Godless

by James Dobson

  Alex sat up in the bed and reached reluctantly toward his dozing tablet, the first of nine steps in his weekday routine.

  Step One: Review the day’s schedule.

  Step Two: Exercise. (Optional)

  Step Three: Shower and shave. (Mandatory)

  Step Four: Eat breakfast with the family. (Delightful)

  Step Five: Brush teeth and dress. (Also mandatory)

  Step Six: Kiss and tickle the baby.

  Step Seven: Kiss Tamara.

  Step Eight: Tickle Tamara. (Time and wife permitting)

  Step Nine: Drive Chris and Ginger to school.

  The tablet came to life, revealing the time. Seven in the morning! Why was Ginger dressed and ready a full hour before they needed to leave? Then he remembered: field-trip day. Since Tamara was a designated driver she needed Alex to take the baby with him to the office. Mrs. Mayhew had said she would be delighted to have little Joey around for the day. “He’ll be no trouble at all.”

  Alex knew Joey would create no trouble. And he might just manage to keep Mrs. Mayhew from making trouble. She was, bless her heart, a generous soul. No one else in the church had ever volunteered to spend eight hours per day “doing whatever Pastor needs done.”

  If only he had had the foresight to reject the offer. Not just because Mrs. Mayhew lacked any of the skills essential in a competent assistant, but also because she volunteered much more than her time. She volunteered confidential information to anyone who might ask, and to those who didn’t.

  “We can make the pastor’s assistant a volunteer position,” Phil Crawford had said, another brilliant strategy for solving the budget shortfall. “Mrs. Mayhew seems like a highly qualified candidate who would enjoy the opportunity to serve.”

  He had been right about one thing. She enjoyed serving. Which is why Mrs. Mayhew had no intention of leaving Alex in the lurch by ever, ever vacating the position. A reality that, for today, would prove helpful. Especially since he needed to get a good part of Sunday’s sermon written using a four-hour block of time he had asked Mrs. Mayhew to protect. Tuesday was the one day of the week he had come to relish, because he could focus on the task he had been trained and, he’d once believed, hired to do.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!” Alex erupted after reviewing the day’s agenda.

  “What’s wrong?” Tamara yelled from the hallway.

  “Nothing,” he lied. “Never mind.”

  How could Mrs. Mayhew put a counseling session on his schedule in the middle of his sermon prep time?

  Then he looked closer. She hadn’t. The appointment request had come through the church’s “spiritual dialogue” outreach page.

  Alex groaned.

  The idea had been one of the earliest proposed by the outreach committee, something the members had seen at a nearby church that they considered “cutting-edge” and “outside the box.” Alex had had to admit the concept sounded promising. Offer local residents a confidential session at a time of their choosing. Help them process emotions and sort through confusion triggered by life’s inevitable pain. He’d imagined the invite cards and website facilitating on-demand evangelism by letting folks talk to a minister at the precise moment they needed comfort or, as the promotional label suggested, spiritual guidance.

  Alex tapped the appointment. It included the phrase “Feeling down” in the space provided for specifics. The same as always. People never requested an appointment because they “Want to know more about God” or “Need to repent of sinful patterns.” They just wanted someone to help them feel better. Not become better or even do better. Just feel better.

  Alex agreed, in theory, that confession could be good for the soul. But so far it had done nothing but wreak havoc on his schedule. The board had originally approved the strategy because it would “cost the church nothing” while positioning it well in the community. “We’ll share the load,” Kenny Morrison had promised on behalf of the elders. Yet Alex had handled thirty-four of the thirty-seven appointments to date. Thirty-five after today’s meeting with someone named “I’d like to remain anonymous.”

  * * *

  Mrs. Mayhew lit up like a Christmas tree while straining to extract herself from a chair designed for someone of less generous proportions. “Come to Auntie Dimples!” she sang in little Joey’s direction.

  “Dimples,” Alex puzzled aloud. “I still can’t get over the fact your name is Dimples.”

  “A family nickname,” she said proudly.

  “To replace what?”

  A disapproving scowl. “Your nine o’clock is waiting in your office,” she said. “Just leave this little man with me.”

  Alex released Joey into Mrs. Mayhew’s outstretched arms.

  “Been waiting long?”

  “Just arrived.”

  The pastor entered his office to find the man standing near a bookshelf, where he appeared to be admiring Alex’s small collection of vintage print volumes. The man turned. Then he shuffled his feet as if unsure of protocol.

  “Hello,” Alex said, offering his hand. “I’m Pastor Alex.”

  After a brief hesitation the man returned the gesture. “Pleased to meet you, sir. I’m…” He thought for a moment. “I’m Frank. You can call me Frank.”

  Alex smiled at the suggestion. “Frank” had just moved up on his mental tally of assumed names. “John” remained the top pick among anonymous male counselees. “Bob” fell to third.

  Frank pointed toward the bookshelf. “Have you read these?”

  “I have.”

  “All of them?” The man looked back to reread titles he had apparently not expected on a minister’s shelf. He mentioned three: The Origin of Species by Charles Darwin, Beyond Good and Evil by Friedrich Nietzsche, and A Brief History of Time by Stephen Hawking.

  “All early editions,” Alex explained with some satisfaction. “The first was a gift from my grandfather. I found the other two at garage sales.” He moved to stand beside his guest for a closer look. “Believe it or not, most of these were found at garage sales. People have no idea how valuable these will be. Already are.”

  “I’ve collected a few myself,” Frank said while turning toward Alex. “So you keep them as investments?”

  “In part.”

  “But you’ve read them?”

  “Yes. You sound surprised.”

  “Well, I guess I wouldn’t have associated these volumes with a man of the cloth.”

  Alex chuckled at both the description and the presumption. “Well, that’s one I’ve never been called before. As you can see, I don’t wear a dog collar. I’m not a priest, just an ordinary guy like you.”

  The comment seemed to unsettle Alex’s guest. “But…you are a minister?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “And our conversation will be strictly confidential?”

  “Assuming you’re not an ax murderer, whatever you say will remain between the two of us.”

  A nervous laugh. “No, no. Nothing like that.”

  “Shall we sit?”

  It took Alex a few minutes to help his anonymous friend grasp the difference between the Sacrament of Penance and the goals of this appointment. “You can say anything you wish,” he explained, “but I can’t offer absolution, nor will I assign any acts of penance.”

  Frank appeared to like the notion of an informal chat instead of a structured ritual.

  “I will listen and, if you wish, comment. But nothing I say should be perceived as a binding directive or as formal counseling. I’m licensed for neither.”

  Alex paused while the clarifications settled. “One more thing,” he added. “I’d like to spend a few minutes at the end of our session asking you a few questions.”

  “About what?”

  “About your spiritual journey.”

  The man thought for a moment. “Fair enough,” he agreed.

  Ground rules established, Alex asked what had led Frank to request an appointment.

  “This.” The man reached into his
back pocket to retrieve a card.

  Alex recognized it immediately. Hundreds had been mailed out to Christ Community members with a letter inviting them to use the cards as outreach tools. “Did you find it somewhere? Or did someone give it to you?”

  “It was given to me.”

  “By a friend?”

  “Not exactly,” Frank replied.

  “Someone at work?”

  “Sort of,” he said. “An older woman. She said I looked like I needed to talk to someone.”

  “Well then, I’m listening,” said Alex.

  The man appeared uneasy. He returned the minister’s smile weakly before shifting his gaze toward the bookshelf.

  “I went through a dark spell about a year back,” he finally said. “It was pretty bad.”

  “Depression?”

  “I guess. And nightmares. I found myself more angry than depressed, if that makes any sense.”

  “It does. Anger and sorrow are close relatives.”

  “Sure are,” Frank said knowingly.

  A brief silence.

  “I’ve been reading this book,” Frank continued as if trying to make small talk. “A Russian author. A famous novelist, actually.”

  “Tolstoy?”

  “Dostoyevsky.”

  Alex smiled at the mention.

  “You know of him?”

  Alex walked to his bookshelf. “Let me see,” he said while scanning his collection. “Ah, here we go.” He walked back toward Frank and handed him a volume. The cover read The Brothers Karamazov. “I got this one at an estate sale. A few bumps and bruises, but overall it’s in excellent condition.”

  “So you’ve read it?”

  “Twice. It’s his greatest work.”

  The man appeared puzzled by Alex’s affirmation.

  “Didn’t it make you squirm?”

  “Which part?”

  Frank thought for a moment. “The part with the kid and the dog, for example.”

  Alex reached into his memory, trying to connect the dots, until Frank offered more details.

  “A boy accidentally hits his master’s favorite dog with a rock—”

  “Oh, yes,” Alex interrupted. “And the master sends the hounds after him.”

  “That’s it.”

  “I remember. Yes, that part does make me squirm, almost as much as the part when the soldier shoots the baby in the face.”

  Frank winced at the reminder while placing the volume on the coffee table.

  “Definitely not a feel-good book,” Alex continued. “But one of the most powerful depictions I’ve ever read of man’s cruelty.”

  “Man’s? Not God’s?”

  “Is that what you came to discuss, Frank, the problem of evil?”

  The man hesitated. “No. Not really.”

  “Then what?” Alex asked.

  Frank hesitated. “I’m starting to feel like I did at the start of my dark days.”

  “I see.”

  “My nightmares are back, for example.”

  “What kind of nightmares?” Alex asked.

  “I don’t remember details. Just the feelings.”

  “What kind of feelings, then?”

  “Fear. Panic. More anger.”

  “Anger at whom?”

  “Nobody. Everybody.”

  “Yourself?” Alex pressed.

  The man offered the hint of a nod.

  “What about God?” He perceived a tiny flinch. “Are you mad at God, Frank?”

  The guest shifted in his chair without a word.

  Alex had seen dozens of anonymous visitors in addition to consoling or counseling members of his flock. He always felt inadequate, as if fumbling for the right thing to say in response to their anxiety. But now, seated across from a man he had only just met and whose story he had barely heard, Alex sensed he knew what his curious visitor needed to hear.

  “I had a seminary professor who used to say we can’t love people, including ourselves, when we hate the one whose image we bear.”

  Their eyes met. Alex gazed deeply until the man looked away.

  “I don’t hate myself,” Frank snapped. “And I’m not sure I even believe God exists.”

  “I know plenty of people who are mad at God for not existing. Or, put another way, for not showing up.”

  Another look of surprise, possibly fear, pinched the corners of Frank’s eyes.

  “Tell me about the dark period,” Alex said. “You said it was a year ago?”

  “A bit less.”

  “Do you remember what triggered it?”

  “Not really,” Frank said.

  “Something that happened?”

  A slight shrug.

  “Something you did?”

  Frank looked like a man covering cards he’d been dealt at the blackjack table. He leaned forward to pick up the thick novel. “Why do you like this?” he asked, apparently eager to redirect the conversation.

  The question displaced Alex’s train of thought.

  “I mean, he makes a pretty good case against God.”

  “Does he?” asked Alex while watching his guest inspect the volume.

  “You don’t agree?” asked Frank.

  “I don’t. But more importantly, neither would the author. He was trying to make the case for God, not against him.”

  “A God who makes innocent kids suffer?”

  “Is that what you took away from the novel?”

  A hesitant nod.

  “Then I’m afraid you may have missed the point.”

  A flush on Frank’s neck told Alex the comment had wounded a fragile ego. He continued anyway.

  “The Brothers Karamazov is about what happens when people reject belief in God. When we abandon the good that God is, all that’s left is the evil that he isn’t.”

  A long silence.

  “Can I ask you another question?” asked Frank.

  “Of course.”

  “What’s your view on death?”

  “I’m against it.” Alex smiled at himself.

  “I mean, do you consider it a good to embrace or an evil to avoid?”

  Alex thought for a moment before answering. “I consider it a foe that’s been defeated.”

  “So an enemy?”

  “Of course. We were made for life, not death. That’s why our Lord came, to defang the snake.”

  Frank appeared confused. Or perhaps disturbed. “You mean Jesus?”

  “Yes. Jesus.”

  “The one who embraced death?”

  “Not embraced it. Defeated it.”

  It suddenly dawned on Alex that his mysterious guest might be contemplating something drastic in response to his depression. But before the thought could fully form, a knocking sound invaded the moment. Alex spun toward the door to see a somewhat embarrassed Mrs. Mayhew peering in.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, Pastor,” she said. “But I can’t seem to find a diaper in little Joey’s bag and, well, you know.”

  Alex blushed toward his guest. “My apologies,” he said.

  “Who’s little Joey?”

  “My youngest. Mrs. Mayhew is kind enough to watch him for the day. My wife is on a field trip with our daughter.”

  “Two kids. Wow!”

  “Three, actually,” Alex said while moving toward the door. He felt the rebuke of Tamara’s final earlier instruction to “Pick up a pack of Huggies on the way.”

  “Listen,” Frank said, standing, “I’ll get out of your way. I appreciate your time and all, but…”

  “No. Please.” Alex raised his hand like a cop halting traffic. “There’s something I need to ask you. I won’t be long.”

  Five minutes later Mrs. Mayhew pulled away with little Joey strapped safely in his car seat, freeing Alex to return. The detour had given him a moment to consider how he might discover the real reason “Frank” had come.

  Chapter Six

  His first impulse was to leave.

  He had expected a kind, elderly gentleman nodding mindlessl
y at details of the dark days: the heavy drinking, the gambling losses, and even the girls. If that had gone well he might even have scheduled a second session to discuss Reverend Grandpa, his mom, and the rest. Matthew had scheduled the appointment in search of respite. But this Pastor Alex, whoever he was, seemed ready to attack.

  But curiosity won the moment. What question would the minister ask? How, Matthew wondered, had a complete stranger perceived a secret Matthew hadn’t fully realized until the moment he heard the pastor say the words? Matthew was mad at God. Not the God he had abandoned in childhood. Nor the one he had borrowed from Dr. Vincent’s lectures. Matthew was angry with the real God. The one who, as Alex had put it, had failed to show up.

  So he stayed. No harm in sticking around a few more minutes and then going on as if the conversation had never happened. After all, Matthew had never mentioned his real name. He need never see Pastor Alex again.

  “Please forgive me,” the minister said, closing the door behind him and retaking his seat. “Thank you for sticking around.”

  Matthew nodded, an invitation for the invasion to begin.

  Pastor Alex took a deep breath before restarting the conversation. “May I ask why you wanted to know my view on death?” he asked.

  “No reason,” Matthew said. “Just curious, you being a minister and all. I figure you must deal with death a lot.”

  “I do. I conducted a funeral just this past week for a longtime member of Christ Community.” The minister paused to look directly into Matthew’s eyes. “He committed suicide.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” It was the thing to say.

  “I had to try explaining why the man ended his own life to the four-year-old little girl who had discovered his corpse.”

  Matthew winced at the image.

  “She asked me whether her grandpa was in heaven with her grandma.”

  “Sweet. What’d you say?”

  “Probably the wrong thing,” Alex confessed. “But I couldn’t tell her the truth.”

  “Which is?”

  “Which is that I’m not sure where her grandfather is right now.”

  “In a better place?” Matthew suggested. “I mean, don’t all Christian ministers believe in an afterlife?”

  “We do. But we also believe in an after-death. That little girl’s grandfather could just as well be entering an eternity separated from God as the bliss of heaven.”