Godless (2 page)

“Grandma said Grandpa looked very handsome in his black suit. It was her favorite.”

“Is that so?” asked the officer. “I bet he wanted to look his best for her.”

Veronica cheered slightly at the suggestion. She looked toward her parents. “You mean Grandpa went to see Grandma?”

Her parents appeared momentarily flustered. Neither answered.

“I'm sure of it,” said the officer. “They're probably talking about you this very moment.”

The hint of a smile appeared on Veronica's face. She looked at the policeman. “Really?”

“Really. And what's more…”

The officer halted when he noticed Veronica's father motioning him away from the scene. They stepped away, leaving Veronica and her mother alone on the grass.

The girl lowered her gaze, then settled back into her mommy's comforting embrace. “Mommy,” she said softly. “Why did Grandpa go?”

“I don't know, baby girl,” her mother whispered while wiping moisture from the girl's tear-stained cheek. “I don't know.”

A stretch of silence passed between them.

“Mommy.”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Do you think Grandpa is with Grandma?”

Danielle thought for a moment before responding. “I'd like to think so, Veronica. But I can't be sure.”

Another moment of quiet grief.

“I m-m-miss them,” Veronica quivered.

“I know you do, baby girl. I know you do.”

Alex Ware
held the doorknob to take one last deep breath before rejoining the meeting. His “quick break” had run long enough, even though he hadn't yet fully regained his composure. Not that anyone would have noticed, since he'd managed to excuse himself from the room before actually saying anything retaliatory. Good thing. Board members like their pastors calm and placid. His job was to model the Jesus who hugged innocent children, not the Jesus who chased money changers out of the temple.

He tried whispering a petition for the wisdom of Solomon and the patience of Job. But prayer felt out of reach. So he turned the handle, hoping God already understood the mess in which he found himself, and the land mines awaiting him on the other side of the door.

He entered a room divided into three distinct factions.

Phil Crawford and Kenny James were huddled near a touch screen, eyeing a diagram that hadn't been there before Alex's escape. It contained two overlapping circles with arrows pointing in several directions. Scribbled text read “Economic engine?” Both men loved undecipherable charts and corporate lingo that invariably highlighted their pastor's lack of business acumen. Alex knew he had no interest in or capacity for running the church like a corporation. So did they.

Stephen Wilding stood by the window with Lydia Donovitz and Mary Sanchez. He appeared politely disinterested as the women sipped diet sodas and chatted about matters much more pressing than whatever appeared on the meeting's agenda: how well Mary's daughter was doing in her sophomore year of college, when Lydia's husband would return from Europe, or, Alex could only hope, how many volunteers they had recruited to fill vacancies in the preschool and third-grade classes.

The third faction, consisting of Roberto Wilson and Brandon Baxter, was seated at the table minding its own business. In their early thirties, both were slightly younger than the pastor. Each was fairly new to the church board. They represented an effort to bring “fresh eyes” and “new blood” to the leadership team.

Brandon had some connection to the founding pastor. His grandson? Or perhaps his nephew? But Alex had no idea whether the newcomer might help tip the balance of power slightly in the pastor's direction.

As it was, the most influential voice on the board was that of the chairman, Phil Crawford, who finally noticed Alex's return to the room. “Good,” he said while tapping a 
SAVE
icon on the board and returning to the table. “Ready to resume?”

“Ready. Sorry for the delay.” The pastor's voice exuded a tone of grateful deference while his eyes moved quickly from person to person—a show of warmth that also helped him gauge positions. If they met his gaze or nodded it meant they understood his dilemma. Those who looked away probably sided with Phil. Downward glances implied wavering.

None of the seven looked him in the eyes. But only two looked away.

“I believe we were just about to vote on the question of whether…”

“Before we do that,” Alex interrupted while pointing toward the digital board, “I wonder if you might explain the diagram.”

He knew Phil wouldn't be able to resist the invitation—a clever distraction Alex would soon regret.

“Glad you asked,” Phil said eagerly, returning to the drawing. “Kenny and I were just talking about the central question that frames everything on this evening's agenda.”

Alex glanced down at his tablet. They had discussed four of six items.

Worship Attendance
: A slight decline this month, but still better than it had been before Alex's arrival. During the prior three years, attendance at the worship services had plummeted from nearly two thousand to below eight hundred on campus, plus a few hundred online participants. Alex's youthful vigor and engaging teaching style had seemed to stabilize the situation by attracting a younger crowd. A fairly successful year, Alex thought. Not good enough, the board had concluded.

Giving
: Unlike attendance, income had continued to fall. The Christ Community personnel committee had hired Alex, a progressive young man in his early forties, hoping he might bring new vision and passion to the congregation. And he had, some. But the growth had been largely offset by a continued departure of the elderly. Not his fault, the board agreed. But still a challenge, since young attendees tended to give less than the dwindling older crowd.

The Mortgage
: The prior pastor had led the church through a capital campaign that had raised enough money for an impressive down payment on its new worship facility. The rest of the project had been funded through a low-interest loan it intended to renegotiate later. “Later” landed on Alex's watch. Unfortunately, thanks to the post-census meltdown of '42, banks were now charging exorbitant interest rates. The higher mortgage payment coupled with lower giving translated into increasingly tense meetings with the church finance committee that, it just so happened, was also chaired by Phil Crawford.

Outreach
: Six months after Alex arrived the board realized a younger face with an engaging teaching style was not enough to restore the church's glory days. So they formed something they called the Dream Team: a committee that would solicit suggestions about how the church might more effectively reach the surrounding community. Every board meeting featured a new list of ideas gleaned from a variety of sources, including what Phil called “benchmarking” trips to larger, more successful area churches. Only a few of the suggestions ever got implemented, and none of those received the promised budget or volunteer support. But that didn't stop the flood of dreams from consuming an inordinate share of the pastor's schedule.

The fifth item carried the label
Bentley Donation
. It had triggered thirty minutes of disagreement just before Alex left the room.

“The circle on the right,” Phil began while pointing to his diagram, “is the younger demographic of the church. They represent relevance and impact. To the degree this circle expands”—a wave of his hand caused the circle to grow—“we know we are accomplishing our core mission.”

To his own surprise, Alex followed the point. He even felt himself nodding in agreement.

“The circle on the left represents our older members.” Phil waved his hand across the shape, prompting it to shrink. A second wave shrank it further. “They represent our economic engine.”

“Our what?” asked Brandon, the youngest member of the board.

“Our economic engine,” Phil repeated, as if saying it louder would provide sufficient explanation.

Brandon's question gave Mary Sanchez confidence to speak. “I don't know what that means.”

“That makes three of us,” confessed Roberto Wilson.

“Four,” Alex added, raising his hand.

Phil rolled his eyes toward Kenny James, who gladly accepted the hand-off.

“Every business and nonprofit entity must ask itself several strategic questions, including ‘What drives our economic engine?' Or, in
layman's
terms,” he said with a wink toward the pastor, “‘How do we make money?'”

“But we don't make money. We receive donations,” Alex reminded him.

“Semantics,” Phil interjected. “We aren't that different from any other business. We provide a service, and people reward us by funding our product.”

“Our product?” asked Brandon.

Phil edited himself. “Our ministry, then. The point is people pay the bills by transferring money from their pockets to ours. Whatever motivates or facilitates that transfer is, in short, our economic engine.”

“I see,” Alex said guardedly.

“An engine we need to do a better job of fueling.”

“Because?” asked Alex.

“Because,
Pastor
, we can't turn on the lights or extend impact without cold, hard cash.”

Alex folded his hands in front of himself on the table as he leaned forward, then back. “Of course,” he said. “And the older donors give a higher portion of their income than younger donors.”

“Exactly!” Kenny interjected as if to rescue the moment. “But they do so because they care about reaching the younger generation.”

“I'd like to think they care about reaching everyone,” Alex said.

The comment seemed to stall Phil's advance, but only for a moment.

“Well, yes, they do,” he said. “But that's not the point.”

“What is the point?” asked Mary, as if chiding Phil for his manners.

“Don't you see? If we announce Wayne Bentley's transition donation during the worship service we can send an important message to our older congregants, the fuel of our economic engine.”

The wrenching knot in Alex's stomach intensified. So did the urge to overturn a money table.

“Wayne Bentley, God rest his soul, volunteered in order to help this church expand its impact,” Phil continued. “He set an example for others to follow.”

“Wayne Bentley didn't transition to help the church,” Alex insisted. “He did it because he was depressed.”

“I refuse to believe that!” snapped Phil. “Wayne was the happiest guy on the planet, not to mention a generous donor to the building fund.”

“Wayne was grieving Wendy's death. The same Wendy, by the way, who made him promise to fulfill
her
pledge to the church.” Alex realized he had said too much. “Forgive me. That information was supposed to be kept confidential.” He blushed at the rare misstep. “I would appreciate everyone keeping what I just said in this room.”

“Actually,” said Lydia Donovitz, “I think it's pretty common knowledge. Wendy asked for prayer for her husband nearly every time she came to Tuesday Bible study. She said he came to church to network with potential clients more than to—”

Alex cut her off. “Thank you, Lydia. That's probably more information than we need at the moment.”

“I'm just saying—” She halted in response to the pastor's rising hand.

“Can we get back to the point?” Phil asked adamantly.

Alex considered his next move. He knew much more than he should say.

It was Alex who had sat with Wendy Bentley after both procedures. The first, a double mastectomy, had stolen her feminine confidence. The second, a four-month checkup, had erased any hope of remission. He knew all too well that Wendy's greatest fear was not her own end, but her husband's future. Sure, he had a gregarious demeanor and a large network of “friends” at the Christ Community Church. But Wayne Bentley had more interest in Wall Street than in streets of gold.

“Another great message, Pastor!” he would bellow while pumping Alex's arm at the back of the sanctuary every Sunday.

“My husband doesn't know God,” his wife had confided from her deathbed.

It was Alex who had handed Wayne Bentley a box of tissues while enduring a grief-laced attack. “She trusted you, Pastor,” the widower had sobbed. “You should have encouraged her to transition. She didn't have to suffer!”

But it was Wayne, not Wendy, who had suffered. Pain management gave her ninety-two peaceful days—three months that had forced Wayne to abandon silly notions and face unpleasant realities. Death was not, as he had come to accept, a natural part of life. It was, as Wendy had believed, a cruel enemy. And that enemy had stolen his wife's beautiful, completing presence. Wayne's impressive net worth seemed a pittance absent the priceless prize of his life partner.

Wendy had never even raised the question of whether to let the cancer run its course. Alex had only affirmed a decision already made, a conviction purified in the crucible of her suffering. She took it for granted that life was a gift and death a foe. So she chose to face the end with quiet poise rather than defiant fear. Alex had never seen anyone die with more dignity.

It was also Alex who had comforted the little girl who had discovered her grandfather's lifeless body in the bathtub. Veronica Bentley had tugged on Alex's pant leg after Wayne's memorial service, a trembling chin posing a question with no simple answer.

“Is Grandpa with my grandma now?”

Alex couldn't recall meeting the girl or her parents before, even though Wayne's son, Luke, had said they'd attended the candlelight service on Christmas eve, his mother's last holiday in church. He'd told Alex that he had prepared a revised will “at Dad's direction” but that Wayne had failed to sign the changes “before he…um…left us.” According to the son, he hadn't really wanted the church to receive such a large portion of the estate. Luke called to ask if Alex would be willing to “work with me to fix the error in light of my father's passing.”

His father's
suicide
, Alex had thought.

“As I mentioned earlier…” Every eye turned toward the pastor's words. “I won't do it.”

Feet shuffled. Throats cleared. Backsides shifted in seats.

“I can't do it,” he added.

Phil huffed. “Then I will!” Attention shifted to the other end of the table. “Give me five minutes in the service this weekend,” he commanded. “List it in the worship guide as ‘A Word from the Board.'”

Alex's gut tightened further. He wanted to protest, to stand up to Phil Crawford now that a disagreement involved something more significant than website edits or the new janitorial contract. He could roll over when debating administrative details. But not when it came to asking his flock to volunteer.

He held his tongue while assessing each face now fixed in his direction. Why did no one speak? Surely others understood what was at stake. Would Mary condemn such an announcement? Or Brandon?

Silence.

“All in favor?” Phil asked with his arm held high.

Kenny's went up immediately. No surprise.

Stephen, as usual, followed their lead.

Lydia and Roberto each raised a single, apathetic finger, apparently more concerned about wrapping up the agenda than defending their pastor's convictions.