Gamaliel’S Advice: Taking Down God

Copyright © 2013 Robert J. LaCosta.

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Author Photo by Patrick Renzi, Cover Design by Frank Romeo.

ISBN: 978-1-4497-9654-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-9653-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-9655-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013909395

WestBow Press rev. date: 06/04/2013

TABLE OF CONTENTS

DEDICATION

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

What Leaders Have Said:

Gamaliel’s Advice—Taking Down God, by Robert J. LaCosta, brings to life the drama of the longest-running religious freedom case in the history of the nation. While the characters are largely fictional, the book fairly chronicles the remarkable legal milestones that include multiple City Council meetings, public ballot initiatives, Acts of Congress, and a tangled web of litigation in both the state and federal courts. The characters are compelling and the conflict between their worldviews is striking but realistic. Although the final chapter of the Mt. Soledad Memorial Cross case remains to be written, the cultural context of the story could not be more timely, the religious liberty issues more poignant, nor could the stakes for our nation any higher.

Charles LiMandri, President and Chief Counsel,

Freedom of Conscience Defense Fund

This book tells the story of the ongoing battle to save the cross of the Mt. Soledad War Memorial in San Diego, California. Robert LaCosta’s story may be fictional, but the fight to save the cross is not! It is true, real and ongoing. The cross’s demise will signal a tipping point in America as secular progressives continue to separate this nation from the declaration of freedom that we were founded upon, and separate or remove any evidence of a belief in a Creator from the public square. Those who believe that we, the American people, are endowed by our Creator with inalienable rights, and not given our rights by a President or a Congress or a Supreme Court, should read this book, see that their friends and loved ones read this book and get involved. Soon, it may be too late!

New York Myke Shelby, Owner

San Diego Harley-Davidson

Robert LaCosta is a passionate writer with wit and wisdom who presents eternal truths in dramatic ways. I support him and his vision.

Ted Baehr, Chairman of the Christian Film and Television Commission, Editor-in-Chief, Movieguide

Books By

Robert J. LaCosta

Like Father, Like Son

The King’s Favorite Book

The World’s First StoryJournal™

DEDICATION

To the greatest and most decorated Veteran of all time who left existence’s most perfect home to be deployed onto the toughest soil of all time: the soiled soul of humanity…

For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. John 3:16

and to

My niece, Marine Pilot 1st Lieutenant Kelli Emerald Gallagher, after whom I patterned many of the great characteristics and skills of our main character.

and to

All of our living and deceased veterans who understood that the cross is the ultimate symbol of self-sacrifice. We are indebted.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Paul F. LaCosta, Jr. for noting almost twenty years ago that the Mt. Soledad case would be something I’d be interested in… little did he know.

The law offices of Charles LiMandri. Charles and his staff simplified very complicated matter for a very simple writer over a very extended period of time.

Frank Romeo for capturing concepts.

To our family and friends for their patient listening of a story about a place not so long ago, but very far away.

The Reverend Stephen P. Lalor, the late Dr. Royal Cutler, Jr., Daniel P. Baggott and David G. Morse for seeding into this writing ministry in many critical and various ways.

Pastor Frank Wray for his continual encouragement and our fellowship at Bethlehem Community Church.

For friends and relatives who have encouraged me over vast stretches of desert.

My wife, Vini, our children, Guinevere, Angelique, Kristiana and Michael, sons-in-laws Ben and Will and grandchildren Grant and London.

CHAPTER ONE

S lam! It was a blustery night for San Diego, and the swinging shutters jarred Robert Peters out of a sound sleep. His wife was as yet unaffected by this insistent alarm, so he slipped out from under the covers without awakening her.

Again and again, he heard the shutters bark.

He gingerly found the oil lamp, almost falling down the stairs in his slumbering state. At the bottom, he lit the lamp and headed straight for the porch.

Built in 1855, the frame house was now thirty years old, and the cliff-side estate sat on a spot that was too vulnerable to wind to put up with rusty latches.

He wrestled the stubborn shutters while the wind promptly blew out his light. Robert managed to subdue the rebellious shutters anyway. There was a slight chill to the wind and he was afraid that it might wake him up permanently, especially if he began to think about tomorrow’s to-do list for his 200-acre farm.

He quickly turned toward the front door when he heard something that his sleepy ears mistook for creaky flooring. But there was enough of a question in his mind to stop him in his tracks. The sound continued despite his silence. It was as if the wind was carrying a message. Intent with going back to bed, but drawn to the possibility that he wasn’t hearing things, he paused just a moment longer.

Suddenly, he recognized the terror in the wind’s voice. The screams and cries were neither wind nor planks nor dream. Horrified, he grabbed his jacket from inside the screen door and ran to the cliff.

Robert opened the gate of the iron fence that protected his children and the farm animals from what could be a deadly drop. He looked down on the bay and saw exactly what he had feared. Torches lit up the rocky beach, and there seemed to be an air of confusion about the place.

The cries, wailing, and stiff wind jerked him into an awakened state that helped usher him down the steep and dangerous path—particularly at night.

Tom, he said to a recognizable face, why didn’t someone come get me?

We just got here ourselves and no one was brave enough to climb your stairs, Tom replied as the two hurried to a thirtyish mother who was desperately searching for her children. She had a babe in tow, but her hysteria made her look like a drunk trying to get out of the sea.

Ma’am, Tom said, we’ll take care of you, but please back up from these waves. This storm is relentless.

Robert managed to move her behind a huge rock that sheltered her and the baby from the wind. He put his jacket around the sobbing woman and her child and took off after his friend.

The waves brought in more bodies than they could keep up with. Robert hadn’t given a thought as to how many were on board or what kind of vessel it had been. This was by far the worst sea disaster of the bay. It was hard to keep survivors from searching for their loved ones, and the dark of the night didn’t make things easier. Howls, moans, and cries from inconsolable souls rang out as Robert helped Tom comb the shore.

Tom, Robert said, can you send Anne up to my house to wake Vicki up? Maybe we can get them out of the chill. The barn is big enough to house some and we can tend to the children in the house.

Tom called for his wife. She frantically braved the stairs, no small feat in her long dress.

How did you and the others get here so fast? Robert asked.

We’re a lot closer to the water than you, Tom explained. We actually heard it hit the rocks. The wind and tide were really bullying that captain. He didn’t have a chance.

Anyone seen him? Robert asked.

No, said his glum neighbor.

This wasn’t the first shipwreck in that cove. More than one competent captain had gotten his ship trapped at night in those waters. To make matters worse, the lighthouse up on the bluff was built just a tad toward the beginning of Robert’s property because of the cliff’s irregular nature and some sand slides, fooling captains into believing think they had a few hundred extra feet before they reached the rocks. Smart helmsmen usually elected to sail near the shore in such weather. However, once in the bay with an easterly storm, there would be no way around the unforgiving, protruding rocks.

This wreck was pushing the rescuers to the limit. There wasn’t much help at that time of night and no fast way of getting more workers.

We’ve got to do something about that lighthouse, Robert said. I won’t sleep another wink until we can move it or build another one.

Well, said the more staid Tom, it could slide into the sea.

There’s got to be another way, said Robert.

If anyone will figure it out, said Tom, you will.

We have to get the townspeople together so this blood isn’t on our hands, said Robert, as he helped Tom pull a dead seaman out of the water. He looked at the man’s ring finger.

I don’t even want to know whose husband this is, Robert said, glancing around at some of the hysterical women.

Within minutes, a nightgown-clad Victoria was calling to Robert as she raced down the stairs, torch in hand.

Oh, my God, she cried. Oh, my God!

She ran to Robert and asked, How can we get all these people into our house?

Try bringing a couple of the men and get a fire going—but not too close to the barn, he said. Then, we can warm them up and get them into the barn to care for them. Some are going to have trouble getting up those stairs, but Tom and I need to keep looking for bodies. The tide will be turning and we’ll have more beach and eventually more light. I could use some firewood. These poor people deserve to see their dead.

Victoria wasted no time. She asked a few of the survivors who appeared healthy and relatively alert to follow her husband’s instructions. They succeeded in getting the fires lighted.

Tom slipped on some driftwood and grimaced at the thought of another sprained ankle. It was not the first time that right ankle had been tested by the Civil War vet.

You OK? Robert yelled to his friend.

It’s just slight, believe me, Tom said with soldier-like chivalry. It’s been a lot worse. Just tough to see down here.

He limped along with his friend. The tide finally began to recede and the storm seemed to be calming down. With the fires started on the beach and up on the cliff, the picture of gloom was beginning to take far too much form.

The rescue continued as the same howling woman finally found what she most dreaded: her husband with their four-year-old tied to himself. A blow to the head on the rocks? Robert didn’t let his imagination go farther than the thought, . . . And they were so close to the beach.

She seemed to sob without taking a breath, and the rescuers couldn’t get the woman to a fire or away from the sight.

I have no right to stop her, said Robert, as perceptive as he was strong. I can’t seem to trespass on her pain, Tom.

The dawn made it easier to pull the bodies from the breaking waves. But the usual beauty of the sunrise from cliff-side had betrayed them this morning with a picture of horror.

CHAPTER TWO

T he efforts of nursing the wounded, getting them onto makeshift cots in the barn, and consoling the grieving finally took its toll on Robert and Victoria. Now, settled into bed after a horrific day, Robert was in a delirium-like state when he began talking to himself.

We’ve been talking about this lighthouse for too long, he said.

Shh, Robert, Victoria said. Listen, I know you’re beside yourself. Let’s grab this by the horns and get together with the townspeople. We’ll get it done.

Those were the last words he remembered before the exhaustion pulled his body into a deep sleep, albeit short.

The rescue had shrouded his dreams a bit, and despite his body’s call for more rest, he was up by five.

Sitting in bed and still half dreamy, he remembered the shutters. They had awakened him, not the cries. Why? Was it just a coincidence that the windy storm had made the shutters like a pair of overbearing hands that clapped too loud? It made him think of his dad. Robert Peters, Sr. had crafted those shutters and he had helped. That was a big project for the then nine-year-old, and Robert had learned well. He had literally followed in his dad’s footsteps, never missing a chance to discover the mystery of creative woodworking. So many of the farm’s projects fell to him after his dad’s passing.

He asked himself aloud, Why those shutters?

His voice startled Victoria, and she turned and reached for him in her subconscious state.

Uh, sorry, he said, embarrassed. Go back to sleep.

He didn’t need to tell her twice. She had run herself ragged helping the victims and the emotional drain of ministering to the shaken widows and widowers was almost beyond what she could bear.

Robert was Victoria’s biggest fan. He looked over his shoulder with an admiring and respectful glance.

What if it had been her, dear Lord? he said in a prayerful tone. What can I do? If only they had been warned. But why those shutters?

The question haunted him and imprisoned his thoughts for the rest of the day. He even went to the porch and stared at the shutters to see if they had really banged. Was it a dream? Had Dad stirred up some of heaven’s wind to wake him?

The thoughts all seemed so ridiculous. It had been a nasty storm and the wind had managed to outmuscle some old shutters. And that’s all, he thought. Or was it? Why was he consumed with a rusty latch? But just then, as he looked at the shutter he had fixed, an image of a wake-up call came racing to his cluttered and beleaguered mind.

I was asleep, he said to himself, and then I was awakened.

He repeated the phrase over and over again like a chant.

No one could accuse Robert of not thinking. Victoria always warned him that he thought too much. What would have been a mild coincidence to most men had become a complicated algorithm.

It was as if the shutters had spoken to him to reawaken a relationship. It was not the simple memory of a carpentry job with Pop. That was it. The wake-up call had to do with his father’s heart, the one that drove every nail of his life with passion, precision, and compassion. Dad would build and give. That was the essence of the carpenter. The nails made things hold together. The wood was his gift, his specialty. Their property was blessed to have a variety of trees on it, something rare for the region. And when he couldn’t get the lumber he wanted locally, he would hitch the horses and wagon and make his way up to Julian, grabbing some apples while he was at it. That wood wouldn’t just translate into a shutter, it would be reflective of something from the other side: heaven. It was as clear as the clap of the shutters the night before last.

Sometimes we simply need to get out of bed, he said to himself. He had just done that a few minutes earlier. He was tired. The day’s troubles had consumed him. He’d rather have rolled over and hugged that beautiful woman. But it was time to get up.

OK, Dad, he said. If you’re trying to tell me something, I think my ears are getting unplugged. I’m awake and I do remember. All your projects were given like a gift. And the nails held everything together. If a nail isn’t driven right, it can jeopardize the whole project. Like a shutter coming loose from an eye-screw.

Robert turned and looked across to the barn. Many were still in it, but most had been taken to different houses in their growing town of San Diego. It was quiet in the barn. The trauma had finally worn down the survivors, and it appeared that most were still sleeping. He went behind the house, quietly saddled up Revere, and headed for Tom’s ranch.

Tom happened to be on the porch when Revere’s quick hoof beats announced his neighbor’s arrival before Tom could actually see him.

Kind of an early call, Tom chided.

I’d say more like a late call, if you ask me, Robert replied before dismounting Revere. Tom, I could hardly sleep. We’ve got to do something about that lighthouse. We’ve got to warn people. Those storms could do any able captain in, no matter how skilled they are. I realize this storm was worse than any other, but this has to be the third wreck in my lifetime.

I’d say that’s right, said Tom calmly.

I’m just afraid it won’t be the last, said Robert, wiping his brow. We’ve got to do something. I know it’s a daunting task.

Let me grab you a cup of coffee, said Tom.

Uh, water is fine, Tom, said Robert.

Robert, I know how you’re feeling, said Tom, pouring some water from a pitcher on the table. The war taught me a lot about urgency. When the governor sided with Lincoln in ’61, I was a young buck with a lot of resolve. My dad was known for his northern sympathies, so they were going to send me on a Pony Express ride the next day to relay the governor’s allegiance and need for support—especially in San Diego County. But southern sympathizers were all over our town, and my dad feared for my life and wanted to wait until things cooled down. But the thought that I had to go in the middle of the night kept dogging me. I bugged my dad and his friends so bad that they finally gave in.

You obviously made it all right, said an admiring Robert.

Robert, if I hadn’t gone, Tom said, our governor would have had his hands full because San Diego was rebellion-in-waiting.

So what are you saying? asked Robert. Can you help me get something going on the lighthouse or anything at all?

I’ll be glad to help, said Tom, his memories still fresh from the night before last. But I’ve got to tell you, I want to help these survivors who are so bruised up here, and there are a few things on the farm and in town that cannot wait. When you’re the sheriff, your time is not your own. So what I’m saying is this: You’re not being impetuous. If you have a sense of impending need, I’d say, ‘Follow your heart.’ I’ll get some people behind it as fast as we can, but I’m afraid that you’re going to be out in front of the rest of us, at least at first. Sometimes you’ve got to go it alone to begin with. But, I’ll not be far behind.

Robert was taken back a bit by Tom’s response. Tom was the town’s well-known Civil War hero and overseer of their seaport village, now home to more than 5,000 residents. He was always the go-to guy. Yet, Robert’s enthusiasm had met Tom’s wisdom straight on.

He figured that Tom simply wanted to make sure he wasn’t discouraging Robert. Tom had known him since he was a youth, and he knew how high emotions could fly in times of death and tragedy.