“That’s him!” Cecil shouted as I approached. His daughter Grace stood beside him. “He’s the one who healed my baby girl!”
I sighed. I wanted to cuss, but I was in pastor mode.
Beast mode was reserved for the gym.
Church folk wouldn’t appreciate it if I called myself a beast. Revelation had sort of spoiled that one with the whole six-six-six thing.
I shook Cecil’s hand. “Nice to see you again. How’s Shanda?”
“Out spreading the word, Reverend! I hope you don’t mind. We told a few people about what you were doing here.”
I chuckled. “Well, they aren’t all looking for healings, are they?”
“No, Reverend,” Cecil said. “But any man who can do what you did for my Grace, that’s the sort of man people want to hear preach.”
I smiled kindly. Inside, though, I was tied in knots. I had healed Grace with magic. I suppose one could argue that it was the same sort of magic Jesus had used when he healed. The magic of creation, still coursing through the ley lines of Earth.
But it didn’t feel like I was a miracle worker.
I might have been the subject of a prophecy, but I was no prophet. I was just a common preacher with a basic seminary education and a desire to make the world a better place.
At least, that had been all I’d wanted when I’d first set out to do this. Now, making the world a better place meant saving it, too.
“Well, if everyone is here to hear me preach, why is everyone outside?” I asked.
Cecil cocked his head. “Well, the doors are locked, Reverend.”
I grunted. They shouldn’t have been locked. There had been Sundays in the past when I was the first to arrive, but typically an elder, most likely Doris, would arrive beforehand. They’d get the thermostat set and the lights turned on.
I pulled on the door handle.
Sure enough, locked.
I shook my head and grabbed my keys from my pocket. This had to be a mistake. I hoped it was.
I unlocked the door and opened it.
“Pastor!” Jim said. “Quick, close the door behind you.”
I snorted. “Why?”
“All those people, they’re here looking for miracles. They’re just looking for a show and probably some handouts.”
I stared at Jim blankly. “Let them.” I pushed the door wide and blocked it open with a wedge. “Welcome, everyone. Please come in and have a seat. The service will begin shortly.”
“But Pastor,” Jim started.
I raised my hand and cut him off. “Knock, the Lord said, and the door shall be opened unto you.”
Jim grunted and shook his head before shuffling to his customary position in the third row from the back.
We didn’t have enough bulletins for everyone. We were going to have to make a few adjustments. Unfortunately, as beautiful as the liturgy in our church could be, it was challenging for newcomers to follow. We had services printed in the front of the hymnals, but let's face it, who wanted to follow a whole order of worship from a book? Instead, I jotted down a few hymns and gave the list to our organist.
Patty had played the organ at Holy Cross since before I was born. She knew most of the hymns inside and out. Most of them, for the casual visitor, were nearly impossible to sing. I made sure to stick to the well-known tunes, How Great Thou Art, Amazing Grace, and the like. Songs people knew or, at the very least, knew the tune so they could follow along.
I also wasn’t inclined to waste any time vesting up with my alb and stole. We had people here eager to hear the good word, and I didn’t want to keep them waiting. I’d probably get flak for it, but truth be told, I didn’t see why I needed to wear a robe. It always felt a little like getting out of the bath, and I was baptized a long time ago.
Instead, I just started speaking. I welcomed everyone to the church. We sang a few hymns, and I started to preach.
I stuck to the message I’d planned.
Gratitude.
But I supplemented it a bit.
“Gratitude is the attitude we should have when we get better than we deserve. And when that’s the case, who are we to keep it to ourselves? Grateful people don’t hoard their hope. They want to share it. That was why Cecil invited so many good people today; he wanted to share the hope. Hope he was grateful for, hope that for reasons I don’t completely comprehend, allowed a girl who might have never walked on her own to take her first steps. A hope that sees beyond our differences, our politics, our religious views, and embraces everyone.
“After all, who are we that God should have mercy on us? What have we done to deserve God’s favor? It was never about us. Gratitude isn’t about getting things you deserve, it’s about the cheerful heart of the giver. Having received so much from our God’s generous hand, who are we to hoard His gifts for ourselves?”
The sermon wasn’t supposed to be a lecture. Most of it I’d written about myself and all I’d been given that I didn’t deserve. It was about learning to live life without obsessing over the shit and focusing instead on all the things I kept on my gratitude list.
But I could tell from the looks on some of our longstanding members' faces that they didn’t like it. I could have preached this topic any other Sunday, and they would have shaken my hand afterward and told me it was a good sermon. They always did that. But now, with outsiders here, people who weren’t used to worshipping like they did, who didn’t look like them, who came from a different walk of life, the message struck a chord—one they didn’t like the sound of.
But what else could I do, turn people away? How would I be any better than my former bishop if I had done that? How could I even live with myself if I’d refused to welcome people seeking meaning in their lives, no matter their lifestyle or background?
Maybe some of these people were looking for a miracle worker. I was glad no one came looking for healing this week. I wasn’t sure what I’d do, given the mess I’d been through with the trickster fairy. I knew, though, that despite all that, if someone was in need and I could help, I wouldn’t be able to resist.
Even if it did end up with me having my bed short-sheeted or my underpants smeared with Ben Gay. But then again, maybe the fairy wouldn’t mind. Healing was a good use of magic, I’d say. Certainly nobler than using it to cheat my way through my gym routine.
After nearly everyone left, Jim stayed behind. “Pastor, can I have a word?”
“Of course, Jim. What’s up?” I knew what he wanted to talk about, but I didn’t want to make it obvious that I had assumed.
“Is it going to be like this every week from now on?” Jim asked.
“Why do you ask, Jim?”
“If it is, Pastor, I think I might have to take my family elsewhere.”
I scratched my head. “I can’t force you to stay here, Jim, but I’m not going to deny anyone who wants to be here a seat.”
“We only have so many seats, Pastor,” Jim said.
I sighed. It was the first time that I’d seen every pew filled in all my years of preaching there. There had even been folks standing in the back. And it was the first time, in truth, that our attendance had reflected our neighborhood's diversity. It was a good thing. I hoped it lasted. I prayed it would grow.
“Jim, why don’t you tell me what’s really bothering you? I don’t think it’s having enough seats. We can always add more services if we have to.”
Jim shook his head. “I grew up here. We do things a certain way, and those things mean something.”
I nodded. “You’ve been here your whole life. Isn’t your faith strong enough that you can handle a few things changing for the sake of others who are coming here for the first time?”
Jim shook his head. “I’m sorry, Pastor. I can’t.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Jim. If you want to go, I won’t stand in your way. But I want you to know you’re always welcome here. Everyone is welcome here.”
Jim snorted. “That’s sort of the problem. If everyone’s welcome, our w
ays of doing things won’t be welcome anymore.”
I bit my lip. I wasn’t going to argue with him or anyone else about traditions, and truth be told, until now, Jim had been one of my staunchest advocates. He’d stood up for me when the former bishop had wanted to censure after my divorce. He had been one of the leading voices clamoring that I be restored once Philip took over as the new bishop in our district.
But I had to let him go. It was just as wrong to force anyone into a church where they weren’t comfortable as it was to force anyone out. If only he could see the beauty that I saw when I surveyed the crowd. When I heard those unfamiliar “amens” echoing through the building. Our usual congregation didn’t vocalize like that in the middle of a sermon.
Change can be scary. I knew that. I was changing. My life was changing. Everything I cared about was changing. But growth required change, and if this congregation didn’t want to adapt, evolve, or grow, how could I force it? At the same time, how could I in good conscience prevent it? I couldn’t, so I wouldn’t. If they wanted me removed, the members could make it happen. Until then, I was going to do what I believed was right, no matter the consequences. After all, loving other people sometimes meant we had to accept things we weren’t used to. It meant we had to go outside our comfort zones. It meant we had to be willing to take risks, and it meant we had to be ready to accept the costs.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I walked back into my apartment, and after being graced with a head butt from Agnus and scratching behind his ears in return, I quickly slipped out of my slacks and into some sweats.
I didn’t like dress clothes. Part of me envied those hipster preachers who wore whatever the hell they wanted and still preached to massive crowds.
Sundays, outside of football season, were typically occupied by activities with church members, but this Sunday, after what had happened, I didn’t receive any invites to lunch.
Jim was the only one who said anything to me about it. He was the only member who’d voiced his disapproval. That didn’t mean others didn’t have the same thoughts, but most good folks had consciences. They sensed that something had made them feel uncomfortable, and rather than retreat to bigotry or narrow-mindedness, they’d used that discomfort as an opportunity to reflect. Why did something that should be good make me feel anxious? What was it about my attitudes or beliefs, be they explicit or implicit, that was leading me to think in a way that I intuitively knew to be wrong?
That didn’t mean Jim wasn’t struggling with it. It didn’t mean his attitude wouldn’t change once he’d had a chance to reflect. Some of us struggled more internally, and others of us had to air out our struggles—wrestle with what we were feeling by putting our thoughts, even our ugliest ones, out there to be scrutinized.
I mean, hello! How many social media arguments, ultimately leading to unfriendings and unfollows, began that way? Someone shooting from the hip, airing feelings that stemmed from incomplete thoughts, from things they were sorting through, only to have the mobs descend upon them with scathing condemnations?
I’d been there and had it done to me. I mean, I’d once aired the ungodly opinion that Toy Story 2 was better than the original, and holy hell, they’d nearly burned me alive.
It was one reason why I didn’t keep social media apps on my phone anymore. I still had my accounts, and I checked in periodically to see if I had any messages from long-lost high school buddies or whatever, but I couldn’t make social media a regular part of my routine. I just couldn’t. Not if I wanted to be happy. Not if I wanted to stay sober.
I had an itch to go to the gym. Yeah, Jag wouldn’t be there, not on a Sunday. There probably wouldn’t be many folks there.
Just as I was about to grab my gym bag, my phone buzzed.
I still had the phone on vibrate, which I’d switched it to before church.
It was Philip.
Have time to talk?
I sighed. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that someone from the church had already called him. I mean, Jesus had taught his disciples that if they ever had a problem with each other, they should deal with it themselves. Face to face. If that didn’t work, bring two or three others into the discussion. But snitching? Jesus wasn’t a fan.
Snitches be bitches. No, Jesus didn’t say that. Call it Caspar 3:16. I typed back.
Sure. On the phone?
Figured I’d come to you. How about we do lunch at the pub under your apartment?
O’Donnell’s is closed on Sundays. Applebees?
All right. Be there in thirty minutes.
Technically speaking, I’d just been reinstated. It was only my second week back in the pulpit. Well, my metaphorical pulpit. Holy Cross did have one. You had to go up a miniature staircase to preach from it. Not my style. Some of the more traditionally-minded members wished I’d used it more, but I preferred to speak in the open. People tend to put preachers on pedestals already, and I didn’t deserve that. I didn’t like talking down to people, either in tone or because of my elevation. Besides, our pulpit was so high that I could swear I once felt my ears pop while climbing up there.
I digress. The whole point was, I’d barely made it two weeks, and now I was having a private sit-down with the bishop. Sure, Philip wasn’t Matthias. He was a much kinder and more reasonable man, but he still had a job to do.
I opened Agnus a can of tuna, and per Layla’s instructions, I dumped it into a bowl rather than giving him the can. Seriously, he’d eaten from the can hundreds of times. My can opener didn’t leave sharp edges. But she insisted, and I was still heeding her wishes even though she was absent.
Damn, I missed that woman. Er, elf. Elf-woman. I changed out of my sweats again, and this time, I put on jeans. It was an acceptable compromise between church attire and apartment-appropriate sweats. I half-wondered why they sold the sweats in the activewear department. Most of the time I wore them was when I was sedentary. Hell, even since I’d started training at the gym, I didn’t wear sweats. I wore exercise shorts and t-shirts.
With Agnus digging into his tuna, I stepped out the door. “Be back in a few, Agnus.”
“Mmmhmm,” Agnus said, his mouth full of fish. He had his priorities. I was honored he acknowledged me at all.
I locked the door and headed downstairs.
Applebees was only a few blocks away. Still, I was glad I’d left early enough to account for the walk. When I arrived, I saw that Philip was already there. Of course, he was wearing a clergy shirt; you know the kind priests wear with the little white tab in the middle? I wore those in seminary. They were required back then, but I hated them. I mean, I had a good-sized Adam's apple, and that little piece of plastic sucked. Besides, I didn’t like having people look at me weird everywhere I went. We weren’t Catholics.
It also meant we’d likely have to endure awkward stares during the meal. And if we were unlucky, someone would approach us at some point and ask us to pray for them or exorcise a demon or whatever.
Well, they’d ask Philip. I was wearing a t-shirt with my jeans that said, Kiss Me, I’m Irish. I wasn’t Irish, not really, but they were shirts we had to wear for St. Patrick’s day at O’Donnell’s. It’s a big day when you work at an Irish pub, and the owners didn’t seem to care that, at least based on the DNA test I’d sent off, I only had about one thirty-second genuine Irish blood. But if people thought I was, why the hell would someone kiss someone else just because of their ethnicity? It was a weird shirt, now that I thought about it.
It would make more sense to buy a shirt that said, Don’t kiss me. I just ate a banana.
Make more sense, and generally speaking, it would avoid the remote chance that someone might actually kiss me randomly. Unless someone liked bananas. Or they were a monkey and could read. Not likely. But then again, my cat had figured it out.
I sat down in front of Philip. He was smiling.
“Who snitched?” I asked.
“Snitched?” Philip raised an eyebrow even as he laughed. “It does sor
t of feel that way, now that you mention it.”
I shook my head. “If people have an issue with anything I’m doing, why not just talk to me about it?”
Philip shrugged. “Fear. People are afraid of confrontation most of the time.”
“Tell that to the internet trolls,” I quipped.
“That’s different,” Philip said. “When we don’t have to look someone in the face, it’s easier to be the assholes we all are on the inside.”
I snorted. “True enough. So I assume you more or less know what happened?”
Philip nodded. “I’m not here to reprimand you.”
I nodded. “Good, because honestly, after what I just went through, if you did, I’d be just as likely to throw my hands in the air and quit as be willing to sit and listen to it.”
“Understandable,” Philip said. “I’m only here because I’ve been in situations like that. I mean, I didn’t somehow heal anyone. No one ever thought I’d performed any miracles.”
“Do you think I’m a miracle worker?” I asked.
“I don’t know if you are or aren’t,” Philip said. “I tend to think there’s only one real miracle worker. God just works through human beings from time to time.”
“I suppose it doesn’t matter what I did or didn’t do,” I said. “In truth, I’m not so sure I performed a miracle either.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Philip said. “At the end of the day, a girl who couldn’t walk before can now. Maybe she always could. Maybe you healed her. Either way, in my mind, give God the glory, right?”
I nodded. “Exactly. But you said you’d been through something like this before?”
“Not on this scale,” Philip said. “But yes. And it wasn’t because we had poor people come in.”
“Black people, you mean?” I asked. “Because we have poor white members. It isn’t that people are poor that made some of our members uncomfortable.”
Old Dogma New Tricks (The Elven Prophecy Book 2) Page 13
