The Gospel According to Luke (2 page)

‘I'm afraid I can't tell you.'

A line appeared between her eyebrows. Her pale cheeks turned pink. ‘Oh. I'm terribly . . . I didn't mean
to be – it's just our readers are from diverse ethnic backgrounds and I thought it would –'

‘Kerry, please, you misunderstand me.' Luke smiled and touched her hand. ‘I'm not refusing to answer, I simply can't. I haven't the slightest idea where my parents are from. Or who they are. I was raised in a children's home.'

‘Oh!' She clutched at his hands.

Luke continued to smile although he was squirming in his skin. ‘Could you do me a little favour?' he asked.

‘Of course. Name it.'

‘Could you not make a big deal out of this in your article? It's just that I don't want my personal story to detract from my role here.'

‘Oh, but . . .'

‘It's sort of private. I don't know why I told you, I just . . . well, I'm new at this being interviewed business. When I get asked a question, my instinct is to answer it. I should have said “off the record” or something, right? Or “no comment?” I'm not used to being secretive.'

Reporters rarely wrote about the mission of the Christian Revolution or the nature of the Youth Centre. It was all about Luke's ‘olive skin and deep brown eyes', his ‘astounding youth', ‘dark good looks', and his ‘tragic past'.

Pastor Riley said this was a good thing. What he referred to as Luke's ‘charisma' would get the teens through the front door, and what was happening
inside would ensure they stayed. And then as they danced and sang, ate and drank, played football, tennis and basketball, took cooking classes and mechanics workshops, formed friendships with each other and trusting bonds with the leadership team, the Lord's message would get through, and young hearts would be changed.

So Luke smiled and charmed and shook hands and answered awkward questions. He held information nights for parents and good-naturedly shrugged off the flirtations of suburban mothers and silent suspicions of suburban fathers. He led city councillors and community leaders through the brand-new, six-million-dollar centre and defended the Christian Revolution's purchase of twenty-one acres of prime real estate in the heart of Parramatta's central business district. He hung out in movie theatres and game arcades, handing out brochures and spreading the word.

Having graduated top of his Christian Revolution Ministerial College class; having done the requisite year as a roving missionary, during which he was responsible for more conversions than any other missionary in the history of the Christian Revolution; having spent eighteen months as a fundraiser, and in that time received more and larger donations than any other fundraiser; having served four years as a Junior Pastor, in which he tripled the under-25 congregation; and having dedicated more than half his life to
ensuring the success of the Christian Revolution, Luke felt he deserved to be treated as something more than a glorified spokesmodel. Patience, he told himself for the thousandth time. Patience. God had gifted him with this opportunity and he must patiently endure the trials required.

‘I'm afraid I have another appointment in ten minutes.' He tried to look genuinely sorry. ‘Can I take you on the grand tour before you go?'

‘Oh, yes, please. I'd love that.'

The complex comprised a three-hundred-seat auditorium, two meeting halls, a recreation room, a lecture theatre, an industrial kitchen and ten self-contained cottages which would initially house the five-person leadership team and allow for guests and growth. The main auditorium was fitted with state-of-the-art sound, lighting and media equipment, and the recreation room featured computers, game consoles, a wide-screen television and a DVD player. In the grounds were a tennis court, sports field, and a picnic area, and under the building was security parking for one hundred and twenty cars.

As they walked, Luke talked, making sure to pause often enough for the reporter to make notes. What's unique about the NCYC, he said, is that it's a church which is not a church at all. There would be no sermons, ever. In fact, the centre would not even operate on Sundays – if you want to go to church, hook up with your parents, right? Here (he spun
around on the vast back lawn) we'll have sausage sizzles and rock concerts. Over here (he ran fast, ahead of the reporter, making her laugh and pant) we'll have football matches, mini-Olympics, water fights and fun fairs. He showed her the rooms for Bible studies, workshops, one-on-one counselling, small-group meetings, dance classes, cooking classes, guitar lessons and computer games.

‘And make sure you let the caring parents reading your magazine know that from nine in the morning to ten at night, six days a week, we're here to take care of their precious children. All our pastors and volunteers are trained in first aid and the centre is under constant security surveillance. Parents need never hire a babysitter again! Drop the kids off on a Saturday night, we'll entertain them, keep them out of trouble and maybe teach them a little something about God. Everyone wins.'

The reporter smiled, touched his arm, shook her head. ‘Wonderful,' she said. ‘Just wonderful.'

‘Nine to eleven, Monday to Saturday,' Luke repeated. ‘We're here for the kids.'

The frosted glass doors of the Northwest Christian Youth Centre opened onto a tree-lined semicircular courtyard. Teenagers in jeans and brand-name sweat-tops stood in groups of three or four, talking and laughing in the winter sunshine. Soft rock music wafted into the courtyard through speakers built into the walls. A cart loaded with cans of soft drink and baskets of chocolate bars and fruit stood to one side. The only indication that this was the headquarters of a fundamentalist group was the bronze lettering on the far wall which read:
Start a Revolution, In His Name
.

Aggie approached a table covered in glossy pamphlets and pastel-coloured information sheets.
Get
Jiggy For Jesus!
,
Safe and Sound – Our Security Guarantee
,
The Christian Revolution – A History
, and
NCYC – This is Not a Church!
lay alongside
The Truth About Safe Sex
and
How Far is Too Far?

The leaflet that had inspired Aggie's visit was not on the table. Clearly, the propaganda designed to recruit children was different to that intended to stir up hatred and prejudice in the general community. Besides, they knew as well as she did that had they told a bunch of teenagers that Aggie's office was ‘distributing pornography to children' those children would have been queuing up around the block to get some.

A girl of about twenty wearing a fitted fuchsia jumper and a swinging blonde ponytail bounced up to the table. Her name tag said:
Hi! I'm Belinda.
‘Welcome to the NCYC. Are you interested in signing your kids up to one of our programs?'

Aggie smiled down at the girl, who, like everyone out here, was at least half-a-foot shorter than her. ‘Actually no. I was hoping to speak to the manager.'

‘The manager? Oh, well we don't really have a manager. Each member of our Pastoral Team is responsible for various aspects of the Centre's operation. For example, I –' the girl pointed to her name tag, ‘– am Belinda Swan, and I oversee the Learn and Praise Program, organise the Girls Only and Teen Spirit groups and act as Personal Assistant to the Senior Pastor. I'm also the unofficial cleaning lady, laundress
and kitchen hand. Not that I mind. It's all God's work. Even scrubbing pots. Right?'

‘So this Senior Pastor . . . he's the boss?'

Belinda giggled. ‘Technically, I guess. But he'd turn red as a beetroot if anyone called him that. He's our leader, sure, but –'

‘Is he in?'

‘I'll check if he's available. Your name?'

‘Aggie Grey.'

Belinda nodded, taking a mobile phone from her belt and punching the keys. ‘What is the visit regard–Luke, hi. There's an Aggie Grey here to – yes, yes . . . you've been . . . yes, sure, I will. Bye.' She returned the phone to her belt before looking back up at Aggie. ‘Pastor Butler said to tell you he's been looking forward to meeting you. He's in the kitchen. Just go on through these doors, straight to the end of the corridor and it's the last door on the right. I'd show you the way but I have to stay here to meet and greet.'

Aggie thanked her and made her way through the courtyard. She noticed a few of the teenagers smiling at her like they knew her, but she was pretty sure she had never seen any of these kids before. Freshly-scrubbed, expensively-dressed teens rarely ended up in Aggie's office. Not because they never needed help, but because they had somewhere better to go to get it.

She pushed open the frosted-glass door, stepped inside the building and stopped, momentarily stunned by the change in environment. There was no sound
except her breathing and the distant hum of the air-conditioning. The air was warm and clean, and the low lighting illuminated only pale walls and dark doors as far as she could see. She headed down the corridor, aware, with every step, how loud her footsteps were. They were not loud in the way that stiletto heels clicking against tiles are loud, but in the way that a giant's footsteps are loud, even when that giant is attempting to move lightly across the carpet in her rubber-soled sneakers.

Aggie paused outside the kitchen door. She heard the tinkling of a teaspoon in a teacup and a tuneless humming. She took three deep breaths, imagining a piece of string running up her spine and through the top of her skull, pushed her shoulders back, sucked her stomach in and ran a hand over her head to ensure her hair was not sticking up.

She pushed open the door and was greeted by a smiling boy with dark curls and a blinding lime shirt, holding aloft a yellow teacup. ‘Hello. Tea or coffee?'

‘Neither, thanks. I'm looking for Pastor Butler.'

‘You've found him.' He motioned toward the enormous timber table that stood between them. ‘Pull up a pew. I'm just brewing a pot. Sure you won't have a cup?'

Aggie stayed in the doorway. ‘
You're
in charge here?'

‘No, no, no.' He carried the pot and a cup to the table, then slid onto the bench behind it. He motioned for Aggie to join him. She stood her ground.

‘Can you tell me please, who is in charge?'

The boy pointed to the ceiling. ‘God, of course. I'm just doing his bidding. Now please, Aggie Grey, sit down. Let's talk.'

Aggie sat down. He smiled; she did not. ‘You know who I am, so I'd appreciate it if –'

‘Luke Butler. Senior Pastor.' He put down his cup and offered her his hand, which she shook the way her father had taught her: fast and firm. Luke Butler did not look surprised at this; he matched it with his own. Aggie withdrew her hand wordlessly.

‘So,' he said, clasping his tea cup. ‘So.' He held her gaze, smiling as though he had a great secret he couldn't wait to tell.

‘I'm here to talk about the leaflets.'

‘Yes, I thought you might be.'

‘Your leaflets are defamatory. If you don't stop distributing them, we will press charges.'

Luke Butler's smile remained. He topped up his teacup. ‘You deny carrying out the activities listed? Encouraging illegal conduct such as drug injection and under-age intercourse? Promoting homosexuality and promiscuity? Distributing pornography to children?'

‘We encourage and promote nothing except health and safety. If you believe any of our activities are illegal, you're free to report us to the relevant authorities. You are not free, however, to distribute defamatory literature. It stops immediately or you'll be hearing from our lawyers.'

Luke sat back in his chair and ran both hands through his curls. ‘Better get your PR staff involved too, then. Imagine how much fun the tabloids will have with this.'

Aggie shrugged. ‘Maybe. Maybe not. If we can communicate to the community the importance of what we do, then –'

‘Forget communicating to the community for a minute. Communicate to me. Tell
me
why you should be allowed to continue operating.'

‘Listen, you arrogant little prick. I'm not justifying the validity of my work to you.' Aggie stood up. ‘If the harassment doesn't stop, I will call the police. Then I'll call a lawyer. And you may have the
Telegraph
and the talkback shock jocks on your side, but I can stir up every progressive in the country if I call in the ABC and the
Herald
.'

Luke stood and came around to the other side of the table. He placed a hand on Aggie's shoulder; this was alarming as she'd been hit often but held by the shoulder rarely. ‘I'm sorry I upset you,' he said.

‘No, you didn't. It's fine.' She shrugged, but his hand remained.

‘I didn't know you'd get so upset. I was just . . . I hadn't meant to be arrogant. I only wanted to understand why you do what you do. You seem like such a nice –' His hand fell, and he stepped back. ‘I just wanted to understand how such a nice person could be in the business you're in.'

‘This isn't about me, Mr Butler.' Aggie stepped sideways and made for the door. ‘Stop the leaflets or you'll hear from our lawyers.'

‘Let me show you out,' he said, but Aggie's long, fast strides left him finishing the sentence from the kitchen while she had already reached the front doors.

Malcolm was out the front of the office smoking when Aggie returned. She pulled a face at the cigarette, but he was already grinding it into the ashtray and didn't see.

‘Thought this week was quitting week?'

Mal followed Aggie inside. ‘Quitting at home week. Next week I'll stop smoking at work, and the week after that, I'll stop altogether.'

‘And does Will know about your three-step program?' Will had been on at Mal to quit smoking and lose weight almost since they'd met. It was bad enough, he said, that Mal was fifteen years older, without having to worry about him dropping dead prematurely of a heart-attack. Will's fears were behind the stash of chips and lollies in Mal's desk drawer, the gym bag thrown onto the filing cabinet every Monday morning and taken home unopened every Friday night, and now, the cigarettes kept in a drawer alongside peppermints and deodorant spray.