Godless

by James Dobson

  “Do you know what else Wendy Bentley loved?” Phil Crawford continued. “She loved the work of the Lord. And it was that love that motivated her and Wayne to allocate a significant portion of their estate as a charitable gift to this church. So, on behalf of the elder board, I’d like to extend our deepest sympathies to the family of Wayne and Wendy Bentley as well as express appreciation to these longtime members for allocating a significant portion of their estate to Christ Community Church. Wendy. Wayne. If you can hear me now, know that we accept your donation with the utmost thanks and humility.”

  A spontaneous outpouring of applause came from the congregation in a show of obligatory solidarity while the chairman of the board appeared to gather notes. Alex held his breath. Had Phil decided to nix the rest of his script?

  “A final word is in order,” he began as the ovation waned. “I think Wayne would want you to know that he passed as a Youth Initiative volunteer…”

  Alex sensed Tamara’s eyes dart in his direction.

  “…and that he made sure that his will specifically named Christ Community Church as a transition beneficiary, something I’m certain he would want us to encourage everyone over seventy years old to seriously consider as a way of giving their sacrifice even greater significance.”

  “Did you know about this?” Tamara whispered intensely into Alex’s ear.

  He responded with the slow nod of a beaten man.

  “What are you going to say about it?”

  “Nothing,” he whispered back. “I can’t.”

  His wife’s fingers slipped out of his hand.

  As Phil moved off the platform, the worship leader took his place. That’s when Alex noticed something dancing on his tablet screen. On everyone’s screen. It appeared in the service-flow window designed for those old enough to remember and prefer hymnals, most of them in the target demographic for Phil’s appeal. The same worship words that appeared on the large platform screens could also be sized to fit in the palm of your hand. The bouncing icon read EXPLORE TRANSITION GIVING NOW and included the tiny image of a heart. Alex looked closer. The heart had a cross in the center.

  He scowled in the general direction of Phil Crawford, who retook his seat. The chairman looked pleased with his demonstration of how to make an announcement stick.

  * * *

  For the next thirty-one minutes Alex presented a sermon that, he hoped, managed to avoid a single pitfall. Psalm 23 seemed like safe territory. Who could object to the Lord’s being our shepherd or leading us beside still waters? It was the kind of message his board seemed to want. No controversy or guilt, flawlessly delivered and perfectly forgettable.

  As he invited the congregation to pray, he scanned the sea of bowing heads. Actually, not a sea. More like a collection of ponds interrupting the landscape of empty seats. Despite a trickle of growth that had occurred on Alex’s watch, it had been many Sundays since anyone had accused the sanctuary of reaching capacity.

  As he began to voice a closing prayer, Alex noticed someone seated too far back to make out with any certainty. He was pretty good at noticing visitors, but this man looked vaguely familiar. Someone he had met recently. Anonymous Frank? Perhaps. But it could just as easily have been Mrs. Mayhew’s nephew, who attended whenever he couldn’t get tickets to a Rockies game, or some other middle-aged man sampling churches for a fresh crop of aging single gals.

  “Amen,” he said before glancing up quickly. No sign of the man, the back door settling itself closed after aiding a prayer-cloaked escape.

  The next face Alex saw was Tamara’s. A wink of approval told him she had forgiven his cowardice. He smiled gratefully, then readied himself for the second half of his Sunday role by walking to the back of the auditorium while the congregation sang a closing chorus. Members knew they could find their pastor standing at the exit door saying thanks for attending, meeting any visitors brave enough to identify themselves as such, and navigating requests for prayer or from-the-hip counseling on everything from aching joints to addicted children.

  After shaking his seventy-third hand, Alex noticed Phil Crawford standing in the vestibule surrounded by a small group of middle-aged parishioners. Kenny James was standing by his side, nodding in agreement at whatever Phil was saying.

  “Hello, Pastor.”

  Alex forced his eyes back. He saw Brandon Baxter standing before him. The newest member of the board had apparently waited for the usual stream of well-wishers and prayer-requesters to dissipate before approaching. Judging by the look on his face, he had something on his mind.

  Maybe Psalm 23 hadn’t been as harmless as Alex had assumed.

  “Can I talk to you for a minute?” Brandon asked with a pitch and posture that seemed more penitent than hostile.

  “Sure thing,” Alex said. “What’s up?”

  Brandon scanned for listening ears. “Do you mind if we slip into your office for a moment?”

  Odd. Brandon had never asked to meet privately before.

  They walked fifty feet down the hallway, where Alex invited Brandon to sit.

  “No need,” he said. “I’ll keep this brief. My wife and kids are out in the car.”

  Alex waited as the young man cleared his throat nervously.

  “I wanted to apologize.”

  “Apologize?” Alex searched his memory. To his knowledge, Brandon Baxter had never done anything to cause him offense, or to offend anyone for that matter. His mild temperament had been a breath of fresh air to Alex in contrast to the opinionated and pushy crew who comprised the majority of the church board. “Apologize for what?”

  “For sitting there like a bump on a log during the meeting this week.”

  Alex again searched for clues. It was true that Brandon Baxter hadn’t said much. But he rarely did. Why the sudden regret?

  “I should have spoken up when Phil started pushing the whole transition-donation thing. What he did today was awful. Just awful!”

  Alex smiled warmly at his new ally. “I agree,” he said cautiously. “My stomach is still in knots.”

  “Mine, too,” said Brandon.

  Alex placed his hand on Brandon’s shoulder, sensing there was more to be said. “What else?”

  “It’s my aunt. She called me this week after receiving news she had been declined an essential surgery. She’s pretty upset about what happened.”

  Alex couldn’t recall ever meeting Brandon’s aunt, something he didn’t dare mention. “Does she want me to visit with her?”

  “She does. She’s never met you, but she watches the streamed service every weekend. She said you would understand why she’s so agitated.”

  He did. Several other older members of the congregation had slipped into despair after being told a simple procedure that might have extended their lives would cost more than they were worth.

  “Of course. Surgery is scary enough. Being denied treatment is even worse.”

  The look in Brandon’s eyes told Alex he had missed something.

  “Yes. But that’s not what has upset her the most.”

  “I see,” Alex said. “Then what did she want to talk about?”

  “She received a visit this week from representatives from a company that tried to convince her to volunteer.”

  “Oh?”

  “It gets worse. That same evening her son called to thank her.”

  “For volunteering?”

  Brandon nodded. “He didn’t know she had refused.”

  Alex sighed deeply, angrily.

  “Exactly,” Brandon added. “Anyway, she told me she wished her son could have heard what you said last weekend.”

  A blank expression told Brandon his pastor couldn’t recall.

  “You remember. Phil quoted you in the board meeting. You said we should treat the elderly as a source of wisdom rather than a source of capital to solve our economic problems.”

  Alex nodded at the recollection.

  Brandon appeared contrite again. “I felt terrible.”

  �
��About what?”

  “A day after I let Phil criticize you for playing politics my aunt quoted you as a source of hope. Until that moment I never connected the dots. Like the rest of the board, I was so concerned about your words offending some I never considered how they might sustain others.”

  A moment of silence passed.

  “Again, I’m sorry.”

  “Forgiven,” Alex said warmly. “And appreciated.”

  “Here’s my aunt’s number. I said I would ask you to call when you have time.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Thanks, Pastor.”

  “No,” Alex replied. “Thank you, Brandon. I can’t tell you what this means.”

  They returned to the lobby, where Phil Crawford and Kenny James appeared to be waiting to corner their pastor.

  Brandon lingered, apparently sensing an ambush.

  The pair approached full of news.

  “You won’t believe what happened after the service!” Phil began. “Tell him, Kenny.”

  “A group of at least five couples circled Phil immediately after dismissal to ask about his announcement.”

  Alex had a bad feeling they hadn’t done so to confront him.

  “Yeah,” Phil interjected. “I hadn’t anticipated such positive response from the young. I thought my announcement would fly right past them.”

  “What did they say?” Alex asked flatly.

  “Not say. Ask! They had all kinds of questions, mostly about how to approach the subject with their parents.”

  “What subject?”

  “Volunteering. What else?”

  “Yeah,” Kenny added enthusiastically. “Three of them had been discussing the subject for months, trying to figure out how to encourage a mom or dad to transition without hurting their feelings.”

  “They said the way I framed it today would be helpful…”

  “Extremely helpful!” Kenny corrected. “They said extremely helpful.”

  Phil appeared pleased by the clarification.

  Brandon’s eyes met Alex’s. Neither said a word.

  “What did I tell you, Pastor?” Phil said before turning to leave with his sidekick. “Before long I think we’ll see more lump sum donations coming our way!”

  Alex watched the two men walk toward the door, Kenny patting Phil on the back in congratulations for a job well done. They stopped their advance when Phil turned back toward Alex. “Oh, I almost forgot,” he said, like a coach eager to motivate a promising rookie. “Great sermon today, Pastor.”

  Chapter Ten

  Matthew had forgotten the massive size of the Denver International Airport. It had been nearly ten years since he last flew. He smiled at the recollection of a California vacation designed to help his mother get her mind off the bad news. The doctor had said her memory would only get worse, that she would eventually need continuous care. Matthew had offered to put his college plans on hold for another year so he could figure out a suitable arrangement. They couldn’t afford an expensive nursing facility. Maybe they could find a part-time parent-sitter until he finished graduate school and accepted his first faculty post. Then came the first economic crash, shrinking his aspirations into a few community college classes that he took while working a coffee shop job.

  As Matthew’s approach parted the terminal doors he swallowed back a lump of grief. Or was it remorse? Either way, the moment reminded him of how much he missed his mother’s nurturing presence.

  He checked his appointment notes for the location of his meeting with Serena Winthrop of NEXT Incorporated.

  “Where can I find the Admiral’s Club?” he asked the holographic image of a man eager to offer assistance.

  “You’ll find the Admiral’s Club located near Gate A-twenty-four. You can access Terminal A by train or through a two-hundred-yard bridge located one level above the main security lines.”

  Security! He had forgotten about that delay. Matthew glanced at the time.

  “Which would be faster?” he asked the digital projection.

  “I recommend taking the walking path because…”

  Matthew didn’t hear the rest as he ran toward the bridge. He continued his sprint before jumping onto a moving sidewalk, then pulling back to a rapid stroll. He didn’t want to arrive with beads of sweat dripping from his forehead or soaking his newly pressed shirt.

  He offered his driver’s license to the security agent, who seemed slightly annoyed he had interrupted her reading.

  She didn’t accept it.

  “Please,” he said while extending his identification urgently, “I’m running late for an appointment.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” she asked with a smirk.

  He tried to remember airport protocol. Nothing came.

  “Your boarding pass,” she said into the next page of her book.

  “But I’m not flying today.”

  The woman gave an aggravated sigh while handing Matthew a card titled Security Guidelines. It included about fifteen bullet points printed in indecipherably tiny text.

  “I can’t read this,” he said with rising panic. “Please, I have a very important meeting in four minutes. Can’t you just tell me what I need to do?”

  Fifteen minutes later Matthew reapproached the same security zone with a terminal access pass in hand. He cursed toward the line of fifteen travelers eager to make their flights.

  Had Serena Winthrop given up waiting? He wouldn’t blame her. Matthew had already violated the first rule of first impressions: show up early, never late.

  After tying his shoes and re-buckling his belt Matthew noticed his own dark, expanding armpit stains.

  Perfect, he thought. Just perfect.

  * * *

  Ms. Winthrop appeared every bit as put-together as Matthew felt disheveled.

  “Thank you for agreeing to meet me,” she said with more deference than he deserved. She had dismissed the transgression of a tardy arrival as par for the course when meeting colleagues in a busy airport.

  He followed her toward a semiprivate corner of the room just past a row of corporate road warriors sipping drinks, some scanning messages about who knew what big deal awaiting input or review, while others read the latest edition of the Wall Street Journal or New York Times on their tablet screens. All of it seemed far removed from Matthew’s dreary routine in one drab living room after another across the Denver metropolitan area. He relished the thought of his own life occupying such an energetic space.

  “I’ve been looking forward to speaking to you in person, Ms. Winthrop,” Matthew said after placing his drink on the side table positioned between the leather chairs.

  “Serena, please,” she insisted.

  The name suited her. In her early thirties, she carried herself with an elegant grace that reminded him of Maria Davidson’s older sister Julia: dark hair and long, slender legs that would distract less disciplined eyes. Ms. Winthrop, Serena, was someone Matthew might enjoy getting to know under less intimidating circumstances.

  He glanced at the screen she had tapped while placing it on her lap. His newly crafted résumé.

  “I was impressed by your range of experience,” she said, the tone of her voice shifting from that of a cordial acquaintance to that of a potential employer.

  He smiled, half expecting her to question the slightly embellished portions of his résumé. She instead zeroed in on the parts he considered least impressive, if most accurate.

  “In fact,” she continued, “I can see why you came so highly recommended.”

  “By whom?” he asked.

  She looked surprised by the question and a bit embarrassed. “I’m afraid I can’t answer that question,” she said. “Our human resource team does the initial screening of candidates. By the time they reach me I assume such details have been confirmed and sources screened.”

  Of course. He blushed for having asked such a dumb question of such an important executive.

  “I see that you have experience in two of t
he three categories we are seeking for this position. Ten years in senior care?”

  He nodded silently. The span had required stretching eight years managing his mother’s meds into nine and rounding the month spent with Reverend Grandpa up to twelve.

  “And one with MedCom?”

  Another nod. “I have one of the highest client acquisition rates in the company.”

  “I noticed that,” she said, looking back at the page.

  He wasn’t sure whether boasting would suggest desperate anxiety or calm confidence.

  “Any experience assisting a transition?”

  He thought before responding. Did coaxing his mother count? He had walked through the entire process with her, even sitting on the other side of a two-way mirror to witness her final moments. But he couldn’t actually claim to have assisted in the procedure.

  Reverend Grandpa came to mind. Matthew knew what the authorities had never suspected. No, he hadn’t injected his client with a needle or cut the oxygen tube. But he had aided the death by refusing to help the old man after his fall. It had been an act of compassion, lending his own courage to a man who should have volunteered, might have volunteered if not for a lingering religious disposition that would force a disabled dad onto an already stressed daughter.

  “Twice,” he said. “But I’m not a licensed transition specialist.”

  Even better, the woman’s smile seemed to suggest.

  “Our prescreening process discovered that your own mother volunteered. Is that correct?”

  Another hesitation. “Yes,” he confirmed on a technicality. “Two years ago.”

  “I prefer team members with personal experience on that front,” she said coolly. “It helps them empathize with our clients.”

  “Clients?” he asked, realizing he had absolutely no idea what the job entailed. He knew it involved research and development. Nothing more.

  Serena set her tablet aside to face Matthew squarely. “I’m sorry,” she began. “I should probably tell you a little bit about the project.”