Peter, the Keys and the Knife

                                             
                                                           
    I was sent to save his soul. My boss said that, not in those words, just in so many. I’ve consoled many people during my tenure as an assistant pastor at a large Baptist church in Illinois, but never on death row. John Sanders, Lead Pastor, has always liked my style of explaining the scriptures and chose me for this experiment. The subject, one Frank Zalinski, had stabbed and slit the throat of his next-door neighbor in an argument over parking spaces. By all accounts Frank was a model citizen and deacon in his church home for twenty-five years. The execution was set for 12:01 a.m. October 14, 1965, and I had two days. I wasn’t angry with John for some reason, in fact I was looking forward to it. It was uncharted territory for me and if I failed…how would anyone but God know if I did? At the main gate I showed the hapless guard my identification papers and was escorted to a visitation room. I was allowed one hour that day, and if he refused my help, it would be over—for Frank and me.

      The picture I had of Zalinski didn’t do him justice as he was placed across the table by two armed guards who I wouldn’t insult even on a long distance phone call; they looked that formidable. He needed a haircut but it was soon to be shaved off, and he seemed a lot older that his forty-three years. His lawyer had told him of my coming but had said nothing of my mission. I found him smarter than he looked when he laid the eyes of a murderer on me and laughed out loud.

    “So what do you think you’re gonna’ gain here… PADRE?”
    “I’m here to see to it that you go north, not south.”

    My name is James McNealy, third son of a Chicago south-side bricklayer and domestic who helped raise six children by taking in other’s laundry and using her seamstress skills to fund our educations. Life in Cicero was tough on a skinny runt like me, and I learned to handle myself well with the hooligans. This is going to take some time, I thought, so I’ll get down on his level if that’s what it takes. I’m not your average preacher—I can speak the Queen’s English or Satan’s Profanish if needed, God forgive me. I awaited his reply.

    “Screw you!” I took that as a positive sign; he didn’t use the F…word. He was a tough nut so I gave him a stare that said “O.K. I got the message, but I’m not going away.” He turned away from me trying to show disgust but dropped his gaze and looked down at the table. It was then I knew I had to study not only his tone, but his body language as well.

    “How did we get here, Frank, how’d it go this far?”
    “I don’t know, preacher man, you tell me.” He looked straight at me, relaxed his shoulders and folded one hand in the other finger-in-finger style. He was ready to talk about it, but he had a game to play. I could see we’d have to argue point for point on whatever he brought up before I could get through to him.

    “Alright, Zalinski, let’s look at the facts. You gave your life to Christ when you were fifteen—right? You spent the next twenty-five years in service to your church. So, where and when did God disappoint you?” That caught him off guard, and the period of his silence told me I hit a nerve.

    “And what makes you think I was ever disappointed?”
    “One human being that’s no longer with us.” With hands still folded, his face moved closer to me, and so did the guards.
    “He had it coming, and that’s all I’m gonna’ say about that!”
    “Are you sure, Frank?” I asked. “That’s more than you said at the trial.”

    Though he pleaded not guilty, he said nothing at his trial and didn’t testify in his own behalf. His pastor and family members spoke highly of his character at the sentencing hearing, but to no avail. My system seemed to be working, as his manner turned from confrontational to somewhat subdued.

    “You ask,” he began, “if I was ever disappointed. Hell yes I was, many times. I did everything the Good Book said I ought to and what’d I get, I got nothing…and I mean nothing! I trusted God would take care of me when I was fifteen, and I gave Him twenty-five years of my best. So how’d He reward me? He sent me a woman who cheated on me all the time and a dead end job that I hated every day. Then he sent me some ignorant atheist for a neighbor that parked his car in front of my driveway every Sunday. When I asked him to please move it he laughed at me and said ‘O.K. church boy, we wouldn’t want you to be late, now would we?’ I put up with him for five years and that day I couldn’t take it no more, and I snapped. I did it, I don’t deny it, and I’m ready for Hell ‘cause I don’t want no part of this thing you call Heaven. Is that plain enough for you, Jimmy?”

    This was going to be tougher that I thought. I had no answer for him. My mind was whirling with thoughts to counter his, but it went blank. Then I recalled a sermon I heard once about Peter, the keys, and the knife.

    “What do you think about Peter, Frank?”
    “Who you mean—St. Peter?”
    “Yeah.”
    “I don’t know. He was a saint, what of it?”
    “What did he do for a living before Christ called him to service?”
    “The way I remember it, he was a fisherman.”
    “That’s right. A sailor, and maybe a foul mouthed sinner, and good with a knife.

    Oh Dear Lord, if I’m telling this man wrong please show me the error of my ways, I prayed silently. His eyes darted back and forth and he looked left then right. Now he went blank, and I was sure I had the upper hand when he asked…

    “What’d you say about the knife?”
    “He was no stranger to it, Frank, so ponder this. I’ve never done violence to anyone except back alley fights when I was a kid. How hard do you think it would be for me to walk up to you—without forethought—and cut your ear off? And let’s say you were a soldier, how much harder do you think that’d be?”
    “Well I…I never thought about it like that.”
    “Now think about this one, my friend. When Jesus needed him the most he lost his nerve. He was not only a possible bully and thug, but a coward as well.”

    He relaxed and sank down in his chair. When he bowed his head I knew I was getting through to him. I had one last chance.

    “And then he saw the light, Frank. He was converted in the blink of an eye, and now he decides who gets into heaven and who doesn’t. St. Peter has the keys, and if Jesus loved him enough to forgive him and give him that much responsibility, He can forgive you too. All you have to do is knock, my brother, and it will be opened.”
    “But…I’ve done murder.”
    “I know, and for that you must pay the ultimate price. Tonight, when you’re alone, ask for His forgiveness. I can’t help you with that, Mr. Zalinski, you’ve got to do that yourself.”

    One of the guards looked at his watch, and then at me—my time was up. One tear dripped from this poor man’s eye, and as I stood to say a last goodbye he was as a stone, no movement, no sound, no emotion. I turned to leave.

    “Are you coming back tomorrow around midnight, Reverend?”
    “We’ll see.”
   
    But I did not go. I had no desire to see the State in action.