Francis LaPorte and the Association of Good Fellows

One Altar

Sunday, 30 Sh'vat, 5693

Francis LaPorte looked out over the people from the altar where he stood, desperate to reach them. It was his hope that someone, anyone would listen as he delivered the stern warning which he carried silent in his breast, waiting to be given life in his words.

The past weeks had not been kind. They were filled with trials and temptations for him and for all who made their home in Garma. These were the days of suffering hardship, such times as he had never hoped to see, but he did wonder. Everything seemed to be spiraling out of control ever so quickly, and so many were so easily seduced by this new savior and his promises. But as large a matter as it was for the world, it was more so for the Kingsmen who knew, or rather who ought to have known that the very place which men ascribed to Freitag in their hearts, their hopes, their dreams of freedom, salvation, and a better world was that which rightly belonged to their King.

So, he read to them from the Kingsmen Chronicles that day a story, an old one. It was a tale of might and of valor, the story of a man overcome by fear and a people who had lost all hope... before the coming of their King. It was the story of a man named Gismore, a man known for his fearful reluctance and doubt... a man God used to save a nation.

"Many times you've heard men speak of Gismore and how he saved the people of Altruon, but this," he said, shaking at them the book of the Chronicles which he read, "this is no heroic tale. With three hundred men they defeated a mighty army, but was it through cleverness that they smashed those pots and blew their trumpets for battle in torchlight?

"Isn't it true that Gismore was reticent? Can you think of something more pointless, more meaningless than throwing wheat to the wind while standing deep down in a pit? But that is the human existence - it is hopelessness. As hopeless as Gismore's endeavor is our present position, and we ourselves are in that pit," his words echoed through the sanctuary of the gothic cathedral as he spoke his words, cutting and elegant. "What happened with Gismore is not a lofty proclamation of man's strength or courage. To the contrary, it is God's mocking of that might. Men speak of their own power and might, and they glory in it as, in their own strength, they build up forces and kingdoms for themselves. All the while, God mocks and holds them in derision.

"What is the might of man? Here is the Sovereign One, the living God, whose strength is unequalled. For him, who has all power in his hands, who speaks a word and it is done, who sends his spirit and the world lives, or recalls it and the world perishes, who dashes the nations to pieces like a potter's vessel — for this God, there is no heroism in man. When brought face-to-face with the true image of our God, we come to find the truth of ourselves, the humiliation of our might and pride. It is in this place of humility and awestruck wonder that we find we are lowly servants and strengthless. Our only strength is in our weakness, in that very place as we kneel before God, our Creator, as his helpless creation, so dependent upon his grace - his strength, not ours.

"What Gismore finds is not the might of man but of God. It is not the might of his armies or the might of his sword; it is not the might of his own abilities which delivers the people of Altruon from the armies of Obed; it is God who delivers them by faith.

"Gismore learns faith in this story. He learns to trust the one who calls him for the provision needed on his journey, for the great might needed to overcome his enemies. Gismore is very much like us. He wants to do it on his own, to face the battle on his own. He works to accomplish the call of his King by his own strength. He plans and he gathers an army, but then he finds God is right there again in his path saying, "These people are too many for me." What a shock that our own might should impede the might of God. But what of God's might? What if we heard and believed when he called and said, "I will be with you"? If we only knew what that means! If we only had faith. Then, like Gismore, we could send away our armies. We could put our weapons down and trust God for the victory, because we would know he is with us in his might, which is so much greater than every might of ours.

"Gismore conquers, the Kingsmen conquer, and we conquer, because faith alone conquers. But the victory belongs not to Gismore, the Kingsmen, or ourselves, but to God our King. And his victory means our defeat, our humiliation; it means God's derision and wrath at all human pretensions of might, at humans puffing themselves up and thinking they are someone themselves. It means the world and its shouting is silenced, that all our ideas and plans are frustrated; it means the cross. The cross over the world—that means that human beings, even the most noble, go down to dust whether it suits them or not, and with them all the gods and idols and lords of this world. We who were dust are dust and in dust shall lay."

Francis stopped, closed the book with his notes, and stepped away from the pulpit without uttering a word of his intentions. The room was quiet, so quiet that all could hear the sound of his footsteps which echoed through the open chambers as he walked softly upon the polished stone to the center of the platform. The altar was richly decorated with ornate wood carvings of holy and of pleasant things and overlaid with gold. It was a beautiful altar, but that day was over it draped a foreign tapestry, a black banner with the stylized letters G and F stitched in white and interlocked. It was the flag of the Association.

So, he turned to the people and he said, "In the congregation of the Kingsmen, there is only one altar—the altar of the Most High God, before whom even the most powerful are but dust. We have no other altar at which to worship human beings. The worship of God and not of mankind is what takes place at the altar of our church."

He paused, his eyes scanning the curious faces of the people who gathered in crowded pews. He could tell by their expressions that they were all anxiously awaiting some drastic conclusion.

"I have seen this other altar on which to worship man. I have heard it hallowed as the herald of our hope," he said, speaking boldly to the congregation with plainness of heart. "Let me be very clear: anyone who wants to build an altar to himself or to any other human being is making a mockery of God, and God will not be mocked. To be a Kingsmen means to have the courage to be alone with God as King, to worship him and him alone, not any human person. And it does take courage. The thing that hinders us most from letting God be our King, from believing in him, is our cowardice."

It was then that Francis turned and stripped the flag of the Association from the altar, throwing it down to the cold stone at his feet.

"So, I'm done now," he said, turning back to the shocked faces of the crowd. "From this time, let us take courage... not in our strength, but in the strength of our King who calls us, saying, "I am with you. Be not afraid.""