by Lee Strobel
Ramirez hung his head. “Muy malo,” he muttered.
Crowley jumped in. “Very bad? You’ve done something very bad?”
“No — I have done nothing,” he insisted, looking at her with alarm. “It was very bad — the robbery, the shooting.”
“Why did you help him? Why did you help the gunman?”
Ramirez seemed shocked at the notion. “I did not help him. I do not know who he was. Señor Gamos was my friend.”
“Then why did you run?”
“Deportación. I did not want to be sent home. We have a life here; I have two jobs. No tengo documentación.”
Bekins grabbed him by his shoulder and shoved him toward the door. “No documents? Well, that’s the least of your problems now. How do you say ‘death penalty’ in Spanish?”
II
When Eric Snow walked onto the platform and into a storm of flashing lights, he was not alone.
Trailing behind him were Rabbi Malachi Hochman of the Israel Shalom Community Center, a small but respected liberal synagogue on the North Shore; Ansui Banki of Temple Doshin (“the way of truth”), a Buddhist congregation on Chicago’s Near North Side, who was wrapped in the traditional maroon kashaya robe, with his right shoulder bare; Riyasat Najeeb Mohammed, the Imam of the Mid–America Islamic Center, an increasingly popular mosque with headquarters in the South Loop; and Nick McBride, executive director of the Chicago chapter of the United Atheist Movement, Inc.
They took their places at two rectangular tables on either side of the centered podium, with placards displaying their names. Great care had been taken to make sure the Muslim and Jewish representatives sat as far apart as possible.
The backdrop was a large orange and white banner declaring, Serve America Together; the stage was flanked by the flags of the United States and the State of Illinois. The oak podium was decorated with an official–looking seal that had been designed by a student at the Art Institute of Chicago, whose services Debra Wyatt found advertised on the Internet.
Snow’s journey to this elaborately planned news conference, being staged in the cavernous ballroom of a Michigan Avenue hotel, had not been without snags. Just twenty minutes earlier, inside a hastily prepared greenroom down the hall, he was wrestling with mixed emotions.
“It just feels really odd, to be here without Liz,” he told Wyatt.
His wife had continued to second–guess Eric’s candidacy. She repeatedly told him that if he believed that this was the path God wanted him to follow, then she wouldn’t stand in the way. Still a far cry from enthusiastic participation, but Eric was convinced she would warm to the idea once the appointment was secured. She had, in fact, planned to attend today’s press conference — until their doorbell rang that morning shortly before 7:00 a.m.
Eric had peered over the railing and watched as Liz, still in her robe, opened the front door to retrieve a package with a note. Liz ripped open the envelope and read the words aloud: “Here’s an appropriate outfit for today’s event. Debra.”
Then Liz opened the box and withdrew a tailored navy suit and cream–colored blouse, which she immediately threw in a heap on the floor.
“I … I’m speechless! The nerve!” she declared. “As if I don’t dress appropriately? Tell me you didn’t know she was going to do this, Eric. Better yet, assure me that you didn’t put her up to this.”
Eric scrambled down the stairs in his boxers and socks, putting on a white dress shirt. Before he could speak, Liz glared at him and said: “Is this how the two of you see me — as window–dressing? How dare she try to dress me like some plastic Barbie doll!”
“I’m sorry — Debra means well. I had no idea. Honey, please.” He reached out to grab her shoulders but she deflected him.
“You can go to your press conference by yourself; you don’t need me as a prop,” she said. “Not when you’ve got a lovely blonde surrogate wife, one who knows how to dress the part.” She turned and got in his face. “I won’t stand in the way of your candidacy, but I’m not going to put on a costume and pretend that I’m something I’m not.”
“Liz, listen —”
“No!” She turned and stalked away. When the bedroom door slammed, it seemed to shake the whole house.
No wonder Eric was still rattled as he waited in the greenroom for the press conference to begin. “What if a reporter asks why Liz isn’t here?” he asked Wyatt.
“Say she supports your candidacy, which she does,” Wyatt replied. “And that something came up.” She lowered her voice. “I’m really sorry, Eric — my mistake. I should have called her and talked through my intentions instead of just sending her the suit with a note.”
“She was on the edge anyway. She told me that she still felt like this was more our thing,” he said, gesturing between the two of them, “instead of hers and mine.”
That wasn’t all that was weighing on him. Edward Avanes was obviously ticked when he called Eric in response to the Examiner article about the miracles. The only way Eric had been able to calm him was to reveal that he was resigning from the church and starting a new endeavor that he guaranteed would be universally recognized as being noble, altruistic — and most important, radically inclusive.
And then there was his meeting with the elders, which took a bigger emotional toll than he had anticipated. When the time came to say that he was leaving, he was taken aback by the depth of the feelings that surged within him.
Surely, he thought, he had squeezed out those emotions during the long deliberative process that led him to pursue what was, in his mind, the most relentlessly logical career decision he could ever make. Still, the feelings ambushed him, welling up to moisten his eyes and bring a catch to his voice.
Wyatt checked her watch — seven minutes until the news conference was scheduled to begin. “Shake it off,” she told Snow, slapping him on his back. “This is the beginning of something bigger, something better.”
Still seated, Eric smiled wanly.
Meanwhile, the representatives of the other religions — and their new atheist compatriot — remained sequestered in another room. Snow barely knew them; Wyatt had made all the initial contacts, cast the vision for this new not–for–profit organization, and pressed them for commitments to participate. She was still waiting to get buy–in from the Mormons, the Hindus, and the Sikhs, but she figured this was a good start.
There was a rap at the door, and Malcolm “Flash” Fowler came scurrying into the greenroom without waiting for a response. “Great crowd, great attendance,” he said, out of breath.
As Snow’s new press secretary, the diminutive and pipe–puffing former political editor of the Suburban News–Press (and a Christmas–and–Easter–only Episcopalian) had been stoking the curiosity of the local media for the last several days.
“Everyone here we wanted, then?” Wyatt asked.
“All the bureaus of the TV networks, local TV, the wire services, the Trib and Examiner, news radio, suburban papers, downstaters — they’re all here,” said the tweed–jacketed Fowler, turning to Snow. “Any last–minute questions? I’m feeling really good about the rehearsals we had.”
“If I’m not ready after all of your practice sessions, I never will be.”
Fowler arched an eyebrow. “Banting is here — sitting in the front row, to the right.”
Darryl Banting was the spotlight–hogging bad boy of local TV news, an acerbic reporter who never asked a question without a cynical barb embedded like the hook on a fishing line.
“And Garry Strider too,” Fowler added.
Snow shrugged. “No problem. I’m ready.”
He stood so Wyatt could straighten his red and white tie and give his dark gray jacket one more smoothing. She used a small wedge–shaped sponge to even out the makeup that had been applied earlier to his face, neck, and the back of his hands. His jet–black hair, as usual, needed no additional help staying in place.
Snow scrutinized his image in an oversized makeup mirror, ringed by small bar
e light bulbs, and silently declared that he was looking ready for prime time.
“Do you have the names of religious leaders down cold?” Wyatt asked.
“Like they’re old friends.”
“Okay then. Everything’s set, Eric. The beginning of a whole new adventure. Next stop: Washington, D.C.”
As usual, her unwavering enthusiasm buoyed him. He chased away any lingering hesitations by reminding himself that he had already committed himself to this path. Now was the time for a new debut.
He bent over to retrieve his notes, neatly printed out on large white index cards, and then allowed a broad, photogenic smile to spread over his face. He felt a rekindled sense of excitement building inside of him. This, he was convinced, would be the last major step before the congratulatory phone call with the good news from the governor.
A flash lit up the room. “Nice,” muttered Fowler as he scrutinized the digital image in his camera. “For posterity.”
“Let’s get something more formal,” Snow suggested, tugging Wyatt to his side — but being careful not to actually touch her for the photo. So they stood, looking stiff but determined, united by their mutual quest. Fowler snapped off three shots in quick succession and declared them, “Great.”
Snow pivoted and strode toward the door. “Let’s go feed the wolves,” he said.
III
Announcing his new venture would be the easy part; Snow knew that the more demanding segment of his news conference would come when he threw open the proceedings for questions.
Because it would be unseemly for him to publicly campaign for the Senate appointment, and in order to avoid any unintentional gaffes, Snow had managed to avoid the press during recent weeks, unless the encounter was an accident — such as Garry Strider’s surprise call after the first miracle — or was a carefully scripted opportunity vetted and fine–tuned in advance by Debra Wyatt.
And so Snow knew the press was salivating to ask him about the possible Senate appointment. They were desperate for a fresh angle to the story.
As his team had anticipated, the buzz among the reporters seemed positive as he announced his new not–for–profit association that was designed to mobilize and coordinate the volunteer efforts of various organizations — religious or otherwise — in response to local disasters and emergencies.
“When Hurricane Katrina devastated the Gulf Coast and when the massive oil spill threatened her beaches five years later, when tornadoes and floods and hurricanes and wildfires tear apart communities all over our country, then people of good will — whether Christian, Buddhist, Muslim, adherents of another faith, or having no faith at all — always want to help where they can,” said Snow, his eyes slowly sweeping back and forth over the press corps.
“But in the past, these efforts have been fragmented and therefore limited in their impact. Individual churches, for example, may send a contingent of construction volunteers to a disaster scene, but there’s no coordination with, say, the mosques that dispatch doctors and nurses, or the Hindus who donate money, or the atheists who are providing food, or the blood drives spearheaded by various synagogues.
“That’s where our new organization comes in. The staff of Serve America Together will work with local officials to determine the specific needs that exist among the people who’ve been affected by a disaster. Then any church, temple, mosque, or social group that wants to help can simply make one call to us. We’ll provide the logistical support and on–the–scene coordination to funnel their resources — especially volunteers — to the exact place where they will do the most good.
“Of course, there are many doctrinal differences between the various faiths of the world. Certainly, all of us who are represented here have different beliefs and traditions. But all religions share a common impulse: to serve humankind, to relieve suffering, to provide help in a neighbor’s time of need.
“Indeed, as my new atheist friend will attest, it’s an impulse common to all people, regardless of their heritage, race, ethnicity, sexual orientation, or spiritual outlook. And now we’ll all be able to offer volunteer services in a streamlined, targeted, and cost–effective way that will be the most helpful to those who are struggling with loss.”
As Snow spoke, the religious leaders on each side of him, and their atheist comrade, would occasionally nod their agreement, but the truth is that they were little more than actors on his stage. Snow was funding the organization with a million of his own dollars. He was donating the office space and hiring the staff. He was chairman of the board. He conceptualized the idea and worked out the specifics. And so on this day, he would be the one and only spokesperson.
When the time for questions came, the initial topics involved the organizational nuts–and–bolts of the new association. Standing with her arms folded along the back wall of the room, Wyatt smiled — the underlying implication was that the organization seemed like a great idea, but how exactly would it operate? The reporters were uncritically — even with an approving tone — probing for more specifics and details, exactly what she and Snow had hoped for.
Then Darryl Banting raised his hand.
“All this is well and good,” he began as he stood, microphone in hand and with his cameraman standing next to him, capturing the scene.
“But a cynic would say this is merely an effort to break out of your polarizing evangelical base and broaden your appeal as a way to get the governor’s nod for the Senate. And since I’m paid to be a cynic,” he said, glancing around the room as if to imply his compatriots were being too soft, “let me ask you, Reverend Snow, how long this organization will be in business if you don’t receive the appointment to the Senate?”
Snow smiled — a casual, non–defensive, practiced smile he had cultivated long before his decision to enter public life.
“We’ll be here for the long haul. Actually, the idea for this organization was formed long before my name surfaced as a possible replacement for Senator Barker,” Snow replied. “It’s a natural outgrowth of my years at Diamond Point Fellowship. I’ve seen how our own church’s response to disasters could have greatly benefited from an entity like this that could coordinate and magnify our efforts. Instead of trying to figure out how to respond to each disaster as it came along, it would have been much more efficient to plug directly into an organization like Serve America Together.”
“Did the governor tell you to quit the church?” Banting shot back.
“I was the one who informed the governor that I was planning to start this not–for–profit.”
“Did he pressure you to quit?”
“The governor will make his Senate decision based on who he thinks will serve the people of Illinois the best.”
“That’s not what I asked. Could you answer my question: did the governor pressure you to quit the church?”
“As I said, I told him that I was starting this organization; in fact, I even hit him up for a contribution,” he replied, eliciting a good–natured chuckle from several of the other reporters, most of whom loathed Banting.
Even Banting cracked a smile. “Did he give you anything?”
“As a matter of fact, he did — a personal contribution, no state funds involved.” Again, a chuckle. “He recognizes the value of this kind of organization, as I do. When there’s a disaster here in Illinois, we’ll be there to coordinate the volunteer efforts of various charitable groups — at no cost to taxpayers. At a time when state and federal dollars are at a premium, this could literally be a life–saver.”
On the other side of the room, Garry Strider stood, spiral notebook in hand. “I’m curious about your transition from an evangelical church to such a broad interfaith organization. Since the others on the platform aren’t Christians, according to your evangelical beliefs, aren’t you concerned that they’re teaching false doctrines and are headed for hell?”
So predictable, Snow thought to himself. “As I said earlier, people of different faiths have differing beliefs, and all of that’s f
ine in a democracy, but this organization isn’t about that. It’s about what we share in common: a desire to help people who are in need.”
“So will you allow gays to participate?”
“Of course. We’ve already invited gay, lesbian, and transgender organizations to join us, and we hope that they will. This initiative isn’t about sexual orientation, ethnicity, or religious beliefs — it’s about sacrificially serving people who need our help.”
“But you oppose gay marriage, according to your sermons. You’ve preached that God opposes homosexual practices.”
“I’m sure that the churches, synagogues, and mosques that will be part of this new organization will have various opinions on that topic. But that doesn’t mean we can’t work together for the common good. We can serve the community side by side. It seems to me that’s something we all can agree on.”
“So you haven’t changed your viewpoint that homosexual acts are sinful, is that correct?”
“My viewpoint is irrelevant in terms of how Serve America Together will deliver aid and assistance to hurting people. That’s the bottom line.”
“But if you’re appointed to the Senate—”
“Please, Mr. Strider, that’s so speculative. Let’s focus on Serve America Together; we’ll have plenty of time to discuss my personal opinions and policy positions should the need arise after the governor makes his selection.”
“What about the miracles that have been reported at your now–former church? You avoided commenting on them before I wrote my article about them.”
“Well, nearly 85 percent of Americans believe that God can do miracles, so I guess I’m in agreement with the vast majority of my fellow citizens on that subject,” Snow replied.
“Specifically, what about what’s going on at Diamond Point?”
“Diamond Point isn’t the only place where God is doing amazing things. I’m sure the other panelists would agree with that — at least, with the exception of our skeptical friend, Mr. McBride.” Again, a titter from the reporters as the atheist grinned and nodded his vehement agreement.
