Fatherless: A Novel

by Dobson, James

  “But they were terrified and frightened, and supposed they had seen a spirit,” the pastor continued. “And He said to them, ‘Why are you troubled? And why do doubts arise in your hearts? Behold My hands and My feet, that it is I Myself. Handle Me and see, for a spirit does not have flesh and bones as you see I have.’ When He had said this, He showed them His hands and His feet.”

  Sensing he had finished reading the Bible passage, Julia looked toward the pastor, whose eyes remained fixed on the page before him.

  “Our Lord appeared to literally hundreds of eyewitnesses after his resurrection. But this may be the most important of all appearances, as we consider what C. S. Lewis called the grand miracle of the Christian faith, the bodily incarnation and resurrection of our Lord. These very disciples and their descendants would soon face false teachers claiming that Christ came to free us from the evil of material existence. In one council after another the church rightfully condemned a heresy known as Gnosticism, the belief that spirit is good but body is bad. Yet God himself became a body, a human body, to restore the full goodness of what it means to be human—one made in God’s very image. It is our enemy, Satan, who hates the flesh. It is Jesus, our Savior, who sits at the right hand of the Father in a human body. Notice his words, ‘Behold My hands and My feet…a spirit does not have flesh and bones as you see I have.”

  Julia did not remember any of Angie’s former pastors using a word like heresy. She did, however, recall them talking about Jesus’s death on a cross and emphasizing his resurrection.

  “The Scriptures make a very strong emphasis on this point. Saint Luke goes on to describe Jesus asking for a piece of broiled fish and sweet honeycomb to eat in their presence. His empty plate would become further evidence of his physical reality if they later assumed their eyes had played tricks.”

  Another pause. Julia glanced around to see if others were as underwhelmed by the sermon as she. Apparently not, eyes scanning open Bibles to confirm what must have been an important realization.

  “Years later Saint John, an eyewitness to this moment, described it in his First Epistle when he said ‘That which was from the beginning, which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we have looked upon, and our hands have handled…we declare to you…that your joy may be full.’ He says it is the bodily resurrection of Christ that brings fullness of joy. Although I do wonder why he forgot to mention the fish and honey part.”

  The pastor looked up from his page, apparently pleased by the playful ad lib. No one laughed with him, although Julia could not help smiling at him.

  “Saint Paul, while not an eyewitness to this moment, did write to the church at Corinth that if Christ did not rise bodily from the grave then the Christian faith is completely empty. In fact, all of the apostles confirmed, many by their own martyr deaths, that the bodily incarnation and resurrection of Christ are essential doctrines of the Christian faith.”

  Throughout the rest of the sermon Julia tried to follow a train of thought important enough to warrant half of a Sunday service.

  God became flesh. Jesus rose bodily. Lots of people saw and touched him. Religious leaders said he never rose, that his disciples removed the body. Christians were killed for saying otherwise. False teachers said he rose, but only in spirit, to show the supremacy of spirit over body. Seven major church councils defended both the deity and the humanity of Jesus Christ.

  So what? she wondered. What does an ancient debate over body and spirit have to do with life in the twenty-first century?

  Pastor Mubar concluded his remarks and took a step away from the podium. Everyone stood. Julia was grateful, assuming the service had reached the end. It hadn’t.

  The doors at the back of the chapel opened. A long train of toddlers and preschool children trailed a teenage girl leading them into the room. Another teen followed behind, corralling any stragglers. Each child’s eyes darted to and fro around the room, trying to locate a welcoming mom or dad. The scattered crowd of two hundred suddenly mushroomed into a packed auditorium of hushed parent-child reunions. Julia could not recall ever seeing such a high ratio of kids to parents. A quick guess suggested households two or three times the national average.

  “I believe in one God, the Father, the Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth…” the minister began. Julia noticed everyone rising, most families holding hands as they began reciting the same words in unison.

  “…And of all things visible and invisible. And in one Lord, Jesus Christ, the only-begotten Son of God, begotten of the Father before all ages…”

  She looked at Angie and Kevin, both mouths in sync. She started to move her own lips ever so slightly, hoping to appear on cue and on script.

  “Light of light, true God of true God, begotten, not created, of one essence with the Father, through whom all things were made…”

  Julia recognized a few words from the next sentence from a verse Angie had often quoted when they were younger, something about God loving the world and giving his only begotten Son and about believers living forever. Julia always had a bad feeling about the emphasis on forever-livers and pagan perishers. Apparently Angie’s new church was not as different as it had seemed.

  “Who for us and for our salvation came down from the heavens and was incarnate by the Holy Spirit and the Virgin Mary, and became man…”

  Julia sensed the volume starting to rise like a song approaching everyone’s favorite phrase. She looked back at Angie, whose eyes were closed. She looked back toward Pastor Mubar. His were also.

  “Crucified for us under Pontius Pilate, he suffered and was buried…” The voices swelled even higher. “Rising on the third day according to the Scriptures, and ascending into the heavens, he is seated at the right hand of the Father…”

  Julia saw more tears, this time inspired by a toneless unison of ordinary people reciting memorized words. No guitar strum or mediocre vocalist to work its magic. The emotion, she realized, must be rooted in the ideas conveyed through both song and script. She listened more attentively.

  “And coming again in glory to judge the living and the dead, His kingdom shall have no end…”

  Judge? I thought Jesus was about love.

  The rest flowed quickly. A Holy Spirit giving life, proceeding from the Father, and speaking through prophets. Then a quick reference to “one, holy, apostolic catholic church.”

  Is that why they called it Apostles’ Church? Had Angie and Kevin joined the Roman Catholics, a church infamous for its virulent opposition to both in vitro selection and the transition industry?

  “I acknowledge one baptism for the remission of sins; I expect the resurrection of the dead and the life of the age to come. Amen.”

  The final word served as an audible period, declaring the prolonged recitation complete. Neither Angie nor Kevin joined the half of the crowd that crossed themselves. Then all returned to the discomfort of their bench seats. Julia perceived a change in the air, like a sense of anticipation that occurs when the lights dim at the movie theater.

  “Those who affirm that creed as their own may now partake.”

  Partake of what? Julia wondered.

  A family of five seated near the front stood. Julia began to lift herself until she realized everyone else had remained seated. The pastor stepped out from behind his podium and moved around to the front, where a table Julia hadn’t noticed held a saucer-shaped tray and several mugs with no handles. The family approached, the minister handing the father a piece of bread and one of the cups.

  “The body and blood of Christ, sacrificed for you,” he said.

  The father took a bite of the bread and a tiny sip before handing both to his wife, a woman who appeared miserably pregnant with number four. Each child mimicked Mom and then the father took what remained of the bread and cup and returned it to the table. The pastor was already serving a different group, a couple with their own brood of three gangly kids.

  The process continued for several minutes, one row after the next le
aving their seats to participate in a ritual Julia perceived to be the culminating event of the service. When the family seated in the row in front of her own rose to their feet, Julia felt a knot in her stomach. Was she supposed to join Angie’s clan at the front? She did not, as the pastor expected, agree with the script they had recited. Was she supposed to participate anyway, or was the purpose to make outsiders feel second-class?

  Angie leaned toward Julia. “Do you want me to stay here with you?”

  Question answered. Julia would remain seated, her sweet friend abstaining if necessary to prevent embarrassment.

  “I’m fine,” Julia whispered back. “You go ahead.”

  Moments later, Angie joined Kevin and the kids at the front of the chapel. But Julia realized she was not the only person seated. Across the aisle sat another solitary figure. He had remained behind when the family sitting in his row walked forward. Slightly older than Julia, he appeared equally uncomfortable despite greater familiarity with the routine. His face seemed kind, yet alluringly rugged—as if he were a soldier on leave from dangerous duty willingly accepted to protect those he loved.

  Their eyes met. He gave a slight smile and a nod. He wasn’t flirting, more like a chivalrous knight reassuring a damsel in distress.

  The man’s name, Julia would soon learn, was Troy Simmons. Kevin Tolbert’s best friend and chief of staff.

  Chapter Thirty

  Troy stood out of range while Kevin spoke to the pastor. He noticed Angie re-bundling Tommy’s coat and little Leah absorbing the admiration of four teenage groupies watching her every move. But his eyes settled on the mysterious visitor brushing a strand of lovely dark hair from her face with one hand while awkwardly helping Joy rewrap an unwieldy scarf with the other.

  Before he could offer the woman his assistance Troy noticed a miniature Eskimo lumbering in his direction.

  “Hi Uncle Twoy!” a boy’s voice hollered.

  “Is that Tommy?” Troy removed the parka hood in search of the oldest Tolbert child. “It sure is! How’s my favorite little buddy doing this fine Sunday morning?”

  “I’m gweat! Are you going wif us?”

  “With you where?” Troy’s eyes shifted to Angie, who had caught up with her escaped son.

  “Out for a quick lunch. Can you join us?”

  Troy raised his eyebrows in mock amazement. “Out to lunch on Sunday?”

  “Kevin and I had a late night.” A slight blush. “So we told the kids we would go out instead of the usual meal at home. You’ll come?”

  “Pwease!” Tommy insisted.

  “You bet I’ll come!”

  “Gweat!” Tommy cheered.

  “Joy-Joy!” Troy stooped to look the two-year-old in the eyes. “What a lovely scarf you’re wearing today. Very becoming!”

  A bashful grin.

  “Hello,” he said, standing upright. “I’m Troy Simmons.”

  Julia extended her hand for Troy to accept with a light shake. Her soft skin fit the elegant beauty he had been admiring with quick glances for the past ninety minutes.

  “I’m so sorry,” Angie reacted. “Where are my manners? I forgot you two never met back in the day. This is my longtime friend Julia Davidson.”

  The name rang a bell. He remembered the message containing a media interview request.

  “Julia Davidson from RAP Syndicate?” he said without thinking. So much for first impressions, he thought, exposing himself as the work-obsessed friend who spends Saturday nights reading office messages because he has no life.

  “That’s right. You’ve read my column?”

  He hadn’t. But she seemed pleased by the possibility. He decided to lie without words.

  “I work with Kevin. It’s part of my job to know who’s who in the media.” He made a mental note to scan a few of her columns on the way to the restaurant.

  “I didn’t realize Kevin had a brother,” Julia said.

  The comment puzzled Troy.

  “Tommy called you Uncle Troy.”

  “Oh, that!” He smiled. “That’s what the kids call me. But we’re just longtime friends.”

  A knowing nod from Aunt Julia.

  “Do you live in DC?” he asked.

  “Denver. I’m here for Monday interviews and decided to come early for some girl time with Angie.”

  “Very nice,” he said, looking in her eyes two and a half seconds longer than he should have. She appeared uncomfortable. He looked away quickly, spotting Kevin heading in their direction along with the pastor.

  “I see you’ve met Julia.” Kevin announced the obvious. “Join us for lunch?”

  “Do I have to keep minutes of the meeting?”

  A polite laugh. “Not if you’ll pay the bill.”

  “Stop it!” Angie said, gently slapping her husband’s chest. “He already accepted Tommy’s unconditional invitation.”

  Julia extended her hand toward Pastor Mubar. “Hello, Father,” she began. “Thank you for the service today. Or do you call it Mass?”

  “We call it worship. And you can call me Pastor Seth,” he replied. “Thank you for visiting with us today.”

  He began to walk away but Julia retained him. “May I ask you a question?” She sounded like a reporter wanting facts more than a parishioner seeking answers. “It’s about something you said today.”

  “Of course,” he replied.

  “Actually, it was something everyone said during that group recitation.”

  “The creed,” he clarified.

  “Right. I heard something about the one apostolic church. Is this church Catholic?”

  “‘I believe in one, holy, apostolic catholic church,’” he repeated the precise wording. “The answer to your question is yes and no.”

  She waited for more.

  “Christians started reciting the creed long before any divisions existed in the church. We use the word catholic as they meant it. We are catholic with a small c because we join all believers in all generations affirming the reality of Christ’s incarnation, death, and resurrection. But we do not belong to the Roman Catholic denomination—which is probably what you are asking.”

  “I see.” She seemed to have anticipated a different answer to set up her second question. “So do you hold similar views on issues?”

  “Issues such as?” he asked.

  “Such as the Youth Initiative?”

  The question raised Troy’s antennae. It felt improper in the one place and time he retreated from the kind of political acrimony that defined his existence the rest of the week.

  The pastor glanced at Kevin before answering. “We believe all human life has dignity because it reflects the image of God himself, if that’s what you want to know.”

  “I see,” she said again, her journalistic curiosity appearing satisfied.

  An uncomfortable silence followed the exchange as a caution light went on in Troy’s mind. He wondered whether the lovely guest from Colorado supported or opposed the president’s agenda. What would she think of Kevin’s Bright Spots counterproposal? He made another mental note to look into whether she had written anything on the topic.

  “A wonderful message today, Pastor Seth.” Angie to the rescue. “I never considered the connection between Christ’s incarnation and marital intimacy.”

  The comment surprised Troy. Where had he been during that part of the sermon?

  “‘I speak concerning Christ and the Church,’” the pastor said, reminding Troy of the brief mention. “St. Paul called it a mystery.” He placed one hand on Kevin’s shoulder and the other on Angie’s. “But I think these two understand some of what he meant.”

  The statement seemed to be directed at Troy, another playful jab at his lonely bachelor status.

  “Once again, I’m in the dark,” Troy said in self-deprecation. “You’ll need to pray for me, Pastor Seth. Ask God to bring me a woman who can open my eyes.”

  His usual defense.

  “The Scriptures say he who finds a wife finds a good thin
g. One must search if he is going to find. God won’t do for you what he told you to do yourself!”

  The pastor’s usual retort.

  Kevin punched Troy’s arm, his version of a playful nudge.

  Angie patted the pastor’s hand resting on her shoulder, her way of accepting the subtle compliment.

  Julia looked down and reached for Joy’s hand, her diversion from an awkward moment.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  There were about twenty or thirty vehicles on the lot, three or four hundred fewer than would have been seen a quarter century earlier. The pavement showed signs of neglect, and lines of paint that once distinguished parking spots had faded, replaced by patches of resilient weeds reaching toward a sky no longer obstructed by packed minivans and sport utility vehicles.

  There was a time when this same campus hosted a beehive of Sunday-morning activity. Friendly parking attendants waved visitors into special spaces reserved for a sure stream of first-time guests. Smiling greeters held doors for throngs of worshippers scurrying into the building two minutes after services began. Young couples watched the first set of songs on a flat-screen television conveniently mounted by the coffee bar before entering the auditorium just in time to miss the passing offering plate and catch the pastor’s message in a place they called The Chapel.

  The cars parked this Sunday morning didn’t belong to commuting parishioners. They belonged to attending staff and the handful of residents still sharp enough to drive and clever enough to protect their licenses from confiscation.

  The Chapel continued holding services in a scaled-down version of the auditorium, using a time-delay video feed from Pastor Skip Gregory. His image appeared immediately after thirty minutes of music specifically chosen to suit the worship-style preferences of nearly two hundred elderly baby boomers, most of whom lived a short walk down the hall.

  It had been nearly ten years since the sign had been changed. The text beneath CHAPEL HILLS CHURCH had once read COMMUNITY WORSHIP CENTER. It now said RESIDENTIAL COMMUNITY, code for an elder-care facility. Even eighty- and ninety-year-old baby boomers hated the notion of getting old.