Godless (3 page)

The other votes wouldn't matter. The majority had ruled.

“Done,” Phil pronounced as if pounding a gavel.

Alex felt at once angry and nauseous. He tried to place the emotions. A normal reaction to his inability to turn a ship he had never received permission to steer? No. It was more than that. He sensed a line was being crossed. And it felt wrong. Very wrong.

He thought of his wife, Tamara. She had repeatedly reminded Alex that God had led them to Christ Community Church. “Do what you can and leave the results to him.”

Good advice that had served him well. His first anniversary as pastor was just around the corner. As expected, the honeymoon period had lasted about six months. He'd received lots of accolades over his teaching and plenty of comments about his “darling wife” and “beautiful family.” But his nearly twelve months in the pulpit seemed to have had little effect on what these people actually did after Sunday lunch, never mind Monday through Saturday.

Phil scribbled intently on a tablet. “How's this?” he asked with a self-satisfied expression before reading aloud. “The board of Christ Community Church extends our deepest sympathies to the family and friends of longtime member Wayne Bentley. Wayne was a pillar of this faith community who took his final breath on August third. We also wish to express our gratitude for the generous donation made possible by his transition. Both Wayne and his late wife, Wendy, loved this church and modeled what it means to give of themselves for the good of others.”

Phil waited for reactions.

“Nice,” said Lydia.

“Sounds good to me,” added Kenny.

No one else spoke.

“Do you want to be a bit more specific?” asked Stephen. “Something like ‘If you or a loved one wish to discuss including Christ Community among your transition beneficiaries, a member of our planned giving team would be happy to meet with you.' Seems a shame to waste the opportunity for a plug.”

“A bit tacky if you ask me,” said Lydia.

“I agree,” added Phil. “But it would be good to remind people about planned giving in the wake of Wayne's example. How about the following Sunday?”

Alex realized the question had been directed to him. He shook his head slowly. No one pressed. They apparently wanted to throw him a scrap of say in the matter.

He glanced back at the agenda. One item remained.
A Concern
. That usually meant a complaint about the volume of the worship band's music or some equally monumental matter. Alex looked at the time. Twenty minutes past the scheduled end. “Would anyone object to tackling the final item in our next meeting?” he asked.

All eyes shifted back toward Phil, who, it seemed, had already discussed the matter with the group, probably before waxing eloquent about economic engines.

“Actually, I think it would be better to cover it tonight,” Phil replied.

Not good.

Phil dove in as if reading from a teleprompter. “Let me start by saying how much we enjoy your teaching ministry, Pastor Alex.”

“Thank you,” he replied while bracing for impact.

“And far be it from me to tell you how to do your job. But what you said this past Sunday did not go unnoticed.”

Alex's mind raced, trying to recall anything he might have said that could have created
A Concern
. Nothing came.

“What I said? Can you be more specific?”

Phil looked toward Kenny. Neither actually rolled his eyes.

“The part where you talked about the upcoming election.”

“What? I didn't talk about the election on Sunday. Or ever for that matter.”

Phil looked down while tapping his tablet. He began reading. “We live in a generation that's forgotten what it means to honor fathers and mothers. We see our seniors as a quick source of capital to solve our economic woes rather than what Proverbs calls them, a cherished source of wisdom…”

Alex waited for more, but Phil stopped to look up from his reading.

“Any of this sounding familiar?”

“Yes,” said Alex. “I was teaching from Proverbs chapter one. Is that a problem?”

“Do you really think such blatantly political statements are appropriate from the pulpit? I mean, the Republican convention is later this month, for Pete's sake. Surely you knew that.”

Alex did his best to connect the dots. No good. “I must be missing something.”

“You can't be serious!” Phil said. “Criticizing the Youth Initiative is not only taking obvious sides between candidates, it also makes you…makes
us
sound insensitive to the economic troubles of our community.”

Alex sat quietly trying to fit the square peg of political savvy into the round hole of applying Scripture to life.

“I'm just glad the Bentley kids weren't at the service,” Phil added.

“The Bentleys?”

Phil continued. “Although I'm sure there were others in attendance who must have been offended.”

“Offended? For saying we're supposed to respect our parents?”

“For implying it's a sin to volunteer!” Phil barked.

That's when Alex recalled a brief comment from Phil about his daughter. She had recently graduated from college “thanks to Mom's generosity.”

The possibility of offending Phil and others in the congregation hadn't really crossed Alex's mind. He despised the growing pressure on the old and disabled to transition their assets to the young and productive by volunteering for self-extermination. Perhaps his disdain for the transition industry had indeed influenced his comments on Sunday. But politics?

“Listen, Phil,” Alex said. “I didn't mean any offense. I know a lot of people have had to make some pretty difficult decisions since the collapse. And I didn't intend to tell people how to vote. I was honestly just trying to make the Scriptures relevant. You know, real-world application.”

Alex intended to say more in his own defense when he noticed Stephen fidgeting with his empty paper cup and Mary squirming in her seat. The conversation was making everyone uncomfortable, Alex most of all. He lifted a single hand of surrender. “Never mind,” he said. “I can see your point. I guess I wasn't thinking.”

Phil, who had been crouched slightly forward as if preparing to pounce, eased himself back in the chair.

“Good.” He inhaled soothingly. “Good.”

Three seconds passed.

“I just thought it was my responsibility to raise the issue. You know, for the good of the congregation.”

It was a phrase Alex mulled over in his head the entire drive home. Was it really for the good of the congregation? He understood why many of his parishioners had voted for candidates and policies that had backed the Youth Initiative. After all, it promised economic salvation after several brutal years. Something had to be done to turn things around.

He also knew that every family must decide such matters for itself. Alex had no right to add salt to their wounds or angst to their choices. No right, perhaps, to tell them how to live their lives. Or, more to the point, how to end them.

But did he have a responsibility to speak out against something he knew in his gut to be wrong? Shouldn't sermons be about more than inspiration and comfort? Weren't they supposed to persuade?

He thought of the old abolitionist movement in America two centuries past. It had been led by men like Frederick Douglass who challenged pastors to “agitate, agitate, agitate” in defense of human dignity. They had. And they had changed the world. But that was a different era, when people still believed ministers had a role to play in the public square.

Another outspoken minister came to mind. A hundred years earlier a young pastor named Dietrich Bonhoeffer had spoken out against the Nazi solution to what nice churchgoing citizens called “the Jewish problem.” People listened to him also, right up until he was hanged as an enemy of the state.

Alex might not hang, but he could lose his job. Even if he did speak out against the Youth Initiative, would it make any difference? After all, as the meeting he had just left reinforced, no one seemed to be listening to him anyway.

Matthew Adams
feared his string of successful closings was about to end. And it wasn't his fault. He had told his boss he would rather not take Mandy with him. Trainees had a way of throwing him off his game and distracting him from a process he had honed to near perfection. Especially trainees as cute and bubbly as Mandy Salinger. Cute and bubbly had no place in such an important line of work. Matthew was neither, part of the reason he had the highest client recruitment ratio of anyone at MedCom Associates.

“That's why I want you to train her,” the boss had insisted. “She has great potential. But she needs to learn from the best.”

Matthew's weakness for flattery had led to the present dilemma. To interrupt or not? Should he take back the reins or let Mandy steer the conversation into a ditch? He decided to wait, hoping his trainee would remember the coaching he had given during the drive over.

“Get right to the point,” he had said. “Don't beat around the bush or make small talk to ease your way into the bad news. Say it as quickly and clearly as possible. It's the most compassionate way.”

Mandy had been taking too long. She had also misfired on his second directive. “Don't become emotional. Your job is to explain their options, not give them a shoulder to cry on.”

Matthew watched Mandy's eyes moisten in reaction to the woman's tears.
Hold it together, girl
, he thought in her direction.
Keep a professional distance
!

Too late. After a mere thirty seconds of silence Mandy wrapped her arms around the woman.

Despite his disappointment, however, Matthew understood. He had made similar mistakes while new to the job. He recalled trying to console his earliest clients. The first few minutes were the hardest. The look in their eyes. The questions on their faces. And knowing full well the difficult choice news of denial would require.

But helping them make the best decision was the whole purpose of these appointments, something unlikely to happen if Matthew let feminine empathy displace a well-crafted script.

“Place the options screen in front of them immediately, while the weight of the news is still settling on them,” he had coached. He could tell that was not going to happen as long as he allowed Mandy to run point.

He quickly confirmed the name displayed at the top of the appointment summary. “As Ms. Salinger just explained, Mrs. Baxter, your situation falls outside the acceptable range for such a large outlay.”

He tapped an icon and held his tablet where the woman could read the details for herself.

Like every other prospective client in Matthew's case load, Ellie Baxter did not fit the criteria established by the Youth Initiative for the funding of such an expensive medical procedure.

The woman exited Mandy's embrace. Then she held the girl's hand while turning toward the screen to read the standard-template language of Medical Communications Associates' Client Response Form 309.

“What does this mean?” Ellie Baxter pointed to a phrase Matthew had explained to dozens of prospective clients before.

“Net-value ratio,” he said matter-of-factly. “The estimated economic output of an individual compared to the cost associated with a given procedure or treatment.”

She let go of Mandy's hand, then stood slowly. Facial muscles betrayed a feeling of offense Matthew had hoped to avoid. Mrs. Baxter, unlike many clients, understood the precise meaning his words were meant to obscure.

“So I'm not worth the expense of removing the tumor, is that it?”

Mandy reached toward the woman. “This has nothing to do with your worth…”

She stopped short at the cautionary glower from Matthew. He knew what he was doing. And she was about to mess it up.

“The Youth Initiative includes very specific guidelines about benefits available to citizens facing a variety of life-season dynamics,” he replied. “Age, among others, is one of the determining factors.”

“I see,” she said, lowering herself back into the chair.

Matthew had come to expect such reactions. Few citizens had ever read the Youth Initiative's fine print, especially those most enamored of its promises. He allowed a moment of silence before continuing. “Part of our role, in addition to communicating the decision, is to help you consider options.”

She looked up. “Options?” A tiny glimmer of hope invaded her eyes.

“Yes, ma'am,” Matthew said, tapping the screen. A page appeared containing a list of follow-up services his company could provide. “MedCom Associates has helped thousands of clients in similar situations. We start by walking you through the potential benefits associated with volunteering, both to you and your loved ones.”

“Volunteering?” Ellie repeated. “Volunteering for what?”

“To transition your assets. Do you have children or grandchildren, Mrs. Baxter?”

“I have a son. He lives in California.”

“Great. Well, your son can be listed as a beneficiary to your estate. Any grandchildren?”

“No. His wife has a perfect figure.”

Matthew sensed a trace of sarcasm.
A good sign
. “I understand,” he said with a wink.

“But I do have a nephew, my brother's boy, Brandon. He has three: twin girls and a boy. I see them every weekend after church for Sunday dinner.”

Religious,
 Matthew thought.
Even better
.

“Well then, you'll probably want to allocate part of your estate to your church or use it to establish a college fund for your great-nieces and -nephew. Unless, of course, you'd rather fund your daughter-in-law's next plastic surgery.”

Matthew glanced toward Ellie. Humor was a tack he rarely risked. The look on her face confirmed his gut instinct. She would rather laugh than cry.

“But I still don't understand,” Ellie responded. “I already have a will. Frederick, my late husband, insisted we update it every year.”

“When was the last revision?”

She thought for a moment. “I guess about ten years back, the year before Frederick died.” She appeared reflective. “My goodness. I can't believe it's been that long.”

“The laws have changed since then. But we can help you with those details later. For now, I'd like to capture some information to initiate your client account.”

“Of course,” Ellie agreed, sorrow refilling her voice. “I'm sorry. This is a lot to take in.”

Mandy squeezed the woman's hand, this time minus the nonverbal rebuke from Matthew. He had rescued the situation, making him more at ease with the girlish impulse. Prospects who allowed him to create an account usually also scheduled a pre-transition consultation. Sixty percent of those would go through with the full process, gleaning him a 1 percent commission on estates valued anywhere from a hundred thousand dollars to millions. Easy money, if you knew what you were doing. And based upon his recent string of closings, he should experience his best paycheck yet. Possibly enough to put him back in the black.

“I understand,” Matthew said softly. “And don't worry. We will take care of every detail.”

He retrieved the tablet to access the registration form before sliding it back in front of Mrs. Baxter. “We received this information from your primary physician. Would you mind confirming the details before I ask you a series of questions?”

She read. Then she nodded.

“Great. Now, let me scan the calendar for an opening.”

“An opening for what?” Ellie asked.

“For your pre-transition consultation appointment. We will go over all the legal and procedural details so that you are comfortable with—”

“Transition?” she interrupted. “You mean at one of those death clinics?”

Matthew froze. He had only heard one other prospect use that phrase before. It hadn't led to a commission.

“I'm sorry,” he fumbled to say. “I should have clarified that my company is on retainer with NEXT Incorporated. We provide advisory and processing services for clients interested in—”

“I'm not,” she said curtly.

“Not ready?” Mandy asked.

“Not interested. I don't believe in that sort of thing.”

“But you were denied treatment. You'll…” The trainee couldn't bring herself to say it.

“Die? We're all going to die, sweetheart.”

Their roles suddenly reversed as the woman cradled the bewildered girl's hands. She looked Mandy in the eyes before turning to Matthew.

“I appreciate your concern, young man, but I don't want to schedule a consultation. Thank you.”

The wind left Matthew's sails. He blushed at having misread the situation so badly. But he had been around the block enough times to know there was still a possibility, however slight.

“I understand,” he began. “We certainly don't want to rush you into anything you aren't comfortable with. It can be scary facing these kinds of decisions.”

“I didn't say I was scared…” She paused, looked toward the window, then wiped a tear as if overruling sorrow with something deeper. Perhaps faith?

The moment lit a fire within Matthew. He took his greatest pride in the occasions when he managed to turn a cold, economic choice into something more significant: something heroic, especially for those with religious sensibilities.

He glanced at Mandy. This was an opportunity to show her how it was done.

“You mentioned attending church,” Matthew said. “Can I assume you are a spiritual person then?”

She nodded. “Christian. You?”

“Yes, ma'am,” he lied. In truth, Matthew had abandoned two versions of the faith: his mother's Catholicism and his former mentor's Manichean substitute. Neither, he had come to believe, worked. But the latter remained useful when he was trying to inspire reluctant volunteers. “In fact, I've studied theology at the university level.” True, if you counted informal coffee-shop conversations with a noted scholar like Dr. Thomas Vincent.

“Did you?” she asked politely, her mind probably still preoccupied with news of her treatment denial.

“I did. That's why I take inspiration from the example of Jesus. He would not only approve of volunteering, he modeled it.”

“He what?” Ellie said as if she had misheard the statement.

Mandy appeared equally confused. She hadn't been trained on this part of Matthew's script.

“He modeled what it means to abandon this decaying, physical flesh for the transcendent existence of pure, untarnished spirit.”

“You mean when he died for our sins?”

Matthew had navigated similar questions before. “That's a common misunderstanding about Jesus's death,” he continued. “But it doesn't make much sense, does it? I mean, what does a man's crucifixion have to do with fixing my vices? It seems more likely, at least to my way of seeing things, that he showed us the way rather than paid our parking ticket. Don't you think?”

Ellie appeared momentarily intrigued by the thought. Then a bit dismayed.

“No,” she retorted. “No. No. That can't be right.”

“A lot of early Christians would beg to differ.”

“Such as?” she asked.

“Ever hear of a guy called Saint Augustine?”

She nodded hesitantly, suggesting a vague recollection of the ancient Church father's name.

Matthew knew it was a partial truth. Yes, a young Augustine had embraced Manichean philosophy. But he had later submitted to church dogma about the incarnation. But Matthew, like his former professor, preferred the Manichean view.

“Anyway,” Matthew continued, “to volunteer is about much more than preserving assets for your beneficiaries. It is about fulfilling your ultimate destiny.”

“To go to heaven?” Mandy asked eagerly.

Matthew shot her a piercing stare. “No,” he said. “To transcend physical limitations. To free oneself from the pain and corruption of bodily existence.” He looked directly in the woman's eyes. “And to cut short the process of suffering that will otherwise define your final days.”

The woman felt the brutal thud of a harsh reality. Matthew had intended her to.

“We decay, Mrs. Baxter,” he added in a gentler tone. “The sooner you decide to volunteer, the sooner you will snatch victory away from pain's cruel hand.”

A long silence ensued.

“Young man,” the woman finally said, “I think you misunderstand the real enemy.”

Enemy
? “How's that?” he asked.

“You seem to think pain and suffering are the worst things imaginable.”

Aren't they
? he wondered.

“I don't want to die,” she continued, pausing to wipe a final stray tear. “And I certainly don't want to suffer.”

“You don't have to,” Mandy interjected.

The woman accepted the girl's extended hand with an appreciative grin. “But the real enemy has nothing to do with what happens to my body.” She turned to look at Matthew directly. Confidently. “Our real enemy wants to devour the soul.”

Matthew tried to decipher the look in Ellie Baxter's eyes.

Resignation, as with his mom?

No, not resignation.
Resolution
. She possessed the kind of calm surrender that emboldens rather than cowers in fear or pleads for mercy. He remembered something similar in Reverend Grandpa the night he died. The night the dreams began.

This woman seemed to be resting in a submission Matthew couldn't bear. Its presence made him angry, and a bit frightened, like hearing the howls of unseen wolves while huddled around a dying campfire. The fright must have shown on his face.

“Are you OK?” asked Mandy. “You look a bit pale.”

“Fine,” he said too quickly. “I'm fine.”

“Young man,” the woman said, “I think I'm supposed to give you something.”

She stood and moved slowly to the adjoining kitchen, out of eyeshot. Matthew heard a drawer open, then a rustling noise, as if she was searching through a stack of forgotten notes or old photos.