Underground; The Novel
Underground; The Novel
America brought to her knees. Public religion outlawed. Churches, mosques, synagogues empty & locked. Two men experience the aftermath.
America brought to her knees. Public religion outlawed. Churches, mosques, synagogues empty & locked. Two men experience the aftermath. Read more
About this project
"Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion or prohibiting the free exercise thereof." ~First Amendment, United States Constitution
These words, penned and ratified by the architects of a new nation have for over two-hundred years guaranteed generations of Americans the right to freely and openly worship the deity of their convictions.
In the mid-1990's Brian Denning and Wallace McCauley devoted their lives to leading others in pursuit of and devotion to the Divine. For the first few years as spiritual leaders and shepherds of their respective flocks, they lived and worshiped and worked openly.
Early in the new century a darkness of mass destruction, civil unrest, and economic collapse descended upon the nation, bringing her to her knees. As a result, Denning and McCauley discovered that they were among the final generation of Americans to know and enjoy the freedoms fought for by their forefathers.
In the pages of Underground; The Novel, you will be drawn into their stories of devotion, tragedy, loss, fight for survival, and hope as you experience with them, and those intertwined in their lives, the twilight of a free nation, and the dawning of a spiritual reality few of us could imagine. And perhaps, you will discover as you read not only the pages of this novel, but the headlines of your own newspaper in the months to come, that their story is becoming yours.
Funds pledged for this project will be used for professional cover design, professional editing, and to cover expenses for a book-signing tour in the spring of 2012. Thanks so much for joining with me!
Here is the back story of how this project came to be:
It was August, 2009. Out of nowhere my mind was flooded with thoughts, ideas, characters, plots, settings, and a title for a spiritual novel that I felt sure would not just be a piece of fiction, but possibly a look forward into time with my fiction becoming a collective reality for hundreds of millions of Americans. I took time off from work and drove to Fort Walton Beach, Florida where I spent a few days by the sea trying to pull it all together. I began. I never finished.
Since that time, some of the events and circumstances that existed only in the unwritten book between my ears have happened and are now part of our national story. I am watching, in the news broadcasts and newspaper headlines, many of my plot elements unfolding.
Several weeks ago I left the office and met a friend and former colleague in pastoral ministry. We drank beer. We ate wings. We shared the stories of all we've endured since the days we pastored churches in the same town, mine a newly planted church full of young people, his an older denominational church full of senior citizens. We compared notes on how we both left the ministry and dropped out of religion.
In that conversation he said something to me which, in my typical cynical, skeptical fashion, I took with a grain of salt and another long drink of Miller Light.
"Bill, people like you and me are being prepared for something. All that's happened to us has not been an accident. It's not been in vain. In fact, it's been orchestrated and choreographed to prepare us for what's coming. And what's coming will be so radically different, so distressing, but so "of-God" that it can't be entrusted to the kind of spiritual leaders we've known and ourselves have been in the past. It will be entrusted to men and women who have been where we've been, gone through what we've gone through, see what we now see, and are willing to be "heretics" and "martyrs." Bill, I honestly believe that there's a good chance that you and I will both, at some point, be imprisoned or killed for what we believe, say, and do."
I kind of avoided eye contact, focusing on my half-empty beer mug and poultry remnants as he spoke. Honestly, I wanted to laugh. It sounded narcissistic, self-glorifying. I'm not that significant. I saw myself as washed up, finished, with little to offer anyone, and simply attempting to endure to the end. I can't imagine myself being in any way, shape, or form the kind of instrument of God my friend was describing. But there was something chilling in the things he said. I've not been able to dismiss it. And, since that conversation, the words I began to write in 2009 yet never finished have returned to me. And once again, I feel that it has to be written.
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