The Cage and the Cross: A Novel

All Rights Reserved © 2000 by Humphrey Muller

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters and places are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 0-595-09806-1

ISBN: 978-1-4620-9818-7 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

EPIGRAPH

FOREWORD

PREFACE

INTRODUCTION

THE PRISON

THE PEN

THE ECCLESIA

THE CAGE

THE ROPE

THE WRENCH

THE ROAD

THE RELEASE

THE CROSS

THE SEED

EPILOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

EPIGRAPH

He who understands Christ’s teaching feels like a bird that did not know it has wings and now suddenly realises that it can fly, can be free and no longer needs to fear.

Tolstoy

FOREWORD

Within the framework of what I call, for want of a better appellation, the philosophical novel, the author has created a giant of a character in Dr Denton. Like James Joyce’s character, Stephen Daedalus, Denton searches deeply into his soul, attempting to discover the meaning of his existence. Sometimes wandering, always questioning his reason for living, Denton seeks to communicate and understand the consciousness of his race. A character such as Dr Denton is the key to an absorbingly intelligent novel.

While I was reading the manuscript, the thought kept recurring that here was the work of a sophisticated stylist. The author’s blending of narrative and stream of consciousness, interspersed with poetic epiphany, captures the complex climate of Denton’s spiritual journey. He writes on a high, dramatic level, never in danger of losing the tension of the situation, and this is perfectly illustrated by the following lines:

There was a great gash in the earth. The torn roots were stark and red against the blue sky…

I lost myself in the maze of narrow, twisting streets of Soho, squelching through the damp…

Ernest Pereira

(Formerly Professor of English, University of South Africa)

PREFACE

This is a love story. About an affair that led to true love. The protagonist couldn’t help falling in love, against his will. Those who knew better tried to stop him, to draw him back, to tell him it was wrong, against the Law of God. But they couldn’t stop him. Because the affair was with God. Or was it? Perhaps the whole affair was just part of his imagination.

* * *

This is a novel to put the cat among the pigeons—or, more accurately, the cat among the doves! It certainly may evoke controversy—but then, I suppose, that may well be a signal of its success—if it does. It is written, in the first instance, as a work of fiction for evangelical Christians, for its main purpose is to stress the importance of salvation through Grace and the ever-present Spirit of a loving God. This view, however, is pitted against the sectarian or fundamentalist view of salvation being attained through fear and trembling—working out salvation by obedience to laws and doctrines with a final judgement to be faced in the future. Additional interest may be provoked by the fact that the story is set in the now defunct Apartheid South Africa. (The Introduction says more about this.)

I might have written this book as an inspirational work of non-fiction. However, if Bunyan had written his Pilgrim’s Progress as a religious tract, or as an exhortational treatise, it would surely not have become the classic it is today. Instead, he used narrative and allegory to dramatise his message. My book, at least, purports to do the same.

Although this novel is a work of fiction and the characters are, by and large, imaginary, it may be of interest to note that the character of Petrus Engelen, a prisoner in Pretoria Central Prison, is based on an actual person who committed suicide in 1975.

C H M

INTRODUCTION

My intention in writing this hybrid novel (is it a novel or religious treatise?) was really to place before the reader a sort of dramatised Christian debate—the sectarian church vs. the established church. Of course, I had hoped the debate would be presented objectively, so that the reader might decide for himself the merits of either view. But the resolution—the dramatic denouement, I suppose—necessitated a biased slant, since the protagonist moves, in his growing religious awareness, from sectarian fundamentalism to the broader, less clearly defined message of the Church as expressed by the doctrine of salvation by grace. The result is hardly fair to the fundamentalists who are certainly dedicated to their beliefs and who are diligent Bible students.

I have chosen the Methodist Church, perhaps incongruously, to represent the ‘established’ church, since there was a time when it, too, was regarded as antiestablishment! Recently I noticed a distinct ‘falling away’ (to use the language of the fundamentalists) from the weekly Bible classes at our local Methodist church. But come hail, wind or snow, the small bands of ‘Eclectics,’ wherever they are, never fail to turn up for their weekly delving into scripture. They work out their salvation with fear and trembling, convinced, perhaps, that their salvation will depend on their diligence—which, when all is said and done, is a very reasonable point of view. Very often we Christians of the larger churches prefer to remain at home, reassured by St. Paul’s message of salvation by grace…

But whatever the case, I don’t presume to tell the reader how to be saved! ‘Seek, and ye shall find…’ But perhaps this semi-dramatic representation of the conflict between law plus the power of Sin on the one hand, and grace plus the power of the Spirit on the other hand, will encourage the reader in his or her own quest for the ‘Truth.’

The fact that the conflict takes place in the now defunct Apartheid South Africa adds an additional complication. It was an additional challenge for a Christian, whether sectarian or a member of the broader church, to see clearly in the muddy waters of those years before the collapse of Apartheid. However, the racial question is not an issue in this novel. The characters are drawn from the white privileged sector at a time when the people of that sector lived in a hermetically sealed society. The Methodist Church in South Africa was always an ardent opponent of Apartheid and fought steadfastly for its collapse. But it was part of the myopic condition of many whites at that time that they failed to perceive the real preoccupation of Christianity should have been with the removal of racial barriers. I mention this because the reader might find it strange that for the characters in this novel the racial question was hardly an issue.

Humphrey Muller

ONE

THE PRISON

I lowered the window of my Citroen as far as possible to permit the air of the slipstream to blow into the hot interior. The tapering metallic nose of the car slipped effortlessly into the wind as I manoeuvred from lane to lane, maintaining a steady speed amongst the other vehicles racing like jostling dolphins towards the mother city ahead. The ample highway curved with lazy ease into a cleft between the rolling green hills that formed the southern ridge of the city. At once a cluster of dull redbrick buildings appeared to the left, like a rash of blisters brought out by the sun. The steady hum of the engine changed pitch as I engaged a lower gear, slowing the car to negotiate a smaller road that forked to the left. The rest of the traffic flowed past, unimpeded. The midday sun was oppressive as I stopped at the traffic lights and turned into the narrow one-way street that led to the austere, forbidding building directly ahead. Its metal-grey stones and Gothic turrets loomed like a threat as I entered the restricted parking area between the tidy bowling green and the bleached, sun-drenched gravestones of the adjacent cemetery. I tucked my Bible under my arm and locked the car. I turned and faced the arched portal, the huge wooden door braced with ribs of iron. The usual fingers of fear clutched my heart. I lifted the large brass knocker and dropped it. It fell with a dull metallic thud.

The response was immediate. A tiny square panel in the door swung back to reveal the stony stare of the warder on duty. The heavy door opened a few inches.

‘I’d like to see three prisoners. Is it possible to see them together? I’m prepared to interview them individually.’ I proffered a piece of paper bearing the names and numbers of the prisoners.

‘Capacity?’

‘Church worker. If possible, I’d like to see Dr Nienaber first—the parole board secretary. I telephoned yesterday.’

‘Wait there!’

The heavy door slammed shut. The hot sun bored down relentlessly. I leaned back drowsily against the cold wall to enjoy the fragment of shade it afforded. The irritating drone of a fly gave the heavy silence a bass undertone. My mind drifted back to my first visit to the Prison. I had lost my way, and had mistaken a smaller redbrick building for the main block. An open, narrow doorway led into a long, straight corridor, intersected at regular intervals by grilles, giving the impression of a series of cages. A uniformed official materialised in the third ‘cage.’ An electronic switch operated a bolt which shot back, unlocking the door in front of me.

‘Advance in a straight line!’

The bolt shot home with an electronic ‘zap’ as the door closed behind me. I reached the far end of the cage.

‘Stop there! State your business.’

How does one state one’s business, officially, in a cage? I am a prisoner of Jesus Christ. I’ve come to deliver those in bondage. At least the few who have the intellect to grasp the doctrinal principles, the stamina to submit to the intricate chains of the Christian law. ‘Whoever disobeys even the smallest of the commandments…will be least in the Kingdom of heaven…’ Was the early church wrong, then, to draw its elect from the criminal or debased slave classes? Should I not, like my fellow workers in God’s vineyard, proselytise by giving public lectures to empty halls? Is the Kingdom of God not made up of affluent business men, university lecturers, bank clerks, who have the mental muscle to keep their lamps burning with pure oil, prepared from olives ‘beaten small,’ the finely digested word of God? Why, then, do I look to the drug addicts, the alcoholics, the habitual criminals, to augment the glory of God?

‘I seem to have lost my way. I was trying to find Doringkraal Prison. I was told to ask for Chief Warder Van Zyle.’

‘Ja! You have taken the wrong turning. You must go back to the robot. From there you must turn right. There’s only one way. A one-way street. It will take you straight to the main gaol. You can’t miss it.’

The sharp clang of metal splintered my thoughts. The prison door yawned to reveal a sepulchral darkness. ‘Come in, doctor!’ The friendly tone took me by surprise. The initial masquerade of hostility was over. Once again, I was recognised. Abandoning fear, I stepped into the hopeless bleakness to find it welcomingly cool, refreshing after the dazzling heat.

‘You wished to see Dr Nienaber?’

‘Yes. About the prisoner, Petrus Engelen.’

The warder slapped the switch of an intercom. ‘The doctor is here. In connection with Engelen, one–four–four stroke seven four.’

The doctor. A Ph.D. in English literature! Well, I’m a doctor, of sorts, I suppose. Representing the Great Physician. A bogus title in prison work, it nevertheless opens a door or two. Like this big one…

I was in a cage, formed by the large door and a grille of bars which divided the gloomy entrance hall from a central courtyard. I perched on a hard-backed seat in the corner. A black prisoner with a wizened, shaved head and scrawny ebony legs protruding from baggy khaki shorts, was on his knees, moving rhythmically to and fro, laying thick welts of red polish on to the stone floor. He seemed, as I watched him, to be spreading his life’s blood, diligently and perseveringly, across the stone slabs. The brass knocker resounded with a hollow thud, and the strapping, brawny young warder brought to bear a huge, jangling bunch of keys on the door. He admitted, with jocular familiarity, a uniformed compatriot who moved with similar bulging thighs, with legs of muscular and hirsute splendour. In his wake was a white prisoner dressed in sloppy green dungarees. I noticed his uncombed, dry sandy hair, and the mixture of vacancy and insolence in his eyes. But my attention was drawn particularly to the heavy iron handcuffs which linked him to his captor. After they passed through the cage the squatting ebony prisoner moved, rhythmically and mechanically, across the floor, obliterating their dusty footprints with his life’s blood.

Dr Nienaber was a short, middle-aged, kindly faced man with soft eyes and a respectful manner. He held a file and took a seat next to mine. I had expected to be invited into an office.

‘Dr Denton? You wanted to see me about the prisoner Engelen?’

‘Yes. I’ve brought you a letter on his behalf. Addressed to the Parole Board. I must explain that I’ve been writing to him. I visited him a few times in the capacity of church worker.’

‘I see.’ He glanced at the letter, crossed his legs and looked at me benignly. ‘Which church?’

Fear gripped my stomach. My church didn’t send me. The government only recognised the orthodox churches. What right had I to be there?

‘As I see it,’ I said, hesitantly, ‘I’m representing Jesus Christ, you could say. I feel that his offer of eternal life—of salvation—goes beyond the creeds formulated by denominations and sects. This man—Engelen—is—was—an alcoholic, and Mrs Sinclair, the social worker, said she couldn’t get through to him. She was up against a brick wall.’ I paused, embarrassed by my audacity, my nonconformity. A truck rumbled outside, momentarily filling the air with heavy thunder.

‘Yes?’ said Dr Nienaber, gently.

‘Well…’I hunched forward, nervously.‘She couldn’t get through to him. He was stubborn, uncommunicative, and refused to obey instructions.

Then, she said, he changed. One day he was—just different. Quiet, respectful…said he had found Christ.’

Dr Nienaber fumbled through the file on his lap. ‘Yes, Mrs Sinclair’s report is here. But you do understand, Dr Denton, that proselytising is against prison rules?’ He eyed me steadily. ‘Which church do you represent?’

‘The Christian Eclectic Church.’ A bead of sweat trickled down my brow.

‘Christian Eclectic?’ His brow puckered quizzically. ‘Never heard of it.’

I nodded. ‘Few have.’

He closed the file and stood up. He extended his hand and flashed a disarming smile. ‘We appreciate the work you’re doing, Dr Denton. Come here as often as you like. In my experience…’ His smile broadened and a gold tooth flashed. ‘I used to work at a reformatory, you see. In my experience the only thing to break a man from alcohol is a firm belief in something beyond himself. Like Christ.’ He slipped my letter into the file. ‘We’ll take your recommendation into consideration.’ His smile dissolved and his watery eyes held mine. ‘But I must warn you—Engelen is a hard case. He has had a difficult past. Illegitimate birth. Ran away from an orphanage. An alcoholic since his teens. Never sober until he came here.’ Another flashed smile, a deferential bow, and the barred door of the cage opened with alacrity. I sank back on to my chair, feeling weak, but excited, after Dr Nienaber’s unexpected encouragement. Was this place, after all, to be a fruitful reaping ground? I closed my eyes and prayed, silently. My God, my God, let me not come to you empty handed! Let me give you just one repentant sinner, to cover a host of sins.

Oh, to hell with me and my sins, I thought rebelliously. I didn’t understand God’s exclusivity anyway. There wasn’t anything special, unique, about me. So if I could just find a replacement—someone who has tasted the bitter dregs of life, who can come to God as a new, reformed, perfect creature…Someone who would become a miracle of obedience, with a will to embrace the Truth, the pure doctrine of the first-century elect.

How I hated myself! I felt filthy, impure. I had dirt under my nails. Could I ever forget that I had seduced a young slip of a girl when she was only fourteen—after I was immersed, washed clean, buried with Christ in the waters of baptism? My marriage garment wasn’t white, but red, scarlet, like my scarlet and silk-lined doctoral gown. I thought, I’m draped with the knowledge of the world. I have sought worldly pleasure and worldly fame. Harry, you’re more qualified than any of us. Why do you waste time on further study? It’s all knowledge of the world. Get a job, man! Write articles for The Eclectic Light! Do something useful! Brother Paul Nettleton. That’s what he said when my shame was discovered. ‘Nothing is done in darkness that will not be brought to light.’ Brother Nettleton’s self-abnegation was a shining light to us all. Stable. Respectable. Clean. Sterile. Skeletal. A hint of after-shave lotion. He gave up being an advocate because it involved legal crookery. Against his Christian conscience. The court contaminates! So he became a bank clerk. Now he teaches law at a university. That way he avoids practising it. So he maintains clean hands

I heard a sound and opened my eyes. Two prisoners,