“Fear is sharp-sighted, and can see things underground, and much more in the skies.” — Miguel De Cervantes,

“Don Quixote de la Mancha”

Church bulletins make excellent buffers, Wakeman Pells thought as he browsed the tan-colored pamphlet moments before the start of the 9 a.m. Sunday worship service at New Hope Bible Church.

Wakeman felt uneasy inside the church, even though New Hope held its services inside a local community center only a four-block walk from his apartment and it lacked many of the Christian symbols that adorned other sanctuaries he had visited.

In fact, had it not been for temperatures hovering in the teens coupled with a nasty wind chill, all courtesy of Lake Superior, Wakeman might still be standing outside in the cold. But he allowed the strong winds to push him inside the building, past the makeshift welcome center, around a few groups of chatting people, into the building’s all-purpose room and finally onto an empty seat located in one of the back rows.

However, despite keeping a low profile, Wakeman feared that everyone in the building was staring at him, judging him, perhaps even surmising his true reason for attending. But he did have two secret weapons — his sunglasses and the church bulletin. Since it wasn’t socially acceptable to wear sunglasses inside, a church newsletter often was the only security blanket he had. He could read it — or pretend to read it — when he wanted to be disengaged from the service. When things got interesting, he could put the bulletin down and plug back in. A bulletin also kept his eyes from straying where he often did not want them to go — to the parishioners and their hands.

Yes, church bulletins make excellent buffers … and good fences make good neighbors, Wakeman laughed to himself.

“Excuse me, but is that seat next to you taken?”

Wakeman nearly jumped out of his skin when a man roughly his same age tapped him on the shoulder and politely asked about the vacant chair. “Uh, no. I’m by myself.”

The stranger smiled as he scooted past Wakeman and sat down, “Thanks, it’s getting pretty packed in here. Does it usually get this full?”

Next Sunday, I need a better buffer.

Wakeman was pulled back into a conversation he didn’t want to have.

“I have no idea. This is my first time attending this church.”

“This is my first time visiting, too. I just moved into this neighborhood on Monday. I’m Chad Beck.”

The man offered his right hand. Wakeman hadn’t been seated for more than a minute and already a worst-case scenario had presented itself:

He faced a talkative stranger who wanted to shake hands.

Keep tight eye contact. Don’t look at his hands. I’m not ready to do that today.

“Uh, Wakeman … Wakeman Pells,” he replied while keeping strict eye contact and quickly shaking Beck’s hand.

“Nice to meet you, Wakeman,” Chad said, giving him a firm businessman’s greeting. “I guess we’ll both find out what this church is like.”

Wakeman and Chad were both in their early 20s, but couldn’t have...

...looked more different from each other. Wakeman was tall, nearly 6- foot-5, while Chad appeared closer to 5-10. Wakeman had long, dark hair pulled into a ponytail, while Chad sported shortly cropped blond hair. Wakeman was wearing khaki pants and one of only two shirts in his collection with buttons and a collar. Chad was wearing dress pants and a shirt, complete with a tie. Wakeman had a muscular build, but Chad looked as though a stiff breeze could knock him over.

On the stage, a worship team began assembling behind microphones, a piano and a drum set. Two other members plugged in a pair of guitars. The din of conversation was dying down as one of the worship leaders asked everyone to begin singing a song called “Come, Now is the Time to Worship.”

But it wasn’t for Wakeman. He had less interest in singing than he did of ending an awkward conversation and ducking back behind the bulletin.

What’s on the menu today? Fire and brimstone? God is love?

Wakeman scanned the bulletin for any notes on today’s sermon. He ignored the prayer requests, church schedule information and three inserts. Eventually he came across the sermon title: “Witnessing.”

Doesn’t look like I’m going to get any answers today. I’m not even sure what that means.Witnessing.

Wakeman kept reading the bulletin as the singing continued. He was just starting to get comfortable when the music stopped, and his nerves returned to red alert.

What’s going to happen next?

The song leader quickly answered that question.

“Great singing everyone. Welcome to New Hope Bible Church. Let’s take a moment to greet one another in the name of the Lord. And be sure to offer a hand to someone you don’t know very well or haven’t talked to before.”

Wakeman felt himself falling into panic mode again. All those hands reaching out to him, shaking his right hand, the temptation to look at those hands and see what was scrawled there. It was too much. He reached into his jacket and pulled out his sunglasses and had them on before the first greeter extended a hand.

His palms already felt damp, the room’s temperature seemed about 20 degrees warmer than a few seconds ago, and he felt slightly dizzy.

He quickly shook a few hands, and received just as many strange looks. But the shades shielded him from what he feared most in life — what was written on the backs of people’s hands.

There was a momentary lull in the handshaking, so Wakeman was about to dive into his seat and avoid any more pressing of the flesh.

Beck’s back was turned away from him, but Wakeman could tell he was glad-handing every parishioner he could get his hands on.

Wakeman reached for his chair, but was interrupted when a large man standing in the row directly ahead of him whirled around and jabbed at him with his right hand. He was wearing a suit and appeared to be in his late 50s.

“Good morning, sir, my name’s Ted Lawson. What’s your name?

“It’s Wakeman Pells,” he said while returning the handshake and looking down.

“Do you attend here?”

“No, this is my first time here.” Pells was hoping the greeting would wind down and the service would continue, but evidently this church reserved more than a few minutes for salutations.

“Well, welcome to our church, Wakeman … but I must say, you really don’t need to wear your sunglasses inside the sanctuary,” the man’s voice sounded a bit disapproving. “Do you have some kind of eye condition or something?”

Wakeman certainly wasn’t prepared to answer that truthfully, but he couldn’t come up with a decent excuse either. His heart was pounding heavily in his chest and he suddenly felt trapped.

Coming to this church was a mistake.

“No, I just feel more comfortable with them one,” which was the truth actually.

But Lawson wouldn’t let it go.

“You can always feel comfortable in God’s house, son. Why don’t you ditch the shades? Unless you have something to hide … like drug use?” Lawson whispered the last two words and put a hand on Wakeman’s shoulder.

That touch set something off inside Wakeman’s head, like the sharp report of a starter’s pistol telling him it was time to run.

“Hey, Wakeman. Where are you going?”

Beck never received an answer. Wakeman already was sprinting toward the doors and didn’t stop until he reached his apartment a few minutes later.

During his run, Wakeman had only one thought, I will never be comfortable in God’s house.

Next Month in Soul Scout: “The Roadtrip”

Contact Rick Lubbers at rick_lubbers@livingstonesnews.com