by Davis Bunn
Ruth smiled sadly. “My husband used to say the same thing when he was struggling with a sermon.”
“He didn’t have my failings to deal with.”
“No,” Ruth replied. “He had his own.”
Heather stroked his shoulder, gentle motions that he did not really feel. “I want you to listen to what Alisha had to say while you were out in the meadow. And I want you to see if God uses this to make your way clear. Will you do that?”
“I’ll try.”
At a nod from Heather, Alisha began, “Like I told the others, I was singing even before I could talk. I thought it was my destiny. But when I got my chance in the spotlight, I failed. They took me into the recording studio, they gave me the mike, and they let me hear it after. I was good. But I wasn’t good enough. I lacked the sort of control that a professional has got to have.
“So I stayed in the choir, and I pretended it was enough. After a time, they let me lead the choir. And I did with them what I couldn’t do with myself. I controlled the sound. And we got better and better. And for the last eight years, we’ve been singing in the national church celebrations at the Kennedy Center.”
John said, “I don’t understand how this—”
“Wait, John,” Heather urged. “Let her finish.”
“My pastor’s wife, she’s been off working with a school group for a year. Before, Celeste was pushing and fighting for my job in front of the choir. I told myself she started with the kids because she couldn’t beat me in the church. But after a time, I could see how happy that lady was. How those kids lit up her life. And then she came in and she said she wanted to join the two together. Her kids and my choir.”
John found himself nodding in time to Alisha’s words. “So she has been planning this for a long time.” He picked up the story. “And you suspected she was trying to sideline you. She was using the children to push you off the podium.”
“And that’s why I said the children couldn’t sing.” Alisha’s broad features were meant to hold joy, not the pain that pinched her now. “Isn’t that just the meanest thing you ever heard?”
“No,” John said. “It’s not.”
Alisha didn’t respond and went on, “After Yussuf and the shooter met back in New York, I called the lady and said she could bring the kids. I told Celeste she has to lead the choir at the Kennedy Center concert. Because there isn’t the time for me to get to know these children.”
John asked, “When is the big performance?”
“Tomorrow. And I need to be there. Those folks are my family. But I can’t. Not alone. I’ll stand and I’ll look at Celeste there in my place, leading those kids who will not have control. And I’m afraid I’ll lose what I’ve found here.”
“Of course we’ll go with you,” Ruth said, but her gaze remained fixed upon John. “It’s the same thing all over again, John. That’s what you need to hear. No one is saying you don’t have reasons to refuse. But God is asking each of us to stretch beyond what we think we can do. That’s what it means to be called.”
John wanted to say that he couldn’t. The request was too great. The risks too vast. But Heather continued to stroke his arm, a soft urging to remain silent, to accept.
Ruth picked up her cane and used a two-handed grip to push herself from the rocker. When Alisha reached over, she waved the help away. “John, all I’m asking is that you do it this one time. See if the Lord is with you. If not, then we’ll make other arrangements.” She opened the screen door, then turned back to offer him a beatific smile. “If he is, though, who are you to argue with the Lord?”
“I suppose …”
“That’s fine, then.” The screen door slapped shut with soft finality. “Now you get started putting it down on paper with Jenny. I need to make a call.”
15
“… we might become heirs …”
AUSTIN, TEXAS
Reverend Craig Davenport sat in his home office. The wood- paneled study was his inner sanctum, the one place where he could come and shut out the constant demands of running such a large church.
But this afternoon his retreat had been invaded. In more ways than one. And on the very day the entire church knew he kept for himself. No phone calls. No interruptions. Nothing save a funeral or a wedding would draw him out. Yet this was one request he could not refuse.
Jason Swain was a vital member of his team. Young and super- intelligent and a rock. His mother was from Bulgaria and his father from Canada. He had inherited his mother’s dark features and his father’s quiet demeanor. He oversaw the sanctuary electronics, but on a voluntary basis. The church had a paid staff that ran the electronic board and the recording studio and the television cameras. Jason was a full-time employee of one of Austin’s electronic gaming companies. The church had repeatedly tried to hire him away. But Jason loved his work. He continued to serve as one of the church’s hardest working volunteers.
This was the first time Jason had ever asked anything of Craig. He had told the church’s weekend secretary that he simply had to meet with the pastor. Today. Now.
The pastor stared in horror at the screen, and had to agree. This was something that could not wait.
When the advertisement had run its ninety-second course, Craig said, “Give it to me again.”
Jason did not exactly wring his hands. He was small and strong and his normally placid demeanor had been replaced with a tension that had him perched on the edge of his seat, like a human spring wound so tight he might shoot through the ceiling at any moment. “Word came down last night. The Mundrose Group is buying our company. They have ordered my chief to halt work on every current project. The entire team is ordered to start work on a new game. One based around the latest film from Stone Denning.”
Jason had already been through all this with his pastor. But the advertisement Craig had just seen charged the words with a very real dread. “And the film is about an invasion.”
“From outer space, right. Earth faces an alien invasion of zombies and ghouls and werewolves and trolls, you name it. All our nightmares are explained by foretelling this. They travel from world to world, consuming everything and moving on.”
“Sick.” But there was hardly any surprise there. Craig had spoken for years about families needing to control what entertainment they ingested. Especially the children.
“Right. The difference is, it’s just the start. There’s a film and our new game and a television show and books and music, on and on. Our advertising group is going to work on nothing but this project. They aim to shape the cultural watchword. Instead of following a trend, they are going to make it.” He pointed to the blank laptop screen. “This ad is the lead-in.”
“Show me again.”
Jason hit the keys, then moved back out of range. Craig sat and watched in silence.
The advertisement started at a gravesite in the rain. But the soundtrack was of a huge celebration, tens of thousands of voices screaming and chanting and singing, the words completely unintelligible. Umbrellas hid the black-clad onlookers from view at first, as the camera slowly panned around to reveal a vast array of vampires and ghouls. All of whom were grinning. Standing on the grave’s other side were the stars of Denning’s new film and his upcoming television drama. Beside them were the biggest music stars in the Mundrose firmament. And in the grave was a coffin engraved with the simple word, hope. They switched to the Times Square mob, and the screen flashed with a kaleidoscope of quick-fire images—ghouls dancing on car roofs, the police watching helplessly, an invasion force of the undead. Gradually the words they yelled and chanted and sang came into focus, as the image panned back, showing all of Times Square completely filled with insanity, as every screen circling the compound shone with the same three words. Hope Is Dead.
When the screen went blank, Jason said quietly, “I don’t know what to do. I love my work. I love my job. Designing the next cutting-edge game is the only thing I’ve ever wanted. And this company is totally cutting edge. I don’
t want to leave my friends, my church … But how can I stay and be a part of this? What am I supposed to do?”
Craig knew this young man’s quandary demanded his full attention. But just then all he could think of was his own sense of futility. “You say this is already out on the Internet?”
“That’s what they do with a new concept. They show it on television, and at the same time they put it on the web. Then they measure the audience response. They played this ad three times on the top sports show this afternoon. It’s already gone viral. Nine million hits already.”
Craig’s Fridays were spent working on sermons. He polished the lesson to be given that week, and started sketching out the next. Or the one after. And he wrote. That was the output side of his Fridays, leaving Saturdays for some wife and family time. But Craig tried to spend a couple of hours each day simply absorbed in the Word. And what he had felt all that day was the frustration every pastor knew. That his message was not getting out to the greater world, the culture that was moving ever faster and further from God’s truth.
The blank screen mocked him with his feeling of futility. The knock on the door startled them both. Craig’s wife poked her head inside and said, “Honey?”
“I’m busy.”
“I thought you should know.” She stepped inside. “Ruth Barrett is on the phone.”
“What does she want?”
“To speak with you. She says it’s urgent.”
Jason’s expression was miserable. “I should be going.”
“No, son. Stay right where you are.” He hit the speaker button. His wife stepped inside and shut the door, leaning on it. “Ruth?”
“Hello, Craig.”
“How are you doing, sister?”
“To be honest, I don’t know how to answer that.”
Craig’s chair rocked as he nodded with his entire body. “I know exactly what you mean.”
“Craig, have you seen the new advertisement that the Mundrose Group released today?”
The pastor stared across his desk at the dumbfounded young man. “Matter of fact, I have.”
“The dear young ladies who help around here were alerted by a text message from friends. They just played it for us.”
“I’m appalled by what I’ve just seen,” Craig said. “Who is ‘us’?”
“That’s why I’m calling.” Ruth stopped. “This may sound a bit odd.”
“You mean, odder than watching a mob make a mockery of God’s eternal gift of hope?”
“Craig, for the past week I’ve had the distinct impression that God has been speaking with me. And not just me. I’ve been brought together with a group of people who’ve all received the same message. We now feel the reason we were drawn here was so we could respond to this attack.”
Craig sorted through several different reactions. He had not seen Ruth Barrett since he had spoken at her husband’s funeral. He had served on Bobby’s staff as a young man fresh out of seminary, and counted Ruth as one of his dearest friends. The analytical side of his brain said that the elderly woman could very well be awash in grief and loss. But she did not sound addled. Ruth Barrett sounded as she always did. Steady and calm and focused. So he said, “Attacked is exactly how I feel.”
“As we watched this, I was struck by the urge to call and ask if you would help us.”
“What do you need?”
“We are fashioning a response. One in this group I’m involved with will serve as our spokesman. His name is John Jacobs. He’s never been in front of a camera before. He is scared to death. But he is the only one among us who has any doubts about it.”
Craig loved having a reason to grin. “Doesn’t that just sound like God at work.”
“I’m calling to ask if you would please look over our response. And if you feel like God is at work here, help us get out the word.”
“Gladly.”
“Thank you. And one thing more. Pray for us, if you would. And allow me to contact you again once we know something more.”
“I’ll be waiting for your call, Ruth.”
“Thank you, Craig.”
He cut the connection, leaned back in his chair, and said, “Well, now.”
His wife asked, “That’s why you two are meeting?”
“Jason just showed me the ad.”
“Do I want to see it?”
Craig looked at his wife. “It’s just awful.”
“Maybe later, then.”
Jason no longer looked so distressed. “I can’t believe what just happened.”
Craig nodded and said to the young man, “I don’t have an answer for you. Except to pray for some clear direction from the Lord.”
Jason rose to his feet, shut his laptop and stowed it in his backpack, and revealed a truly magnificent smile. “For the moment, that is more than enough.”
“You’re going to stay in your job?”
“For the moment,” he repeated, pointing at the phone. “In case they need an insider.”
16
“… a still small voice …”
WESTCHESTER COUNTY
An hour later, Jenny read out what she claimed were John’s own words, fashioned into a statement. John saw the delight on all the other faces, but he himself was still trying to come to grips with the fact that they expected him to talk in front of the camera. His reluctance and his doubts apparently meant nothing to them. In fact, they only seemed to strengthen their confidence in him.
Ruth returned to the porch, listened in approval to John’s first attempt at reading Jenny’s pages, then said, “You and Heather, come with me, please.”
She led them through the kitchen and dining area, leaning heavily upon her cane. One of the kitchen workers must have noticed a disturbing change, for she called over, “Are you having a spell, Miss Ruth?”
“I’m fine.”
But the young woman watched her with mounting concern. “Should I get your medicine?”
“No, thank you.” Ruth crossed the main foyer and entered a hall leading into the east wing of the one-story house. She led them into Bobby Barrett’s study, and John stopped in the doorway.
Behind him, his wife said, “I remember this room.”
The desk and the big academic Bible on the carved reading stand, the bookshelves with their leather-bound volumes, it was all like he had seen on the weekly broadcasts growing up. Before he had gone and thrown his life away.
Ruth’s voice called to him from a side alcove. “Come on in here, please.”
John followed Ruth into a walk-in closet holding about a dozen suits. Beside them were a pair of shelves with starched shirts still in their laundry packets. Silk ties. Three pairs of polished shoes.
“I gave everything to the homeless shelter but these.” Her hand stroked the sleeve of a grey pin-striped suit. “I suppose some of the people around here presume I’m holding on to these like they are part of some shrine. Which is ridiculous. But I did so love watching Bobby prepare.”
“Ruth …”
“Bobby only wore these when he was preaching. He said it was part of putting on his game face.” She turned around, her eyes overly bright. “You and he are almost exactly the same size.”
“I can’t,” he said. “Those are his preaching clothes—”
“They were.” She drew him forward. “I think you’d look good in navy.”
Heather said, “Try it on, John.”
“But—”
“You didn’t bring a suit. You need one.” Heather sorted through the shirts. “This one will look nice on you.”
Ruth selected a matching tie. When she saw that John had not moved, she said, “Bobby would want this, John. I’m certain of it.”
“My name is John Jacobs, and I am speaking to you from the headquarters of Barrett Ministries.”
They had brought him over in a van. Their entire group came, and all of them had some compliment over how he looked, how the clothes suited him and the moment. Alisha kept working her laptop, reading off
names of churches to Ruth, who noted them in a small, hardbound notebook. John had no idea what importance it held, but he suspected it was somehow tied to what he was about to do. Aaron and Yussuf and Richard tossed ideas back and forth with Jenny Linn, apparently working on concepts for future broadcasts. John had difficulty hearing anything over the thundering of his heart.
“Today one of the world’s largest entertainment conglomerates has declared on national television that hope is dead. I am here to say that their message is wrong.”
The broadcast team was prepped and ready. They were young and dynamic and very professional. The producer knew John was a total beginner, and worked to make him as comfortable as possible. The television prompter was stationed a few inches from the camera eye, so John could read while appearing to look straight at the audience. A dot of red fingernail polish was painted in the prompter screen’s right corner. The producer suggested John hold his gaze on this one point, otherwise his eyes would appear shifty. The producer was a young man in his late twenties, who slipped the headphones around his neck and read through the speech with John four times, coaching him on when to breathe and when to punch a word. The young man’s name was Kevin Burnes, and John suspected he would be quite handsome if he cut his hair and tucked in his shirttail. Kevin held to a perpetual smile, with a gentle voice that steadied John.
But the real help came from another direction.
“The world has been granted a gift of eternal hope. The Bible states this, and I am here to tell you that the gift is real. Jesus died to make this available to each and every one of us who seek him. He is there, and he is calling to us. His hands are outstretched, waiting for us to realize what it means to live with hope.”
In the moment when the makeup lady finished dabbing powder on his nose and forehead, John felt overwhelmed by an adrenaline-drenched panic. The lights came on, bright as electronic suns. People scurried in the shadows beyond the lights’ reach. And then it happened.
