“Epstein Files"

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-26)

 

 

The Epstein files, a radar blip

With an unexpected, fallacy-flip

A sleight-of-hand plot twist

A flick of muscles within the wrist

A sour note of spoiled juice

An oft-told tale, ah, what’s the use?

Sides of the divide are bunkered and bruised

To look the other way, and forget this news

The ring of truth cannot be heard

Parsing partisans have the final word

They spit and polish this canine turd

The will of wonder is deterred

Redacted rightly, before release

Bringing the press to desist and cease

An act set in stone, at the least

Obfuscation is brewer’s yeast

Somewhere in the dead of night

A call went out, to put things right

Yet the noble cause slipped out-of-sight

Crushed under weight of a scammer’s delight

Stuck in a queue with others who wait

For a benevolent nod from the estate

A button-click to instigate

What most assumed was a work of fate

This pedo trash was rich and renowned

Yes, that fellow got ‘round and ‘round

With allies hidden underground

Appeals exclaimed without a sound

Now the rats run off his ship

Swimming rodents on an ocean trip

How odd to watch the video clip

And see the prince with a busted lip

Allies turn to drink and song

Wishing to escape the banging gong

But their guilt was hard and strong

We knew it well, all along

Diamonds and their gilded hair

May adorn the royals, proud and fair

But in a land where scandals snare

There is a need to be aware

Excuses linger, long and low

Justice served, both cold and slow

Kicked in the outback, to and fro

Look out friends, look out, below

Epstein died in a cell, unwatched

An ending story, badly botched

A fade to black, in deed and thought

A sentence served, covertly wrought

One-by-one, enablers fall

The siren sings a sailor’s call

Upon the rocks they smash and stall

A loss of life surrenders all

A click of handcuffs around the bone

As those in charge say, “Leave it alone!”

But the chicken’s roost lies close to home

There’s an informant on the telephone

Lies may last for a moment and more

But in the end, comes a just reward

A point of order, from the sword

A jailhouse jump, of his own accord

Did he perish, by a knot

Tied and dangling from a prisoner’s cot?

The story waits for a snoop to spot

When courage flows and fear cannot

On that day, I’ll stand and hear

This confession made to listener’s ears

No more distractions, no more tears

Make the ages wise, in arrears

“Corkscrew”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-26)

 

Something crazy

Yes, something wild

A road trip ‘cross the border

For a run down the Miracle Mile

Taking those chances that

I once might have embarked upon

With a bit more courage

A capricious run in a marathon

If only I could stand up

For long enough to take stock

Count the ticking and tocking

Of a stately old, grandfather clock

Those hands sweeping time

While I move through the mist

A journey to tomorrow

Which no one can resist

It seems simple from this vantage point

A conclusion rightly made

It meets my palate sweetly,

Like a summer drink of lemonade

Yet turns too quickly into rot

A beverage born of fiery fate

Scalding all the way down

While I cough and curse, or jump and shake

That is the price to pay

For being aware of secret truths

Like Superman, naked and numb

In the confines of a phone booth

Where did he find the proper pose?

I have to justly wonder aloud

Especially with his fictional tale

Revealing more than the plot allowed

It’s a kick, unkind and cruel

With lazy laughter, resounding

Would I have been better off

To keep my headache pounding?

Pressure points expose the flaws

Each failing oddly put to test

A scroll kept in a library nook

Behind wallpaper with a crusty crest

If I could dance the two-step

Then it might have been a breeze

To segue from one room, beyond

Without falling on my knees

But the tripping trot I did employ

Put my balance off its mark

I fell against the blackboard

A chalk-line border ‘round my heart

The shudder of this impact

Caused the whole room to quiver

It struck my tongue with the taste

Of a lesson, rudely delivered

No longer crazy

No longer so wild

Humbled and hobbled, by the result

Of an index card, mis-filed

I got lost in those skinny drawers

Never again to be found

My name went on, unspoken

A silent supplication in sound

But somewhere in that black hole

The universe gave grace

I was allowed to keep my chips

Like a gambler’s grab in haste

Whoever recalls that I was here

Is a hero I won’t deny

At the end of days, lingering still

With a warm heart on the inside

An inscription chiseled chiefly

To denote my rank and file

Is all that remains, a postage stamp

A kiss of the afterwhile

A footprint in fresh concrete

Which precipitates a mess

The trowel no longer useful

To erase this bold excess

Hardened in the nick of time

That is the way I felt

Unable, or unwilling

To revisit my younger self

That ability to choose a lane

From several on display

Is now only a wish, expired

That deal has gone away

Deaf I am to pleading pawns

I can’t hear the words they utter

My flesh and bone are supple, now

Like a dish of melted butter

My intellect, unprotected

No ransom received in trade

A last sunset falls behind the trees

With darkness, on parade

Something crazed and crazy

Something wild and worn

Closure comes at last

A graduation, true to form

Chatter, schmatter, on the line

It tingles my ear with pride

An eventual embrace of circumstance

A coming of the tide

Let the rush of water

Baptize me now, as clean

I’ve finally found the exit door

An escape from the modern scene

Warring tribes with sticks and stones

May continue to defend

But my turn of the corkscrew

Has reached its blissful end

Fishtail Redman, Chapter 30: Ministry

 

 

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-26)

 

 

Once again, Krista Pearl had been upstaged by events beyond her control. She wanted to have a semi-private conversation with her biker friend while the congregation enjoyed food and fellowship, after their regular Sunday Service. Yet the spiritual zeal of those who had attended became overwhelming. Particularly because, upon getting to know the unconventional speaker in more detail, it had become apparent that he was about to return to what had comprised much of his life, before.

 

Specifically, staying in motion, on the seat of his Harley-Davidson motorcycle.

 

Shepherd Narvel Adkins and a small number of counselors from the Exiles group were present. Though they had taken care not to draw attention to themselves. But now, they surrounded the unlikely evangelist.

 

In a rapid-fire session of queries, questions were raised about his future plans.

 

“Why leave us now? You’ve just gained respect from believers around the area! There is a great opportunity to be heard, and to carry the message to new listeners!”

 

Parker picked at a paper plate of ham, potato salad, and green bean casserole. In only a moment, he was weary of being prodded for answers.

 

“Friends, look at me. I don’t fit the bill for a preacher, not like my dad did, years ago. Neither does my outlook on the Bible. There’s always been something strange to me about how Christian teachings divide those who read the scriptures. Think about it! The Holy Word speaks to unity, to inclusion, to salvation for all who take up the way of the cross. But I had a close associate once, who was devoutly Catholic. A good-natured fellow, I liked him personally. We once got onto the subject of religion, however, and he said that those of us outside his church were wasting our time. Because we were not worshipping properly. And when I pointed out that the Lord I loved was the same Lord that he loved, my declaration caused him to cringe. As if, somehow, there were different versions of Jesus. Clones, perhaps? With only one being the original? I could not get him to admit that such a posture was ridiculous. Years later, one faithful member of a Church of Christ location pulled me aside because I had attended a Methodist service in that community. He asked, ‘Don’t you agree that all those people are going to hell?’ I was shocked and stunned, of course. Then, I pointed out that certain leaders of the Stone-Campbell Restoration Movement, which sired his non-denominational fellowship, had their roots in those other traditional orders. Barton W. Stone had been a Presbyterian minister. I wondered if that made their scholarship illegitimate? Were they stained and unworthy? If they studied the word and came to enlightenment, could not others follow the same path? Even where they were? Regardless of what name was over the front door where they attended? He had no answers. Only a smattering of dogma memorized during his youth. Which of course, was what the entire effort had been designed to change, in effect. To urge followers of Christ to indeed, be Christians only....”

 

Adkins turned pale while cradling a Styrofoam cup of coffee in his hands.

 

“Brother, that is a subject of continued debate and study. It is why in Morgantown, we call ourselves Exiles for the Almighty. Our place is not with any law of mankind, but with God and his commandments. Indeed, with the Son of God!”

 

Reverence echoed through the banquet room where they were eating.

 

“Amen! Amen! Amen! Amen!”

 

His motorcycle protégé nodded while pausing over the homemade meal.

 

“Right now, you come from a different flock. Yours is not the C of C. And I am an outlier, with no regular church at all. But what we share, what makes us one in the blood, is our love for Christ Jesus. That is what matters. Not rituals or habits or labels that make us feel safe with familiarity...”

 

Again, all the plastic forks, knives, and spoons quit moving for an instant.

 

“Amen! Amen! Amen! Amen!”

 

The shepherd from West Virginia’s university city bowed his head in reverence.

 

“You speak the raw truth. We are one in the body of Christ!”

 

Parker took out his copy of the Bible for Bikers. He began to read aloud as those who were nearby heard, and applauded.

 

Romans 8:12-17. “Therefore, brothers and sisters, we have an obligation – but is not to the flesh, to live according to it. For if you live according to the flesh, you will die; but if by the Spirit you put to death the misdeeds of the body, you will live. For those who are led by the Spirit of God are the children of God. The Spirit you received does not make you slaves, so that you live in fear again; rather, the Spirit you received brought about your adoption to sonship. And by him we cry, ‘Abba, Father.’ The Spirit himself testifies with our spirit that we are God’s children. Now if we are children, then we are heirs – heirs of God and co-heirs with Christ, if indeed we share in his sufferings in order that we may also share in his glory.”

 

His counterpart from the Exiles signified agreement.

 

“The Spirit makes us children of God. Amen.”

 

The former outlaw continued his observation.

 

“I grieve over the division among those who claim to believe in Biblical teachings. I weep for their adherence to the traditions of men. For their confusion of politics and true holiness. The word is clear, I think. Yet we stumble along the way to understanding. We become distinct tribes, that war with one another. When the path has been illuminated by God’s message. All we need to do is listen. Just listen to what the scriptures say...”

 

More acclamation sounded around the room.

 

“Amen! Amen! Amen! Amen!”

 

Parker closed his book, and pushed away from the long table.

 

“To stay here would only make it harder for others to get past these old divisions. I think that maybe, many of you aren’t quite ready to see someone like me, standing in a pulpit. But there are needs out there, lonely sinners that are yearning to hear the gospel. I can speak to them, to other wanderers like myself. To those who right now, feel very much alone and unworthy of salvation. That mission lies before me. And it is one I have rejected for a long, long time. But now, I will deny it, no more...”

 

Outside, his Shovelhead chopper glistened in the spring sunshine. He had already strapped his bedroll to the rear fender, and loaded both saddlebags. But as he came down on the kickstarter, there was a whisper of sweetness in his ear.

 

Krista Pearl had been waiting by his iron steed. She was dressed differently than usual, seemingly now ready for adventure, and the open road.

 

“I know y’all ain’t gonna stay here, Feeshtail! So I got a bargain fer ya. We’ll do this as a tag team! I need a family again, and y’all need a partner. I’m ready, boy. More ready than I’ve ever been. By God, I am finally ready! Don’t know fer what exactly, but here I go!”

 

Parker raised his eyebrows. He had not expected a last-minute appeal before departing.

 

“Hard rides are tough rides, ma’am. Lots of rain and grit, and risk-taking. Sleeping in my tent. Going hungry for days or weeks sometimes. Getting chased out of little towns that nobody ever heard of in places like yours. And some might wonder about your sanity. Or, maybe question your faith...”

 

His new cohort flipped her longish mane into a ponytail. She zipped up her leather. What awaited was uncertain, to be sure. But today, she was ready.

 

 

Fishtail Redman, Chapter 29: Confession

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-26)

 

 

The most recent Sunday morning service at Philippi’s Dadisman Road Christ Fellowship Church was better attended, thanks to a seasonal thaw. A meteorological blessing that seemed to reawaken local residents who had been huddled indoors during long weeks of winter. Also, members of the rural congregation knew that a guest speaker had been scheduled to appear. And that a church dinner was to take place, afterward.

 

Parker Redman, the unconventional, outlaw figure, would stand in their pulpit again.

 

This event was of particular interest to Krista Pearl and her relatives. She and the wandering biker had planned to rendezvous at the Mountaineer Travel Plaza, but found their connection interrupted by circumstance. So, with her cousins providing an escort, she came to participate in their weekly service. With hope of meeting her shaggy friend, afterward.

 

The order of worship was very familiar. A song leader called out numbers from a selection of sacred hymns, which included a favorite of her family. One written in 1912 by George Bennard.

 

“On a hill far away

Stood an old rugged Cross

The emblem of suff’ring and shame

And I love that old Cross

Where the dearest and best

For a world of lost sinners was slain

 

So I’ll cherish the old rugged Cross

Till my trophies at last I lay down

I will cling to the old rugged Cross

And exchange it some day for a crown.”

 

Parker felt his chest tighten while singing those words aloud. They were an enduring part of his childhood, and growth to maturity. Even when in the saddle and riding at highway speeds, on his Shovelhead chopper, he still thought of that song, sometimes. It provided an a cappella connection to the bloodline from which he came. One that he could not escape, by any means.

 

To begin his sermon, at the appropriate moment, he read a passage from the Bible for Bikers with dramatic flair.

 

Mark 16:14-20, “Later Jesus appeared to the Eleven as they were eating; he rebuked them for their lack of faith and their stubborn refusal to believe those who had seen him after he had risen. He said to them, ‘Go into all the world and preach the gospel to all creation. Whoever believes and is baptized will be saved, but whoever does not believe will be condemned. And these signs will accompany those who believe: In my name they will drive out demons; they will speak in new tongues; they will pick up snakes with their hands; and when they drink deadly poison, it will not hurt them at all; they will place their hands on sick people, and they will get well.’ After the Lord Jesus had spoken to them, he was taken up into heaven and he sat at the right hand of God. Then the disciples went out and preached everywhere, and the Lord worked with them and confirmed his word by the signs that accompanied it.”

 

Upon finishing, he offered an explanation of choosing this scripture.

 

“Friends, this is another reflection of the great commission, in Matthew 28. ‘Go into all the world!’ Think about that task, about what it entails. We like to gather in places such as this, a sanctuary where we are safe and secure. It makes us feel good to sing and pray together, with our neighbors and fellow believers. But I ask you to ponder the meaning here, the kernel of truth and wisdom given as a challenge to us. Does it say to huddle up with our advocates, and echo the same teachings, over and over, for everyone to hear? Think about the message. ‘Go into all the world!’ That’s a big job to handle. There are many places where the good news of Christ is not necessarily welcome. Not only in foreign lands, but here at home, where people do not wear fine suits and dresses, or speak with confidence as the result of a proper education. There are citizens right here in this county, who are hungry, dirty, and dejected. Maybe even abandoned and alone. Do you know any of them? Do you acknowledge their presence when they pass on the street? Do you feel their need to be fed, not just with a hot meal, but with the Holy Word of God? We do well to worship in our churches, but I remind you that the gospel needs to be heard in spots that are not pretty to behold, or pleasant, or familiar. Those people need salvation just as we do. Just as I did, when traveling from state to state in search of my own identity...”

 

He stripped off his borrowed suit jacket, to reveal strong, tattooed arms that were colorful and covered with strange designs.

 

“i needed to hear the message. Even when I didn’t want to listen. Even when I thought that God’s grace was no longer available to me. Even when I thought that my own father had turned his back on my very existence. You see, we’ve done plenty of preaching to those in the pews here. We are very good at holding our own. But there has to be more in our walk of faith. We have been called to evangelize, to spread the good news. That can happen in a forum such as this, or maybe through providing an example to someone you know. We are all, potentially, ministers of the gospel. There is no need for titles and accolades. The one title that matters is this: Christian. To have the mind of Christ, the heart of Christ, and the manner of Christ. That is the goal for which we strive. And I struggle every day, brothers and sisters. I struggle and fall short, then get up and start over again...”

 

Parker paused for a moment, to collect his thoughts. Then closed his copy of the good book.

 

“With that in mind, I have a confession to make. Some of you have asked if I might take a position here with you, as a regular clergyman. But I’ve got to tell you that this call to carry the word is ringing in my ears. I belong out there, riding the roads. With a new kind of zeal in effect, however. Not to seek fun and adventure for myself, but to glorify our Heavenly Father. He is the reason I am still alive. He is the reason I did not end up in jail somewhere, or in a casket with old friends who refused to believe. He is speaking to all of us, today. Are you listening? I ask you to consider that thought as we stand and sing...”

 

There was a rush to the center aisle. Many who were in attendance came forward, for prayers, restorations, and baptisms. A chant went up from the crowd as they began the final song, one of invitation to receive the Holy Spirit.

 

“AMEN, BROTHER REDMAN! AMEN! AMEN! AMEN!”

 

 

Fishtail Redman, Chapter 28: Thaw

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-26)

 

 

With a seasonal thaw awakening the natural beauty of West Virginia, Parker Redman felt motivated to visit Grafton again. And liberate his Shovelhead chopper from its hibernation in the hillside garage. His old yearning to be free and perpetually in motion had returned. It overwhelmed his sense of accomplishment at speaking before the revival crowd in Morgantown. And enhanced the joy he felt for being alive, and protected by the grace of a loving God.

 

Because he had rebuilt the Harley-Davidson motor, while it sat in his cousin’s repair shed, the beast came to life without much prodding. He let it idle for a couple of minutes, then closed the rollup door, secured his few possessions, and headed toward the Mountaineer Travel Plaza. At such an early time in the afternoon, he reckoned on seeing Krista Pearl at her workplace, and possibly sharing a break outside. The weather cooperated perfectly for this jaunt over open roads between his erstwhile hideout, and the intended destination. But upon reaching the parking lot, he discovered that an unanticipated roadblock was present. Reverend J. Fortrell Hageschutte had gathered a small group from his Taylor County Nazarene Worship Center, to publicly lobby for Christ among truckers and travelers who passed through the convenience depot. A goal that seemed very admirable.

 

Parker chose a distant spot in the parking area. One in a far corner, by a stand of trees. He did not want to be a nuisance, or hinder the effort to evangelize patrons and generate goodwill for the church. But the exhaust rattle of his V-twin hoss was unmistakable, even against loud bursts of diesel clatter from big-rigs on the move. Before long, many attentive eyes had turned in his direction. Fingers were pointed, and heads bobbed with indignation. Then, a delegation began to march toward his secluded space.

 

The notable clergyman called out even before finishing this short walk. He appeared to be somewhat irritated at being upstaged during his own event.

 

“You there! I remember your visit to our Sunday service, some time ago. Parishioners from my flock say that you spoke at a faith rally in Morgantown, recently. Is that correct? It doesn’t seem possible!”

 

The shaggy biker nodded to affirm this juicy tidbit of gossip.

 

“Yes, that’s right. I got an unexpected invite from Exiles for the Almighty to participate...”

 

Hageschutte huffed phlegm and coughed wildly.

 

“EXILES? I’VE HEARD OF THOSE PEOPLE! THEY REJECT ANY DENOMINATIONAL AUTHORITY, OR OFFICIAL HIERARCHY! HOW DOES A BUNCH LIKE THAT KEEP ORDER? IT SEEMS UNNATURAL TO ME! SUCH A GROUP MUST BE TOUGH TO LEAD!”

 

Parker shrugged, while stripping off his leather jacket.

 

“I don’t know much about their history, brother. But the premise is familiar. I grew up in a fellowship with a similar philosophy. The old-line, Church of Christ. They wanted to ‘speak where the Bible speaks, and be silent where the Bible is silent.’ I think that is a worthwhile approach...”

 

The reverend had reddened visibly. He shook his right fist toward the horizon.

 

“I AM NOT YOUR BROTHER, SIR! YOU ARE FILTHY, COVERED WITH INK, GREASE, AND MOTOR OIL! AND REEK OF GASOLINE AND GRIT! TO THINK OF YOU AT A TENT REVIVAL IS QUITE UNBELIEVABLE, REALLY. PREACHING TO GOD’S PEOPLE? FROM THE HOLY WORD? I CAN’T IMAGINE SUCH A DISGUSTING SPECTACLE! SOMEONE LIKE YOU DID NOT DESERVE TO BE IN THAT POSITION! YOU DID NOT EARN IT! YOU HAVE NOT LIVED A LIFE FIT TO BE PUT UP AS AN EXAMPLE TO THE FAITHFUL! YOU ARE SOILED AND STAINED! SOMEONE LIKE YOU CANNOT SERVE AS A WITNESS FOR THE LORD!”

 

The recovering misanthrope did not disagree with this description. Instead, he sought to confirm what had been said.

 

“You nearly hit the bullseye there. Everything you said was true. Except for your final conclusion...”

 

Hageschutte was confused.

 

“You admit your guilt? Out here in the open, you admit your unworthiness? Doesn’t that make a mockery of your silly attempts to preach the gospel? And what do you mean, I struck close to the target’s center? What do you mean by pretending to follow these sacred traditions?’

 

Parker took out his copy of the Bible for Bikers, from a saddlebag on his iron steed. Carefully and patiently, he began to read a passage, aloud.

 

1 Corinthians 15:1-11. “Now, brothers and sisters I want to remind you of the gospel I preached to you, which you received and on which you have taken your stand. By this gospel you are saved, if you hold firmly to the word I preached to you. Otherwise, you have believed in vain. For what I received I passed on to you as of first importance: that Christ died for our sins according to the Scriptures, that he was buried, that he was raised on the third day according to the Scriptures, and that he appeared to Cephas, and then the Twelve. After that, he appeared to more than five hundred of the brothers and sisters at the same time, most of whom are still living, though some have fallen asleep. Then he appeared to James, then to all the apostles, and last of all he appeared to me also, as to one abnormally born. For I am the least of the apostles and do not even deserve to be called an apostle, because I persecuted the church of God. But by the grace of God I am what I am, and his grace to me was not without effect. No, I worked harder than all of them – yet not I, but the grace of God that was with me. Whether, then, it is I or they, this is what we preach, and this is what you believed.”

 

The Nazarene theologian had become even more befuddled. He stammered and spit while trying to understand.

 

“WHAT IS YOUR POINT IN READING THAT SCRIPTURE? WHAT IS YOUR POINT, MAN?”

 

The tattooed drifter closed his book, and realized that a group of worshipers and travelers had gathered around the perimeter where they stood.

 

“What was Paul saying here, to the people at Corinth? He spoke about the death, burial, and resurrection, about God’s grace, and just as importantly, about his own unworthiness. Was that necessary? Did he need to confess his status as one who had done harm to followers of Jesus? I believe that it deepened his credibility. Because he saw himself as a humbled servant. Nothing more. A component of the faith. A grain of sand, in the vast continuum of creation. If someone like him could carry the word to others, someone who had been violent and evil to believers in God, then I think, anyone may turn from their sins and accept the grace of our Heavenly Father...”

 

Hageschutte went wide-eyed and numb. His defiant tone disappeared.

 

“Yes... yes... I suppose you are right. I hesitate to admit it, but you are correct, Mr. Redman. You are not what I expected, at all. Not who I thought you to be. Not who you appeared to be. With that in mind, I ask your forgiveness. Now, shall we pray together, before I leave?”

Fishtail Redman, Chapter 27: Calling

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-26)

 

 

By the time of their revival meeting in Morgantown, spring conditions had begun to flourish. This buoyed everyone with a sense of nature being reborn, and the possibilities for a spiritual renewal. Many speakers were scheduled to address the gathering, each from a different denomination or fellowship assembly. But when Shepherd Narvel Adkins stood at the pulpit, in their grand outdoor tent, there was a moment of confusion. Instead of opening with a prayer, and a lesson from the scriptures, he turned to a member of his entourage.

 

“Friends, you’ve heard me preach from the gospel on many occasions. I dare say that my name is known all around this part of West Virginia, and beyond. But today, I’ve got something else in mind. I’d like you to hear from someone who we have called a brother for only a short while. I ask you to judge him on his heart, and not necessarily any outward appearances. He is the son of a Christian pastor from the old school. I think that you’ll find his take on the Holy Word to be unique, and insightful...”

 

Parker Redman took his place at the microphone, with a tone of humility and reflection. His tattooed, muscular arms were outstretched in a gesture of inclusion and fellowship.

 

“We’ve heard some good preaching today. And I’ve got to admit that maybe, I feel a little out of place being here with many of the other participants. Because, brothers and sisters, I want to admit to you, a truth that cannot be denied. I am a humbled sinner, like the penitent thief on the cross beside Jesus. I am stained and dirty, but I believe, reclaimed by grace. It is that gift of love from God that I want to speak about here and now.”

 

The crowd seemed puzzled at first. Then, a lone voice shouted from the masses.

 

“Amen, Feeshtail! Amen, Amen!”

 

The repentant biker was surprised by this exhortation. But upon scanning the crowd, he saw someone who seemed familiar. A former patron of the Stumble Inn and Coal Bucket taverns.

 

With a gentle inflection of his voice, the lesson continued.

 

“Now, I don’t mean to cast aspersions on anyone. I don’t mean to judge. Because we know that our Father in Heaven is the final adjudicator. He alone will look into our hearts, and determine what we have done on this earth. But I want to proclaim the truth as it is written in this book. Good news for all of mankind...”

 

He held up the Bible for Bikers edition from Cousin Bodean’s garage. Greasy fingerprints were visible on its tattered cover.

 

“Whoever made this volume available to people like me gave us a great blessing. Because, you see, there are folks outside of the mainstream, separate and apart from the realm of everyday people. And they... and we... need to hear the gospel just like anyone else. We need to hear about the kingdom. We need to hear about grace. Because without that grace, we are lost...”

 

More people in attendance began to raise their acclamation, vocally.

 

“AMEN, BROTHER. FEESH! AMEN! AMEN! AMEN!”

 

Parker paused for a moment, then continued his straightforward sermon.

 

“In Acts, Chapter 2, it talks about the day of Pentecost, and those present being filled with the Holy Spirit. Now, I want to relate a story to you which is in keeping with that important event. Years ago, I was attending a Methodist service in Ohio. Their clergyman carried a glass of water out to us, but spilled it as he approached the lectern. Everyone was silent for a moment, because we thought that he had goofed on his demonstration. Perhaps made a mistake in what he wanted to portray, visually. Yet after regaining his footing, he asked everyone, ‘What made the water spill?’ That question had us whispering and wondering. Some simply observed that he took a step in the wrong direction. Or that his legs were stiff because of the weather. Even that he might not have paid enough attention to an incline at the front of their dais. But then, he laughed loudly, raised his refreshment, and exclaimed something so plain and profound that I have remembered it until this day. ‘The reason water spilled was because of its presence in the glass! When life bumps into us, or we stumble, and our souls are full of the spirit, what we spill will be some of that for others to receive!’”

 

The audience was visibly stunned. A moment of introspection passed, as this example was processed mentally, and reviewed. Then, a cheer of joy echoed across the big tent, and along the university concourse.

 

“AMEN! AMEN! AMEN! AMEN!”

 

Parker held up his Bible as a symbol of light and salvation.

 

“I have spent years spilling out other things, when life bumped into me. Anger, doubt, rebellion, and in the end, sorrow. Because I never found happiness in rejecting the way of my bloodline. But even more importantly, I never found happiness in refusing the grace of our Heavenly Father...”

 

The reaction to this confession was immediate.

 

“AMEN!”

 

The unconventional scholar then underpinned his remarks with a passage from his garage manuscript.

 

Galatians 5:13-18, “You, my brothers and sisters, were called to be free. But do not use your freedom to indulge the flesh; rather, serve one another humbly in love. For the entire law is fulfilled in keeping this one command: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ If you bite and devour each other, watch out or you will be destroyed by each other. So I say, walk by the Spiri, and you will not gratify the desires of the flesh. For the flesh desires what is contrary to the Spirit, and the Spirit what is contrary to the flesh. They are in conflict with each other, so that you are not to do whatever you want. But if you are led by the Spirit, you are not under the law.”

 

With his head bowed in prayer, Parker concluded these remarks.

 

“Father, we know that to be filled with the Holy Spirit is to receive your message. And to claim the victory, through your grace. I ask for strength and guidance in these things, but most of all, I give to you my failings, my weaknesses, my scars and wounds, my dissension and darkness. Make me a new creation, in your image. Heal me, heal all of us, bring us to the point of an awakening for the gospel truths. Let us serve you in righteousness. We are your children. You are our Father in Heaven. Amen!”

 

A hymn of invitation was sung, as their revival finished for that day. Members who huddled under the canvas tent began to stream forward, toward the pulpit. Some sought a laying-on-of-hands, and restoration by evangelists who were present. Others were seeking a baptism for the first time. One declared that he was ready to take up this cause, and preach from the Bible on his own, in rough, urban areas where regular churches did not usually appear.

 

Shepherd Narvel stood silently, with members of the Exiles collective. They were overwhelmed with emotion, yet sure of what had transpired. A new era had begun in the shadow of their beloved university.

 

Now, it was their challenge to sustain that flame of faith, for the future.

Fishtail Redman, Chapter 26: Revival

  

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-26)

 

After interacting with members of Exiles for the Almighty over several weeks, Parker Redman had become accustomed to sitting with the group during Bible studies and worship services. But eventually, he seemed to have outgrown this limited level of participation. Shepherd Narvel Adkins realized that he was becoming frustrated while trying to figure out what direction his wandering path would take. So, when a moment arrived when they could both speak privately, in his church office, a bit of divine inspiration seemed to take hold.

 

The two men were dissimilar in almost every way, except for their Christian faith.

 

Narvel had always been something of a university nerd, growing up with librarians, teachers and professors constantly in his personal orbit. He had the quiet manner of a scholar at work. With the look of someone who hoped to remain busy, and anonymous, at the same time. Parker might have ended up with similar characteristics, yet jettisoned those habits to embrace rebellion and an outlaw lifestyle. That choice placed him outside of polite society, and squarely in the midst of chaos and dissent. He could never be clean again, at least in the terms set by mainstream religious pundits who shunned him as outlier. But at the core of his being, a spark of belief still flickered.

 

While sorting through postal mail on his desk, the spiritual leader paused to ponder an announcement of a revival meeting to be held at the beginning of spring.

 

“This notice interests me, friend. Does it also appeal to you? It is something sponsored by an ecumenical council here in Morgantown. We have been invited to attend, for the very first time. I dare say that our little collective has rarely been noticed by any of the other gospel affiliates in this area. We haven’t registered on their radar, until now. I think it would be a great opportunity for us to contribute to the greater conversation. What is your opinion?”

 

Parker scanned the flier while taking a seat across from his counterpart’s workspace.

 

“Would you... would we... be truly welcome? Do you accept this invite as being genuine?”

 

The unconventional clergyman nodded and reclined in his chair.

 

“I have to take it as such, brother. This is an olive branch, extended for us. If we decline, it might signal that we embrace division instead of fellowship. That is not a message I would choose to send. I prefer to view this as an opportunity. For everyone here, but I think especially for you.”

 

His prodigal protégé frowned and sputtered.

 

“For me? How is that?”

 

Narvel sighed heavily before folding his hands.

 

“We need someone to address this meeting who has a bigger perspective than mine. I’ve spent a lifetime here in the shadow of WVU, with the same institutions, the same bloodlines, the same biases and prejudices. I know the terrain very well. But this is a chance to speak courageously on behalf of the Lord. I could give the kind of input they expect. They know me well. Yet from you, the zeal of glory would be unmistakable, and authentic. Like a peal of thunder from the heavens!”

 

The solitary biker reddened with embarrassment.

 

“You’re giving me too much credit, I think. My hands are dirty, and my soul is stained...”

 

His friend with the modified priest’s collar smiled intently.

 

“Yes, that’s it. That is it, right there! That is why I used the word ‘authentic.’ Christ was beloved by tax collectors and prostitutes who received his call to repent, and followed him. While some who thought themselves to be faithful questioned his identity as the Son of God. Do you think that was an accident? People who assume some measure of importance for themselves often think that they are safe from harm. And in no need of change, in no need of a spiritual revelation. But for those on the fringes, those who are not pretty or polished, or looked upon with respect, there is a clearer path to the truth. They have nothing else to get in the way! No self-importance or pretentiousness, or arrogance. Just a naked and bold need for redemption!”

 

Parker felt a chill run over his skin. He had not expected to be given such a challenge.

 

“I feel... unworthy. I am unclean. I am a sinner and a backslider. Surely not someone to preach the holy message, here or anywhere...”

 

Shepherd Narvel took his ally by the shoulders. His tone became dramatic, and stern.

 

“THAT IS THE POINT, MY BROTHER! YOU HAVE HUMBLED YOURSELF! THAT IS THE FIRST STEP TOWARD SALVATION. KEEP GOING NOW, KEEP STRIVING, KEEP FIGHTING, KEEP PRAYING!”

 

The motorcycle mechanic lowered his head. His belly ached with uncertainty.

 

“My father used to reflect on a lesson from Evangelist Walter Scott, in the pulpit. The ‘Five Finger Exercise.’ Faith, repentance, baptism, remission of sins, gift of the Holy Spirit. Which some repeat now as faith, repentance, confession, baptism, and living a Christian life. That was a simple method of describing the plan. Even as a child, it struck me with meaning. I did that for a time, was baptized and even spoke on Wednesday nights occasionally. I would give a short, 15-minute sermon as part of our Bible study. But my fingers got broken, in bar fights and riding back roads across the Ohio Valley and beyond. I couldn’t do that thing anymore...”

 

His benefactor shook him as if to awaken some inner spirit that had too long been dormant.

 

“Yes, yes, yes! That’s the message you need to proclaim. That someone who fell far from the tree of life, may still return by grace. Grace is the component there, brother! Not a scorecard filled with points tallied in a game. Not with chips won on a gambling table. Not with silver and gold plundered from the wealthy. Not with riches earned through common labor, or market investments. Grace is the glorious gift! A gift you have received, I think. Maybe not with full understanding at first, but now, that call to duty is being revealed. Hear it and believe! Hear it and respond! This is the will of a loving creator at work!”

 

Parker realized that no one had called him Fishtail in many weeks. That nickname was fading into the past, along with all of his doubt, scorn, and shame. What remained was unfamiliar in the mirror. Yet adorned with a glow of possibilities, and hope.