(The first line of this story is from a federal appellate decision found at 841 F.2d 959. The rest is imagination.)

The reason he found jail so intolerable was the constant intrusion of messages from God coming over the loudspeaker. The voice just wouldn’t leave him in peace. He tried to hide from it, ignore it. But God’s words echoed like the rumble of a thunderstorm that refused to move on. Finally Eddie succumbed and surrendered to God’s will.

Eddie knew he was not the first to hear the word of God. Many had. And as many had ended up in similar peril. Joan of Arc may have led the French with the aura of the divine—but only until she was caught and condemned to flames. Both Peter and Paul were hauled off to jail and martyred in Rome. Jesus himself was arrested, lashed and derided for revealing his relationship with the Lord. Being called by God was as much bane as blessing—if not more so.

Eddie knew he shouldn’t have divulged that God had told him to steal the car. He was raised to be honest, though. He understood it was a mistake the moment he let it slip. It was a small detail. It made no difference. They had their man, their evidence, their case. Yet, he had to blurt this out when the officer asked, “why did you do it?”

“God told me to,” he had replied and turned away as he said it. It was embarrassing. It would have been better not to see the faithless skepticism entering their stares. And their sacrilegious laughter still hurt his ears.

“Come again?” his interrogators said in unison.

Eddie was forced to repeat himself. The officers headed out the door, and Eddie heard their cackling through the walls. At least it got him a few minutes of quiet. Then, without more questions, they ushered him back to his cell. The bars shut and one of them shouted, “clear.” Moments later God’s voice rang from the loudspeaker above the sink. It had continued ever since.

This was not the same voice Eddie had heard when he took the car. This voice had girth and body. The words were sharp and distinct. Authority filled it, the authority of the burning bush, of the light on the road to Damascus. It demanded obedience. It was not to be questioned.

God’s messages were simply enough—at first. “I am the Lord, thy God. You are my chosen, Eddie Bishop: my servant, my messenger, my truth.” The voice filled Eddie’s ears. He collapsed to a cot as vibrations burrowed into his skull, shook it empty, readied it for something new.

The voice proclaimed, “go to the sink. Cleanse thyself before My altar.”

Eddie did as commanded. He rose and walked across the cell. Then he fell to his knees as if to pray. “Rise, Eddie Bishop. Make thyself clean and righteous in My presence,” the voice ordered. Eddie turned the tap and cupped his hands under the faucet. When a flow started he splashed cool water onto his face. He bathed in the refreshment. It was just what he needed. God knew. Eddie kneeled down to thank Him. But then the voice bellowed out again.

“Not that water,” God raised his voice. “Hot water. Scalding water. Thou must be clean to approach Me; clean not only of body, but of soul. Hot water. Water that will purify thee. Water that thou shalt remember Me by. Water is thy penitence. Pain is thy worship. Now worship Me! Show Me thy honor and respect!”

Eddie rose to his feet slowly. He lifted his head to the speaker in supplication. “No, Lord. No. Please don’t make me do this.”

But the voice was unforgiving. “Now!” it commanded. “Show Me thou art worthy of Me. Remember, Eddie, Abraham didn’t flinch when I bid him to bring Me Isaac. He trusted Me. He did as I willed. And I rewarded him for his obedience—as I punish those who defy Me. Do not make Me have to punish thee, Eddie Bishop.”

Eddie nodded his head, but vaguely remembered that Abraham had hesitated. He dared not remind God. He could not bear more of God’s wrath. The shrill of God’s voice hurt his ears, his head, his joints. Eddie could not imagine a pain more deep or total.

He reached for the hot water knob, slowly twisted it, and thrust his left hand into the sink. The water was lukewarm. What relief! He was right to trust God. He was, after all, God’s chosen. God said so. He moved his other hand to join it and luxuriated in the warmth. It was a special warmth, a spiritual warmth, a warmth he had never before felt from water—or any earthly essence. It filled him, embraced him, comforted him. As he brought the water to his face he melded into it. It was like hearing the choir at his father’s church. He was content, at peace.

But only for a moment.

“Not now!” the voice blasted from above. “It is not ready. It must be steaming. Thy sins are great. Do you think that I have chosen thou for thy pleasure? No! No! Thou must expiate thy sins—scrub them away—scour thyself before thou shalt be deemed worthy. I shall tell thee when.”

Eddie waited. Water streamed into the basin. Steam rose. He moved his hand towards it.

“Not now,” God said. “Patience!” He demanded. “Patience!”

The steam grew thick. The tiles around the sink wept. The cell misted. Beads of water attached to the walls. Heat emanated from them. The bars on the far side glowed. The light above flickered. Eddie’s throat tightened as it became harder to breathe.

“NOW” he heard. “Ready thyself in My sight.”

Eddie stuck his hands under the faucet. It was scorching. He couldn’t take the pain. He pulled away.

“NOW” the voice of God repeated.

It would burn, Eddie knew. Burn badly. But it was better than burning in hell. Bracing himself, he slipped his hands back in. They turned red. But he kept them there. This was what God wanted, God’s will. He knew better; God knew all. Eddie knew he couldn’t, shouldn’t resist. God had His reasons, His plans, His ways, even if such things were not understandable to mere mortals such as himself.

Eddie caught the water in the palms of his hands and managed to stand the throbbing long enough to spread it over his face. It was like a million needles pricking at him. He almost cried out, but held back, muffled himself to a whimper. From over the speaker he heard laughter. Not just one voice, but many. The Elohim. God was with his angels; they were having sport with him, just as He and Satan had sport with Job. But, of course, there was method to Job’s sufferings. There must have been meaning to Eddie’s. God would not make him—anyone—suffer just for amusement.

“Now use the washcloth!” God’s voice directed. “Someone will come for you presently. Do not trust him. He will say he is your lawyer. But he is the devil’s.”

Eddie looked about the sink. There was no washcloth. He had not seen one in the cell before. But, of course, he did not want to ask God about it. If He said use a washcloth, then you damn well better use one. Any questions would only cause trouble. And, heaven knows, Eddie didn’t need any more trouble with God.

But Eddie found no washcloth. He looked and looked—in vain. Staring at the ceiling as if God’s eyes were there, he tightened his shoulders and asked, in as placating a voice as he could muster, “please, my Lord, where is this washcloth you want me to use? I am willing, but unable, my Lord, to follow your command.”

There was another titter of laughter from above, but it quickly faded as God’s voice roared out again. “O ye of little faith. You should know, I will provide. I always do.” Eddie bowed his head in assent and nodded.

“Close your eyes, My servant. What ye seek, ye shall find.”

Eddie closed his eyes. There was silence. He let the mist of steam bathe over him. It soaked through his clothes. It licked at his flesh. He absorbed God’s warmth; it flowed through him, into his veins, through his heart and to his soul.

It must have been hours. God remained silent while Eddie’s eyes stayed closed. It was peaceful, solitudinous. Time drifted. The soreness of his hands passed into memory. His feet felt like they were standing on pillows, not the bare concrete floor. The very presence of his body seemed to melt away. If this was death, if this was being called to God’s throne, then, take me Lord, he prayed, take me. He stood motionless in his infinite ecstasy, feeling himself soaking in God’s love. Eternity.

His tranquility ended when he heard the click of a lock. “Here,” a guard grumbled. “Clean yourself off.” He threw a washcloth through the bars. “You’ve got five minutes. And turn off that damned water! It’s like a steam bath in here.”

Eddie got on his knees and thanked God. Then he scrubbed his face, his hands, his arms. Vigorously. Zealously. It was like sandpaper. When he wrung out the cloth raw pieces of skin littered the sink. But he didn’t notice any pain. He was preparing—baptizing—himself. He was like St. Anthony in the desert or those ascetics of the Middle Ages who would seek out and endure any suffering for the glory of God. He was reconciled to God’s will—ready, cleansed, purified. For what, God would reveal.

Then the voice boomed out again. “Truth be holy unto Me, Eddie Bishop. Thou must tell the truth.” It seemed the sound of a demon—not God. “Judgment day approachth. Thou shalt be judged by thy deeds.” Eddie tightened his eyes. The voice did not go away. It thundered out the Ten Commandments, more like threats than principles. When it got to “Thou shalt not steal” it stopped.

Eddie heard the jangle of keys and then saw a guard escorting a man in a black suit. The bars slid back and the man walked in and extended his hand.

“Edward Bishop?” Eddie nodded. “I’m Donald Lynch. Your father sent me.”

Eddie shivered. “You’re my lawyer.”

“Yes. How’d you know?”

Eddie glanced at the loudspeaker. The bars closed with a bang. “It doesn’t matter,” Eddie muttered. The guard watched with a knowing smirk and then continued down the corridor.

The lawyer pointed to the cot. “You mind if we sit?”

“Go ahead. I’ll stand.”

After taking a seat the lawyer offered small talk. “Your father and I studied at the same seminary. I gave it up,” Lynch explained. “Just didn’t have the faith—like your father.”

Eddie said nothing.

“He said he’d have been here himself, but there was some emergency with a parishioner. A Ms. Shatterhart?”

“Of course. I understand.”

Eddie’s words were not quite responsive, so the lawyer tried a different approach. “Are they treating you okay, son?”

“They?”

“Yes. The police officers, jailers?”

“Oh sure, I guess.”

The lawyer heard hesitation in Eddie’s voice. “Is something wrong, son? You can tell me. I’m your lawyer.” He squinted to show sympathy.

Eddie turned his head towards the ceiling and said nothing.

“Let’s start with you telling me what happened,” Mr. Lynch said in the tone of a question. Eddie took another peek at the speaker. The lawyer followed his eyes. “Is something up there, son?”

“Well,” Eddie started and then stopped himself. “No, sir. Nothing.”

“Okay.” Mr. Lynch paused and waited. “Just remember, you can tell me, tell me anything. That’s my job.”

“Sure.” Eddie walked to the cot and finally sat.

The lawyer put his arm around Eddie’s shoulders. “Now, why don’t you just tell me what led you here?”

“Alright then.” He inhaled deeply and then let out his breath slowly. “Alright.” He was unsure of this man. He did not seem evil. And he had to tell someone what he had done. He started tentatively. “Now, Mr. Lynch, I know what I did was wrong. Wrong. I stole a car. I shouldn’t have. I was going to return it. Believe me. Return it.”

Lynch interrupted. “Return it, that’s good. We can use that.” He waited for Eddie to continue, but the boy was bent over, his face in his palms. “Tell me, Eddie, why did you take it?”

“I had to replace the car I wrecked,” Eddie explained. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to. My father’s car. I borrowed it. I did not have permission. But I had to. The girl next door needed to get to the hospital. I took her. On my way back I hit something, a rock, a pothole, I don’t know. It was just there. The car skidded off the road. I ended up in the river. Water flooded in through the windows. By the Lord’s grace I managed to get out. I don’t know how. I made it to the bank and saw the car sink, swallowed up by the water, just like Jonah. It was terrible. Terrible.”

Eddie went silent again. But the lawyer knew he would continue. He had to. He needed to unload his story, get absolution. All that was required now was patience. So he sat there motionless and waited. Suddenly it began again, pouring out of the poor boy in a torrent.

“My dad. He needs that car. It’s for his parishioners. He takes them shopping and to doctor’s appointments and things like that. The car, it’s for God’s work. He has to have one. God’s work. That’s what he always says. The car is really God’s, not his. He told me if I ever let anything happen to it that God would punish me. God! So, I had to replace it. I had no choice, or God. . . God. Well, He’d get mad. And God mad at you is an awful, awful thing, intolerable.

“Then I remembered,” Eddie continued. “I’d seen a car just like father’s. Just like it. So I managed to flag a ride downtown, to the dealership, and . . .”

“You took the car to replace your father’s.”

“God’s. . . I mean, yeah, my father’s. It was for God’s work, though, you know. It wasn’t for me, but for God. God told me to take it. God did and I . . .”

“God told you to take the car?”

“Ah. . . .” Eddie swallowed hard. “Yeah.”

“God did?”

Eddie closed his eyes. “Yes,” he admitted. “God. But I’ll put it right. I promise. I’ve just got to get out of here.” Eddie fell still, his chest beating heavily next to Mr. Lynch. Suddenly he began again, now with a terrified mutter. “God will continue to punish me until I can. He’s torturing me, torturing me until I can set everything right.”

“Torturing you, Eddie? How?”

Eddie spied up at the loudspeaker again and froze. “He just is, Mr. Lynch. He is. Please help me. I can’t take any more of this.”

The lawyer tried to find words to reassure the boy. But before he could formulate anything the sound of footfalls echoed from the corridor. He looked at his watch. “Damn! The guard’s on his way.” He turned to Eddie. “He is going to take us down the hall to the judge. The judge is going to ask whether you plead guilty or innocent. I don’t want you to answer. I want to talk to you more. And your father too. Do you understand?”

Eddie returned a questioning look. “But I’m guilty. I took the car. I don’t want to bear false witness.”

“You won’t. Just keep silent. I’ll talk.”

“You? And then what?”

“Well, we’ll come back to the cell and. . . .”

“Come back here? Here?” Eddie was frantic. “No. No! I can’t. I’ve got to get out of here.”

“Eddie. . .” the lawyer started to argue. But he was cut off.

“Time, counselor,” a deep voice that seemed familiar to Eddie called out. “Judge Hollister is ready.” The guard turned the key in the cell door and slid the bars open. “Let’s go.”

Eddie was handcuffed and the three of them walked out together, passing empty jail cells on the right and a couple of closed doors on the left. At the end of the corridor was a double-barred gate. Behind was a set of heavy doors. The lawyer went first, then Eddie. The guard followed and locked the doors behind them.

The lawyer led Eddie to a table and pulled out a chair. Eddie sat nervously. He examined the room. On a raised platform in front loomed a large imposing desk. He had to lift his head to look up at it. At one side was a small wooden chair; at the other was a door with a pane of cloudy glass. The lawyer sat next to Eddie studying a yellow pad of paper, mostly to pass the time.

In moments the guard returned and announced, “hear ye, hear ye. This court is in session. Please rise for the Honorable Geoffrey J. Hollister.” Eddie felt he recognized the voice. It was low and booming and it sounded like . . . no, it couldn’t be. Before he could finish his thought, the judge walked into the courtroom. He wore a long flowing black robe, like the choirmaster in his father’s church. His hair was combed to the side to cover his balding head. His face was full and red.

When the judge cleared his throat and banged his gavel, everyone but Eddie sat. The lawyer motioned for him to, but Eddie was unable to bend. The judge glared at him, and, as if by will, pressed Eddie back to his seat. The guard then read out, “The State of Idaho verses Edward Bishop.”

The judge shuffled some papers and asked if the lawyers were ready. A young man at the table opposite Eddie announced the state was ready. Then Mr. Lynch rose and said, “Your Honor, I have only been able to spend a few moments with my client. He has had a rough time. I request a continuance in order to. . . .”

The judge interrupted. “A delay? Is this what your client wants, Mr. Lynch? Delay? I doubt it.” He stared at Eddie. “Young man, do you want to return to your jail cell?” He paused. “Or do you want to get this over with? It’s up to you. I don’t want to rush you, but this court’s calendar is full, and, if we don’t get to your case today, it may be a while before we can. You’d have to wait in your cell until then.”

Eddie’s face twisted in horror. “My cell?”

“It’ll be OK,” Mr. Lynch said, putting his hand softly on the small of Eddie’s back. “Your Honor, Mr. Bishop doesn’t. . . .”

“Counselor!” The judge cut him off and turned his stare back to Eddie. “Mr. Bishop, your choice.” He motioned to the guard, who stood and started towards Eddie, fondling the keys on his key ring.

“No. No. I can’t go back!”

“Okay then, son, how do you plead? You are charged with the theft of an automobile. Did you take it?”

Mr. Lynch rose. “I object, your honor. I have not been able to advise my client of the consequences of his pleading.”

“Noted, counselor. Now please sit down. I think your client is anxious to end this. We can’t stand in the way of his right to a speedy trial. Now can we?”

The lawyer shook his head and slid back to his seat. “Now, Mr. Bishop, did you take the car?”

Eddie looked down. “Yes, sir.”

“Thank you, son. I’ll take that as a guilty plea.” He banged his gavel. “We will sentence you tomorrow.”

“Your honor,” Mr. Lynch rose again. “There are extenuating circumstances. We need to explain. You are railroading my client!”

“Counsel,” the judge roared, “I resent your implication. The defendant has decided to plead. He is exercising his constitutional rights. We cannot interfere with that. And I advise you to be very careful here. I don’t want to hold you in contempt. Bailiff,” the judge continued without pausing for breath, “please escort Mr. Bishop back to his cell to await sentencing.”

“This way!” the guard commanded. The voice rang with authority. It was low, rumbling and demanded obedience. Eddie rose. The sound was familiar. It was agony. He now realized where he had heard it before. Eddie’s eyes dropped and his shoulders slumped. Head down, he shuffled across the courtroom floor. Soon he was back in his cell. The guard called out “clear.” It was awful. It was the voice of God.

The Voice © 2017 Marc L. Sherman