The Agnostic Violinist - The Conversion of Josprel's Parents
Written by Josprel
B
roszi Lombardino and Paul Perrello grew up like brothers. Leaving Italy, their Sicilian immigrant parents had met at Ellis Island, became steadfast friends, and settled almost next door to each other. Shortly thereafter, their sons were born, only two days apart, growing up like twins, with almost no life apart from each other.
Provided with an opportunity to study music, both developed into superb musicians. Broszi, a master drummer, referred to himself as ‘“The Percussionist,” as though on the entire planet Earth, he alone played the drums. Moreover, Paul, a virtuoso of the violin, often bragged that no one could "percuss like Brosz." On the other hand, often referring to Paul as “The Violinist,” The Percussionist frequently claimed that Paul "invented the strings."
In their early years, Broszi had continuously prodded Paul to form his own orchestra. "I don't have the patience to lead one, Paul, but you do. I'll be your percussionist, and I'll help any other way I can."
Finally, The Paul Perrello Orchestra was organized. Orchestras usually employed "wind" leads, but Paul's violin led their group. The orchestra's sound instantly captivated ethnic Italians, expanding to general audiences, until it was in popular demand throughout several states, and much of nearby Canada.
Though he never used the term, The Violinist was an agnostic. He claimed that no one could know that a God really existed. He even attempted, unsuccessfully, to prevent his wife, Sara - who was a devout Roman Catholic - from attending her church. Only through her perseverance was Joey, their infant son, baptized.
Broszi, however, did attend church. An irrepressible jokester, he often teased Paul about his anti-religious views. It was a liberty Paul accorded only to Broszi. That is, until that altercation about orchestra affairs when, in exasperation, The Percussionist branded him a stubborn heathen, hoping he would burn in hell!
Broszi had never seen the slim, five-foot-seven, normally mild-mannered, Violinist so livid. Fulminating at the burly, six-foot-three Broszi, Paul erupted!
"You impious hypocrite; you’re lucky we're friends!! You’re worst than any heathen! Your act holy in church, but I see what you do on the outside. If Grace knew what you do when we’re out of town, you wouldn’t have a family left.
"If there were a God, He wouldn’t let you make such a fool out of Him, the way you do. If one does exist, you’d be in your grave right now. He would have struck you dead a long time ago! I'll tell you this, you big phony; if I knew that there really was a God I’d serve Him the right way - not like you pretend to do."
Turning to leave, Paul added, "Don't ever mention religion to me again. Not ever! Is that clear?"
Then he stalked away!
Taken aback, Broszi feared he had destroyed their friendship. He and Paul had argued before, but never like this! They were just brotherly spats. And Paul never had reacted this way – eyes blazing, fists clenched and voice menacing.
Reflecting on the argument, Broszi realized Paul's charges were true. Out of town with the orchestra, he partied excessively, gambled, and was not above easy flirtations, things his wife, Grace, didn't know. A good family man, Paul did none of these. Moreover, he always was ready to help others. It was a matter of honor for him never to renege on his word, and his friends claimed that Paul's word was "like money in the bank."
Broszi apologized almost immediately, but for weeks afterward, they conversed only when unavoidable. Eventually, the gulf narrowed, and then closed. The old camaraderie resurfaced, with their mutual concern for each another. And it was that concern over The Percussionist’s two inexplicable absences from rehearsals that now brought Paul to Broszi's door.
*****
Home alone, The Percussionist was thrilled to see his friend. "Paul! Come in! Come in! I've been expecting you!"
Surrendering his hat and coat, The Violinist noticed that Broszi appeared well.
"You've been expecting me?"
"Yes!! Yes!! I've been praying for God to send you, so you could hear what happened to me!"
Paul groaned in disgust. "Oh, no! I'm here because I was worried about you, and you joke around! Get my things; I'm leaving! Be at rehearsal tomorrow! AND WITHOUT THE JOKES!"
Broszi sought to placate Paul's indignation. "Please Paul, I beg you: don't leave! It's no joke. I have been praying! Stay; let me tell you what happened."
Gradually, Paul's indignation melded with curiosity. He had never heard Broszi begged before. He seemed different, somehow. Accepting the proffered chair, The Violinist responded apprehensively, "O.K. Brosz, but, this better be good!"
Over coffee, Broszi began. “I’m born again, Paul! I’m going to a church that teaches right from the Bible!” As he spoke, he told of the things he had learned. Then he exclaimed excitedly, "Paul, I never knew these things were in the Bible! I'M SAVED!!”
Unfamiliar with the terms "born again," and "saved," Paul grunted incredulously. What in the world was Broszi talking about? He was sure that, like him, The Percussionist had never even held a Bible, much less read from one.
“Brosz, I don’t know what in the world you’re talking about. Either you’re drunk, or this really is another one of your nutty jokes. And, believe me, when I say “nutty,” I mean like a FRUITCAKE!!”
"Wait, Paul. Just hear me out. I know you’d love the music in this church! It has a big orchestra – all the winds and strings, two pianos, an organ, accordions!"
Then, in a voice bordering on awe, he added, "And percussions, Paul. This church even has percussions in the orchestra! Can you believe it!?"
A look of sheer scorn contorted Paul’s features. Now he was sure Broszi was pulling another of his practical jokes. Drums in a church?! Did he really expect him to swallow this line?
Lifting a hand for silence, he emphatically declared, "Enough, Brosz! So this IS another of your stupid religious jokes, eh? You know what I told you about this garbage."
"But it's all true, Paul; the services are in Italian! The people sing and are so happy! They even clap to the music. Oh, the prayers and song, Paul! They’re just beautiful! You should hear those people sing and pray! They sing and talk to God like He's standing right there in front of them."
The earnestness on Broszi's face baffled Paul; it shouldn't be there. This was a joke.
Reaching across the table, Broszi gripped Paul's wrist, his voice reverent, "Paul, I know you won't believe this either, but the preacher asks people to get saved. He prayed with me and Grace. We've been saved! You and Sara should get saved, too! Grace and I have been praying for you both to get saved.”
This was more than Paul could take!! Now Broszi was "saved”!
“So you’re saved. How are you saved - in a trunk? Or in a bank maybe? How about Fort Knox? Now, there’s a good place to be saved! I think the banging of your drums has finally driven you batty. What you really need to be saved from is your nuttiness! That’s what I think!”
Rising to his feet, he asked for his things. Slipping into them, in a voice full of concern, he said, "Brosz, at first I thought you were kidding. Now I'm not so sure you are. I don't even know what you’re talking about, and neither do you. For once, I really hope this is one of your stupid jokes!
“But if you really believe all this malarkey you just fed me, then you’re bonkers. You really need to see a shrink! I’m serious about that. If you make an appointment with one, I’ll even keep you company when you go. Anyway, I'm leaving, now."
Paul aimed for the door, but, Broszi instantly moved to block his path. Gripping the knob, he remarked, "Just one more thing, Paul, I'm leaving the orchestra."
Paul’s jaw dropped; Broszi never had threatened this before. The group was as much his as Paul's. The Percussionist knew this; his love for it equaled that of The Violinist.
At a loss for words, the Paul stammered, "B... B... But, w... w... why? We've disagreed before. The group is as much yours as mine. Even, though you’re nuts, no one can percuss like you. Just don't talk to me about religion. I’ve told you that before. That's not too much to ask, is it? Be at rehearsal tomorrow. Just leave all your religious talk home."
"No, Paul. I won't be there; really. I've given up that kind of life. You know what a hypocrite I’ve been. You’ve told me often enough.”
"Aw, come on, Brosz! You know I always say that when I get mad at you for talking about religion. It’s just talk."
"I know; but you were right, Paul. Anyway, I'm quitting because my talent belongs to God, now."
Paul felt bile surging in his throat. "Look, just let me leave!" he demanded.
"Will you visit the church?"
"I said, let me leave, Brosz!"
"You can't leave until you promise to go to church with me!"
Now Paul was certain Broszi's mind was gone! "Open this door, Brosz," he fumed.
“Not unless you give me your word you’ll to church with me!”
Paul didn't know what to do. He could never really strike Broszi; they’d been friends too long. Anyway, The Percussionist was a lot bigger than he was. He tried prying Broszi’s hand from the knob. It was too strong.
“Let me leave!”
"Not without your promise that the next time we meet, you'll go with me!" Broszi demanded.
Seeing no other alternative, the flabbergasted Violinist finally surrendered. Hotly, he answered, almost yelling, "O.K!! O.K! But it’s got to be an accidental meeting. You can’t meet me anywhere you’ll know I’ll be. Agreed?”
"Agreed!” And the door swung open.
Then, with a brutal detachment, Paul spoke the words neither of them ever thought possible! Face hardened into a scowl, he spaced them deliberately, and punctuating each word with a finger jabbed in Broszi’s chest. "From this day on, our friendship is ended. No longer are we brothers!”
And, feeling as though his heart had been torn from him, The Violinist stepped through the door!
*****
When he arrived home from his visit to Broszi, Paul paced the floor absorbed in thought. Sara surmised that something had happened, but asked no questions, waiting for him to speak. Finally, Paul told her everything.
"If he hadn't quit I could have overlooked everything else," he exclaimed, "Friends always have their differences. We always got over them before. Sure he teased me; but I teased him too! What really makes me mad is his quitting!
"Now he's religion crazy! He's so holy he can't play in the orchestra any more! 'I've given up the kind of life I use to lead,' he told me; like he's joining a monastery; like, all of a sudden, his God is going to strike him dead for being in the orchestra! Can you imagine that?"
Then, waggling one of his forefingers at his wife, he declared: "Believe me, honey, if his God wanted to strike Bros dead, He has more reasons than I can count! He doesn't need the orchestra as a reason!
Lowering his hand, he continued, "You know, if he had stayed, he would have pestered me to visit that church with him; and, nincompoop that I am, I probably would have gone - just to make him happy!"
Sara looked up from her ironing with a scowl. Unlike Paul, she was devoted to her church. She was shocked that Broszi and his family had "changed religion." According to her view, what their former friends had done was unforgivable!
"Don’t you dare!" she exclaimed, "I'm glad he quit! Don't you ever go to that church; even if you do see him again!"
"Don't worry, Sara," her husband assured her, "I told him it has to be an accidental meeting. In a city this size that will never happen!"
*****
The new drummer was working out fine and the orchestra was doing better than ever. Yet, for Paul things just weren't the same. A malignant tumor had developed on Sara's neck. The doctors wanted to operate, but refused to offer assurances.
As he had told Sara, the chance of an accidental meeting with Broszi in a city of some two million people was remote. He hadn't seen The Percussionist for several months. Though still angry with him, it still felt strange not to have him as his confidant. He knew the big man and his wife would have been as concerned for Sara as he was. Paul missed them.
Like now for instance - before the rift, he would have asked Broszi to drive downtown with him, to help shop for this expensive orchestra equipment. They would have consulted together on the best quality. And, possibly, they would have picked up Sara and Grace for dinner. Instead, Paul went alone.
After making arrangements for the delivery of his purchases, Paul entered the parking lot. He noticed a new book store had opened across the street. An avid reader, he walked over and entered the well-stocked shop. Like him, several others appeared to be checking it out, too; but Paul paid them no mind. At the rear he noticed shelves and bins filled with hundreds of old books. Old books were his hobby.
He had been browsing for a while, when someone brushed against him. Making an apology, without looking up, he moved to clear the passage.
"Hello Paul!" Paul tensed, but kept his eyes glued to his book. That voice was unmistakable.
Again, the voice spoke. "Hello Paul!"
This time Paul turned. The big man's hand was extended for a handshake. But The Violinist did not reciprocate. Remaining silent, he noticed Broszi looked well. The season was warm and, like Paul, he wore slacks and a sport shirt.
Withdrawing his hand, Broszi inquired about Sara. “Grace and I heard about Sara. Our whole church is praying for her to get well.”
Still Paul's silence continued, creating an atmosphere of awkwardness. “Here he is talking about religion again,” he mused to himself.
At last he spoke. With cutting sarcasm he asked, "Did your God tell you I was here or did you sniff me out on your own?"
"This meeting is completely accidental, Paul. You know I’d never lie to you."
Paul knew that was true. Broszi had a lot of faults, but lying wasn’t one of them - if deceiving his wife wasn’t factored into the equation. At any rate, Sara was the only one who had known that he had gone out. More to the point, he had not known about the new book store, so how could Broszi know he would be there?
"I suppose now you expect me to visit that church," he stated, bitterly.
"No Paul. What I did was wrong. I was totally out of line. It's a wonder you didn't hit me. I told my pastor what I did, and he said I was wrong to force the promise from you.”
“Well, at least he has more sense than you do,” Paul replied.
“I was wrong, Paul. I release you from your promise."
"Oh! You were wrong; and, you release me?! How kind you are!"
Ignoring orchestra leader’s dripping sarcasm, The Percussionist responded, "Yes, I was wrong. I have no excuse, Paul, except maybe my ignorance. Please forgive me."
Paul stared, slack jawed. To his astonishment, Broszi’s eyes were brimming with tears. In all the adult years they had chummed together, the only time Paul had ever seen his former friend cry was when he and Grace almost lost their son to a swimming accident. Even then, the brawny man hid in a corner. But, these tears were flowing openly; in public.
The Violinist felt uneasy - plagued by vague sense of cruelty. His sarcasm dissolved.
Again, The Percussionist’s hand was proffered. This time it was accepted. Pulling the smaller man to him, Broszi embraced him, and Paul could feel tears welling in his own eyes.
Releasing him, Broszi stated, "Paul, Grace and I really miss you and Sara. Can we visit you?"
"No, I don't think that's such a good idea. Frankly, Sara wants nothing to do with you since you changed religion."
Broszi nodded his understanding.
"Brosz . . . about . . . that . . . promise. I . . . I . . . just . . . I just . . . Well, you know that I always try to keep my promises, and I wouldn’t feel right about not keeping this one,” The Violinist finally blurted out, “I've been limiting the orchestra to local gigs because of Sara's treatments. So I have a few open nights. When's your next mass?"
"Our church is having services every night. They start at seven-thirty. I really want you to attend, but not because of the promise."
At first, Paul stared at Broszi with disbelief. Then his words exploded from him, "Every NIGHT!! YOU’RE GOING TO CHURCH EVERY NIGHT?!”
Coupling amusement with befuddlement at his own change of life-style, Broszi responded, "Yeah Paul; isn’t that a shocker; who’d of believed it?"
Paul shook his head in bewilderment. "Give me directions to the church. I'll meet you there tonight, so I can get that promise out of the way."
Broszi wrote out the directions. "I'll be waiting in front of the church," he promised. And, with a final handshake, the two separated.
*****
Convincing himself that it was best not to upset her, Paul left the house without informing Sara of his destination. His evenings usually were occupied with the orchestra, so she thought nothing of his leaving. Still, he could feel his conscience twinge. He and Sara never kept secrets from each other; this was a first.
The spacious church parking lot already was filled to capacity when he arrived. So were the near-by curb spaces, forcing The Violinist to park a distance from the church - a fact that surprised him. He had held a vague concept that Broszi was involved with a small cult. But this church was an enormous, cathedral-like structure.
He found Broszi waiting expectantly. In front of the church - up the steps - even in the foyer - with exclamations of joy, women hugged women, and men embraced men. Never - not even on the orchestra’s most festive gigs - had The Violinist seen people who appeared so happy to see each other.
Broszi also hugged his way toward the sanctuary, often pausing to say in Italian, "This is my best friend, Paul Perrello. We've been like brothers since we were kids. Please continue to remember his wife, Sara, in prayer; she needs healing."
Paul was overwhelmed by the solicitude these strangers voiced for Sara. Many even promised to pray daily for her healing. None of his friends had voiced such compassion.
"Thank you; thank you," he graciously responded, "I appreciate your concern."
*****
The sanctuary was filled to capacity with some two thousand worshipers, but Sara thought nothing of it. Her own church was a large one; moreover, as the wife of a musician, and a woman who loved to party and dance, she was accustomed to large gatherings. It was the service that bewildered her; she couldn’t relate it to anything she ever before had experienced. She found the music and singing exhilarating, realizing now, that Paul had not exaggerated when he told her that the music in this church was “fantastic.”
Mostly, it was the kind of praying these people did that astonished her. It was a strange kind of praying. The small man who moved to the pulpit motioned with his hands and made a remark; the congregation - Paul included - rose to its feet, turned and knelt between the pews.
Not Sara, though. She remained sitting uncompromising - rigidly at attention, cradling Nina.
After several voices in succession uttered what Sara took to be prayers, one man close by spoke right out loud in a language she knew was like no Italian she had ever heard. The man’s voice subsided and an expectant hush fell on the gathering. Then, from several isles away, a women voice spoke out in fluent English, “You are seeking to enter heaven by following a religion. But no religion will get you there. Jesus Christ said that He is the way, the truth, and the life. No one can come to God, the Father, without going through Jesus Christ. Only Jesus can lead you to eternal life.
“You have come to this service tonight only to receive healing for your child, yet God will also heal you from the terrible tumor that afflicts you. But your soul also needs to be healed from your sins and your doubts and fears. Tonight you shall be born again by God’s Holy Spirit and you shall become a new person. God will fill you with his Holy Spirit and you shall witness to many others of the wondrous things Jesus Christ has done for you.”
It was a flabbergasted violinist’s wife who sat through the offering and the message that followed. Just before the preaching ended, Sara turned to Paul with a puzzled look, and whispered, “A voice in my head keeps saying that I’ll saved, and healed, and filled with the Holy Spirit tonight. That’s the same thing that woman said would happen me. I don’t know what that all means. Paul I’m scared. Let’s leave here.”
Paul took her hand and whispered back, “If God is going to do it, it should be fine. You want Nina to be healed, don’t you? If we leave now, she won’t be prayed for.”
With an uneasy look, Sara nodded.
*****
The alter call was given. The minister progressed down the long line of supplicants, finally reaching Sara, Nina cradled in her arms, Paul and Grace behind them. Addressing her in English, the minister inquired, “Are you saved?”
“I believed in God,” Sara responded, defensively.
“But are you saved? Have you received Jesus Christ as your own personal Savior?” he persisted.
“I really don’t understand what you mean. I said I believe in Jesus.”
“You must receive Him into your heart and life, personally,” explained the minister, “You must believe that He died to save you from the power of sin, and that He rose from the grave to give you eternal life. When you confess that, He will save you from your sins.”
“But I already believe all those things. My own religion taught them to me when I was only a little girl. Anyway, I’m not a bad person. I’m not a sinner.”
“Do you read the Bible?”
Sara shrunk back in horror! “No! Never! I would never do something like that! My husband just started to read it, but I don’t want him to. I try to stop him, but he won’t listen to me. He shuts himself in the bathroom, so I can’t stop him from reading it.”
The minister smiled and prayed for her, lightly touching her brow with the tips of fingers. Instantly, Sara’s legs buckled, and Grace grabbed Nina.
Covered by a blanket, arms lifted, eyes closed, oblivious to her surroundings, Sara sang to the Lord in songs so soul-stirring, that other worshipers wept.
Not Paul, though!
Stunned, he watched Sara’s tumor diminish, and then vanish. Informed by Grace that Nina's fever was gone, he just gapped, slack-jawed! But, oblivious to time and surroundings, Sara continued her celestial song.
When, finally, she opened her eyes and attempted to speak, melodic tunes were all she could utter. This phenomenon lasted for several days, then ceased. Afterward, Paul brought Sara and the Nina to their physician, informing him of the miracles. Having no other alternative, the doctor pronounced that Sara's tumor had spontaneously disappeared, and that Nina also was cured.
Now Paul knew God existed, and that He answered prayer. Telling his orchestra he was leaving, he gave all orchestral rights to his assistant, Frank, consecrating his own music to God. Paul and Sara zealously witnessed of God and His Son, Jesus Christ. They gave their testimony to all who would listen.
Conducting street meetings in Sara’s hometown brought persecution to the couple. Though they never attended their own church, Sara’s conversion devastated her parents. Even her healing failed to move them. Her youngest brother, with whom she had been exceptionally close, slapped her across the face and disowned her as his sister.
Paul fared no better with his family. His six brothers and two sisters wanted nothing more to do with them. Paul’s mother, a plain Italian woman with extremely poor vision, always before had treated Sara as her own daughter. Immediately after her son, Paul’s, marriage, the mother-in-law and daughter-in-law had bonded into a loving relationship. Now Paul’s siblings informed their mother that Paul and Sara had “lost their minds.” They insisted that she stay away from them because they might harm her.
The persecution did not last, however. Within a decade, Sara’s brother was born again. So, were Paul’s mother and three of his brothers, with their entire families.
Both Paul and Sara continued to give glory to Jesus Christ, who redeemed them and who answered the prayer of a former agnostic violinist.
A U. S. Air Force veteran, who served thirty months overseas, Josprel is an ordained minister, whose stories and articles have appeared in print and on the Web. He currently is authoring two novels: "Beloved Apostate" and "Kanfal."
Josprel has pastored three churches, including one in Attica, New York, the location of Attica Maximum Security Prison, the location of America's bloodiest prison riot. During that time, together with other pastors in the town, Josprel counseled the families of the prison security officers who were being held hostage by the inmates.
Afterward, at the request of the Attica Prison administration - who informed him that several inmates desired a weekly Bible study - Josprel conducted weekly three-hour Bible studies for the inmates and the class grew to more than fifty students. After a number of years, Josprel turned the study over to another pastor, due to heavy demands on his time; a five-time weekly radio program, a large congregation, new members classes, church administration duties, and a building program during which the congregation constructed a large new sanctuary and an education wing.
