Godless

by James Dobson

  “I’m still here,” he said. “And I plan to be here for some time.”

  An odd reply. “What does that mean?” Kevin asked with concern.

  “I don’t want you to worry,” he said.

  “Worry about what? Dad, what’s going on?”

  “An elevated PSA,” he said as if mentioning the time of day.

  “Which means?”

  “Nothing.” A brief silence. “Or prostate cancer.”

  “Cancer?” Kevin shouted. “You tell me not to worry and then say you have cancer!”

  “Prostate cancer,” Mr. Tolbert answered as if correcting the statement. “And it might be nothing. And even if confirmed, it’s not like lung or bone cancer. They have procedures for these things. No big deal.”

  “These things? You make it sound like a hangnail. It is a big deal.”

  “They’ll send in a few nanobots and I’ll be good as new. I’m not worried.”

  “What about Mom? Is she worried?”

  “Of course she is.” A brief pause. “So I want you to talk to her.”

  Kevin frowned. “You want me to tell her it’s nothing, don’t you?”

  “Exactly. I tried, but she doesn’t believe me.”

  “She doesn’t believe you because it isn’t nothing, Dad.”

  “Please, Son, do me this favor. She has enough on her mind as it is.”

  Kevin sighed. “All right,” he said. “I’ll talk to her. But I’m not gonna lie to her.”

  “Of course not. I just want you to tell her what the doctor told me.”

  “Which is?”

  “Which is that almost nobody dies of prostate cancer.”

  “Almost is a pretty nebulous qualifier,” Kevin objected. “How serious is it?”

  Another silence.

  “How serious, Dad?”

  “If the procedure gets approved, my chances are excellent.”

  If?

  “The doctor submitted my case for review and expects an answer any day now.”

  “Why doesn’t that make me feel better?” Kevin asked. “And no wonder Mom is worried. They denied her pain medications, for Pete’s sake, and she’s two years younger than you.”

  “That’s what she said.”

  Kevin thought for a moment. “I’ll make you a deal.”

  “What kind of deal?”

  “I’ll talk to Mom if you let me make some calls.”

  “No, Kevin. You can’t risk it. I’m sure I’ll be fine. And even if I’m not, I won’t let you jeopardize everything you’ve worked for.”

  “But—”

  “No buts, Kevin. Promise you won’t try to intervene for either of us, at least until after your speech.”

  Kevin agreed, reluctantly.

  “Don’t tell your mother I coached you,” said his father.

  “Of course not.”

  “Call her later tonight. Tell her you heard about my condition and that you did some research to find out—”

  “Dad,” Kevin interrupted. “I’ve got it. I’ll call her later tonight, OK?”

  “Great. Thanks, Son.”

  They ended the call and Kevin walked back into the kitchen to tell Angie the news. She must have sensed his unease, reaching across the table to hold her husband’s hand.

  “Do you want to pray?” she asked.

  He did.

  Angie lifted her sweet voice to heaven on behalf of Kevin’s parents. She asked God to lessen the pain in her mother-in-law’s back and protect Kevin’s dad. She prayed that the procedure would be approved and successful.

  “Thanks, babe,” said Kevin.

  “What was it you were going to tell me earlier?” she asked, suddenly recalling their unfinished conversation.

  “Oh,” he said, less eager to share the news. “I got a message from Franklin’s office. They decided to give me a prime spot at the convention: Wednesday evening at eight o’clock.”

  “Wednesday night!” she said. “I can’t believe it.”

  Kevin shrugged, suddenly less impressed with the placement than he had been a few minutes before.

  Angie lifted a finger to Kevin’s cheek to force his eyes toward her own. “And Father,” she prayed with her gaze fixed on Kevin’s, “I pray that you will use my husband to restore respect and dignity to those considered unworthy of medical attention. Unworthy of life.”

  She paused at the sound of three-year-old Baby Leah waking from her nap. Then they heard the thump, thump, thump of Tommy’s feet running toward his baby sister’s room, where Kevin knew he intended to administer another dose of Grandpa’s therapy.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The young woman remained on her knees with hands folded and head still bowed. She glanced out the corner of one eye toward Mrs. Mayhew’s beaming face and her pastor’s affirming smile. She looked up. “Is that all? We’re done?”

  “That’s all, sweetheart,” said a sniffling Mrs. Mayhew.

  “Wow,” said the girl, “I thought it would be more, I don’t know, complicated.”

  Alex chuckled. He loved watching the reaction of new believers after he guided them through the prayer of salvation. Sometimes they wept. Sometimes they grinned. And sometimes, like now, they questioned the procedure.

  “Like I said,” he explained, “Jesus has already done the hard part. All you have to do is accept his free gift.” The pastor looked at his assistant. “How about it, Mrs. Mayhew? Did it sound like she got it right to you?”

  “Of course she got it right,” Mrs. Mayhew said while engulfing the girl in a maternal embrace.

  Alex glanced at the time. He was scheduled for another lunch with area pastors in twenty minutes, this time at one of the largest churches in southern Colorado. Skip Gregory was hosting the meeting at the Chapel’s main campus, the largest of five facilities housing a combined weekend attendance of over four thousand members.

  “Listen, Paula,” he said while the girl attempted to free herself from Mrs. Mayhew’s suffocating squeeze, “I’m afraid I need to head out for a meeting across town.”

  He gently tapped his assistant’s arm, prompting Mrs. Mayhew to finally release her victim.

  “Mrs. Mayhew here will give you a Bible and a booklet to guide you through a few baby steps as you begin your walk with Christ.”

  “Thank you, Pastor,” the girl said while offering her hand. “I really appreciate your taking time for me.”

  “Believe me, Paula, the honor was all mine.” He meant it. For once, a Spiritual Dialogue appointment had actually accomplished the stated goal of welcoming a searching soul into the open arms of a saving God.

  On his way to The Chapel, Alex used the glow of Paula’s decision to brighten his outlook on the upcoming meeting. Maybe things will go better this time, he thought. Of the roughly seventy ministers he had invited to breakfast, lunch, or dinner during the past week, only fifteen had shown up, most of them more interested in the free meal than the topic of discussion. Troy had asked Alex to recruit a hundred area clergy to cosign the open letter. But all his messages, calls, and invitations had only garnered six: two Catholic priests, one Orthodox rabbi, two Baptist pastors, and one Presbyterian elder.

  But today would be different, he insisted. Every minster in town knew Skip Gregory. Most had attended one of his evangelism conferences. That’s why it had been such a triumph getting Skip to host today’s gathering. Or rather, getting Skip’s assistant to finagle a yes out of the popular minister. Alex’s wife Tamara had met the woman, Nancy, at the hair salon. It turned out they lived only a few blocks apart so they exchanged contact information to begin a morning walk routine that fizzled after about two weeks. But they remained friendly, enjoying brief chats whenever they ran into one another around town. It had been the connection needed to get a foot in the door. Alex smiled, recalling the message that “Pastor Gregory would be delighted to host a bright spots lunch.”

  Alex pulled into the massive parking lot five minutes before the scheduled start time. It took anot
her three minutes to read the campus map, locate the right building, and trot up a flight of stairs to the second-floor office complex.

  “Hello, Nancy,” Alex said warmly when he finally found the lead pastor’s office.

  “Hi, Alex,” Nancy said with a smile. “How’s that sweet wife of yours?”

  “Very well, thanks. She sends her love. And thank you for making this happen today,” he added. “I really appreciate all you’ve done.”

  “Don’t mention it,” she replied while standing. “I only wish there had been a better turnout.”

  Alex’s heart sank. “How many?”

  “I don’t have an exact count.” She began escorting Alex toward the gathering room. “We only ended up ordering fifty boxed lunches.”

  “Fifty?” he half shouted. “You had fifty RSVP?”

  “A bit less,” she explained. “We added a few lunches to be safe. There are always last-minute stragglers.”

  Alex breathed a sigh of grateful relief upon entering the room filled with mingling ministers. He recognized a few faces, pastors from some of the larger congregations in town. As he expected, an invitation from Skip Gregory’s office carried weight.

  “Where’s Skip?” he asked.

  “On his way,” said Nancy. “He’s wrapping up another obligation.”

  “Counseling?” Alex guessed.

  “Heavens no,” she said with a laugh. “Ninth hole.”

  * * *

  A solitary boxed lunch remained on the serving table as Alex took a final glance toward the door: still no sign of the man who had promised a few opening remarks. Most of the attendees had already finished eating their sandwiches and chips. A few had even removed the walnut chocolate chip cookie from its plastic wrapping to start nibbling on dessert while glancing impatiently at a watch or checking messages. If Alex waited any longer, he feared, some of the pastors might leave.

  He walked to the makeshift lectern Nancy had arranged in the corner of the room: a music stand positioned so as to be visible from every table.

  “Well, it appears our host has run into a bit of a scheduling challenge,” Alex began apologetically. “But I want to honor your time, so, with your indulgence, I think I’ll begin.”

  The ministers shifted in their seats to face a man few had ever met but who, it seemed, would be pinch-hitting for the one they had come to hear.

  “My name is Alex Ware. I’m the pastor of Christ Community Church, where I’ve served for nearly a year.”

  He could just imagine what the seasoned pastors facing him were thinking: A rookie pastor from a small church.

  “I want to begin by thanking each of you for attending. We’re all busy, and it means a great deal that you carved out the time to support what I hope will—”

  The door flew open. “Sorry, guys,” Skip Gregory said with short breath. Every face lifted at his arrival, skeptical yawns transforming into looks of eager anticipation as the successful pastor they both admired and—truth be known—envied moved toward the podium. Skip shot a playful glare at a rotund pastor seated near the remaining boxed lunch. “Sorry to disappoint you, Brother Zane,” he said. “But I will be needing that lunch after all.”

  The room erupted into overdone laughter as the man wagged a reproachful finger at the jab. Alex stepped back to offer their tardy host the stage.

  “Thanks, Alan,” Skip said while patting Alex on the shoulder. He faced the crowd of fellow ministers. “I apologize for my late arrival, especially in light of the priority I place on what we’ve gathered here to discuss today.”

  A sudden pause while Skip retrieved a small tablet from his pocket and tapped the screen to call up whatever notes he had received from his assistant. Alex read the screen from over Skip’s shoulder: BRIGHT SPOTS PETITION.

  “Listen, guys,” he began, “I consider the Bright Spots Petition an important initiative that I hope you will sign. I don’t pretend to understand the details, but I stand behind the spirit of what Alan here is trying to do.”

  Alex leaned close to whisper, “My name is Alex. Alex Ware.”

  Skip blushed at the mistake while offering a slight nod. Then he turned back to his audience.

  “Gentlemen, you are all bright spots, shining the light of the gospel to a lost world. And some of you remember the days when churches could do that important work as tax-exempt organizations.”

  Tax-exempt organizations? Alex felt a sudden panic. Had Skip even read his letter?

  “Imagine how much brighter our light could shine if the federal government acknowledged the significance of what we do by restoring the charitable donation write-off for religious institutions.”

  Affirming nods peppered the room while Alex reached for a way to graciously correct his host.

  “The fiscal crisis is likely to get worse, not better. It will be more and more difficult for church members to give in the months and years to come. They need the kind of tax relief a bright spots strategy would give.”

  Alex couldn’t let the confusion continue. “Excuse me, Skip,” he said gingerly.

  The minister smiled at the interruption. “But I’ve rambled on long enough,” he said. “I’ll just rescue my boxed lunch from Zane over there and let Alex unpack the details.” Another round of chuckles accompanied Skip as he moved from the lectern toward the serving table.

  “Thanks, Pastor Gregory,” Alex began before clearing his throat. “I need to start with an apology. I should have communicated more clearly that the Bright Spots Petition is not about a charitable gift write-off for donations, although I’d love to sign that petition myself if and when it ever exists.”

  All eyes turned toward Skip. He appeared momentarily embarrassed, then flippant. He shrugged. “So much for announcement cue cards!”

  Nervous laughter filled the room in solidarity with a mistake every pastor had made at one time or another.

  Alex continued. “Perhaps the best way to help you understand what we hope to accomplish is to read an open letter to our elected officials that I drafted. Several area clergy have already signed it.” He handed a stack of one-page documents to a man seated in the front row, who jumped to his feet to distribute them to the group.

  By the time Alex finished reading aloud the room had become more subdued than a funeral parlor. He waited as the group absorbed the words. No reaction for several minutes. Then Alex noticed a single hand slowly rising in the back of the room. “Yes, sir,” he said eagerly, relieved at any sign of life.

  “Am I to understand that you are asking us to sign this?”

  Wasn’t that clear from the beginning?

  “Well, yes,” Alex responded. “We plan to release it at a press conference on the first day of the upcoming convention in Denver. The idea is to generate conversation among the party delegates who will frame the platform and, more importantly, to create buzz in the media.”

  A stiff silence. Skip Gregory leaped to his feet as if reaching to catch a falling vase.

  “Forgive me, gentlemen,” he said while approaching the podium. He put an arm around Alex’s shoulder, “but it appears we have experienced what they call a failure to communicate.”

  “I certainly hope so,” someone said from the back of the room.

  “You see,” Skip said in Alex’s general direction, “this particular alliance of ministers is committed to political neutrality.”

  “Of course,” said Alex. “So am I.”

  “Well,” continued Skip, “I would hardly call this document neutral.”

  “But it targets both parties,” responded Alex. “It isn’t partisan in the least—”

  “And we agree,” Skip interrupted, “that Christians should be good citizens by voting and, at times, getting involved in the political process.”

  A collective nod around the room told Alex that Skip was speaking on behalf of most, if not all, in attendance.

  “But we aren’t ordinary citizens, are we? Every one of us in this room is a minister. A leader. What we say in public
carries greater weight. And greater risk for misunderstanding.”

  “Which is why we need to speak boldly and clearly,” Alex said, the elevated pitch of his voice betraying rising intensity. “Our national leaders need to hear from those of us called to speak for God.”

  A disapproving murmur around the tables.

  “Speak for God?” said the rotund man, his mouth half full of crumbled cookie. He swallowed the final remnants before speaking again. “Who says it’s our job to speak for God?”

  Alex was sure he had misheard the question. “Excuse me?”

  “Our job is to preach the gospel to a lost world,” the man continued.

  Skip retook the floor. “Listen, Brother Alex, we appreciate what you’re trying to do here. We really do.” More deferential nods. “But getting involved in controversial matters like this will do nothing to help us reach people who need Jesus.”

  “But you just said you would sign a petition to restore tax exemption for church donations. Isn’t that controversial?”

  “Apples and oranges, my friend. Apples and oranges.”

  Alex tried grasping what was, apparently, a clear difference. “All I know,” he finally said, “is that the people in my congregation are starting to reflect the same trends as the rest of society, especially when it comes to transitions. We need to do something. Or, at the very least, say something.”

  Another stiff silence.

  “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m tired of consoling elderly members who feel a growing pressure to volunteer. Even their grown children, some of them believers who attend our church, have begun to nudge Mom or Dad toward crafting a transition will.” Alex looked at Skip directly. “Don’t you get tired of bodiless funerals where the grief of loss includes the shame of a guilty conscience?”

  “Actually,” Skip replied, “I don’t do many funerals these days. My associate handles pastoral care matters.”

  “Well, I do,” said Alex. “And I can tell you that both the old and the young are being victimized by this tidal wave of death called the Youth Initiative. Someone needs to stand up and say it isn’t right.”

  Something in Skip’s eyes told Alex he had just lost his platform. And his battle.