yet,” Caleb replied.  It was Dillon’s turn to stare into the eyes of the King.  “What if I told you that your heart is good?”

Dillon could not frame a response.  He felt a lump growing in his throat.  How he longed to know that was true!  The question sounded hypothetical, so he remained silent. 

“What if I told you that your heart is noble?”

The face of the King was fierce and kind all at once.  Dillon marveled at it.  Could that nobility be in him as well?  His felt Hope trying to rise up inside of him.  His vision blurred as tears began to form in his eyes.  The face of the great Lord of Hosts lost its focus.

“What if I told you that you are strong?”

A single tear rolled down Dillon’s cheek, splashing on the stone by his feet.  “If I could believe that, Caleb, it would change my entire life.”

Caleb stepped up beside him and gripped his shoulder.  Dillon felt the warmth of his touch.  Caleb was real.  Together they looked upon the Lord of Hosts.  It was Caleb who finally broke the silence.  “He will help your unbelief.  I’ll see you again, I think.”  He took a step backward and then Caleb was gone again.

“Can I help you, my son?”

Dillon whirled around to face the source of the question and saw the parish priest standing there in his pajamas.

“No, I’m sorry, Father,” Dillon felt like a caught schoolboy.  He began to babble.  “I just ended up stranded downtown and my friend told me to meet him in the park and I saw the church was unlocked and I wanted to see the mural.”

“Mural?” the priest seemed truly puzzled.

“Yes,” Dillon glanced over his shoulder at the blank stone wall where He had just been looking at the King.  He contained his surprise.  This sort of thing was becoming normative for him.  “It’s called the Lord of Hosts.  I heard that it was in your baptistery.”

“Oh, that!” the priest exclaimed.  “Better check your history.  The mural hung in the baptistery before the building was moved here from Scotland.  It was destroyed in the fire that gutted the church.  That’s the reason they moved it.  My goodness, that must have been 200 years ago.”

Dillon felt suddenly cold.  “I’m terribly sorry to have disturbed you, Father,” and he began to walk toward the door.  When he reached for the handle, the door was locked.

As the priest came over with the key, Dillon caught sight of a donation box attached to the wall.  The sign on it read, “Remember the Poor.”  He pulled a fifty dollar bill from his wallet and poked it into the slot at the top of the box.

Seeing him, the priest laid a hand on his shoulder and said, “Bless you, my son.”  Dillon nodded to him and replied, “Good night, Father.”

The priest let Dillon back out into the night, where it had begun to rain.  In a few minutes, he saw Mark pull up in his truck.  He climbed in dripping and stared out at the rain.

“Sorry, man,” Mark began.  “I got here as fast as I could.”

“No worries, dude,” Dillon said, smiling.  “You’ll never believe what just happened to me.”

** Continue to Part 4 **