All that Glitters

by Les Cowan

  “The Power and the Glory” it said on the noticeboard outside. A studenty-looking early-twenties guy in a flannel shirt and torn jeans grinned at him in the foyer in a way supposed to be welcoming but in David’s present frame of mind just came over as annoying and slightly creepy.

  “Welcome to PGC,” he announced like an overenthusiastic timeshare rep. “First time?” Yes, and I hope it’s the last, David felt like saying but instead mumbled something non-committal, took the notice sheet, and made to head through the double doors. The welcome committee wasn’t quite done though and pursued him.

  “Sorry. Excuse me. If you’re new… we’d love to keep in touch with you… if I could have your email or Facebook then we can let you know what’s going on.”

  David hadn’t intended to be rude but felt backed into a corner.

  “I don’t have either of these things and wouldn’t give you them if I did,” he stated. “And I don’t want to know what’s going on. Thanks.” He turned without waiting to see the reaction – probably nothing short of a car bomb would shake the grin – and pushed his way through a heavy swing door.

  The interior immediately struck him as bright and airy in spite of the grim facade. It seemed a pleasing marriage of old and new and he couldn’t quite keep himself from approving. Yes, stained glass; yes, carved oak; yes, rows of formal seating; but also some colourful friezes, a contemporary band tuning up, and a general sense of relaxed but purposeful bustle. Grander premises but an atmosphere not much different from Southside in fact. He felt a bit wrong-footed, found a place in the back row, and sat down. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so hard on the guy at the door. He’d made sure he arrived good and early and there were only a few others dotted around, mostly “youth” chatting and giggling but a few greyer heads and one family with squirming children. The dad noticed him and smiled. He nodded back. Band members were gradually getting themselves organized as the data projector lit up onto a screen that had silently slid down from the ceiling. The sound guy was nipping back and forth from the desk, adjusting mikes, swapping cables, and one-twoing like mad. Is that as far as sound engineers can count? David wondered incongruously. Over by the piano it looked like a couple of Sunday School teachers were having a confab over materials. The drummer and bass player found themselves not needed for the moment and fired off a wee duet a bit like the Average White Band on a bad night, then broke up laughing. David felt his inner rage and frustration beginning to ease as he took off his wet coat, hat, and scarf and began to warm up. The atmosphere seemed entirely relaxed, friendly, normal. Not what he’d expected of a criminal venture.

  “Good morning; nice to see you.” He hadn’t noticed a slim blonde girl with enormous, dangly earrings slipping into the row alongside him.

  “Hi. Thanks.”

  “On holiday in Edinburgh?”

  “No, I live here but I normally go somewhere else.”

  “Welcome to PGC. I’m Sonia, part of the welcome team. Hope you like it. If there’s anything you want to ask or any way we can help, we all have these yellow badges on. Just ask.”

  Sonia. Madre mía. Maybe there was more than one – maybe a whole clan of them – but probably not. This must be the Sonia. Was Sandy here with her? What if he suddenly appeared? What would David say to him? Hi Sandy. I’m a friend of Mike Hunter’s – maybe you know him. Sorry – knew him. In the meantime he thought he should say something – anything – just to extend the conversation.

  “Thanks. Have you been coming here long?”

  “About a year or so. I came with the kids first. We all liked it so I managed to get my husband along too. Sandy can take a bit of persuading.” She gave half a laugh and David couldn’t help a sympathetic smile, while also silently registering that yes, this is the Sonia married to the Sandy.

  “We like it though. Max is a really riveting speaker.”

  “Max?” David asked and left it hanging in the hope of finding out more.

  “He’s our Prophet – what you’d call a pastor, I suppose. Anyway there’s loads of stuff going on. I’d get Sandy to tell you more but he’s not out this morning. Says he has to work – again!”

  “No problem. I’m sure I’ll be fine. Thanks.”

  “Remember, anything you need – just ask.”

  Sonia gave him another sunny smile and headed off in search of anyone else in need of a welcome.

  How about that? David thought. I’d bet my pension plan she has no idea what’s going on.

  Final checking, confabs, and coordination over, it looked like every seat was taken. The clock finally ticked round to 11.00 and a young man with close-cropped, bleached-blond hair and quite a prominent scar on his cheek took the mike.

  “Good morning, everyone. Welcome to the Power and the Glory. Is God good or what?”

  Standard warm-up stuff, David thought. And a good attempt at Scottish English but not a native speaker. Germany? Balkans? Eastern Europe? Interesting. Then a few more remarks that didn’t mean anything either before passing over to the band for twenty minutes or so of standing up, swaying, hand raising, ecstatic-looking singing, competently led by a guitar player just about visible through the hair and beard. So far, so normal. Then another new face and a quick run through the announcements for the week with a couple of videos to let everyone know what they were missing by not being a part of Life Groups/Kids’ Club/Care and Share or whatever. Suddenly David noticed with surprise that his mouth was dry, his fists were clenched, and his lips tight as the list droned on. Who was the Prophet? What would he look like? What does a money-laundering murderer look like anyway?

  Finally, a tall figure with the build of a boxer, in a black leather jacket, black T-shirt, and jeans stood up and walked forward in a slow, measured way. There was a definite sense of anticipation around the room. This was clearly the main event. Rather than take a band mike, the Prophet headed up a few steps to a lectern at the back of the platform. For a few moments he looked around without speaking, with a calm, almost serene, gaze. His expression was one of total self-assurance and tranquility but there was something about the eyes that made David sure the brain behind was whirring: who was there, who wasn’t; who was sitting somewhere different; who wasn’t entirely paying attention.

  “Good morning, everyone,” he finally said, barely above a whisper, still gazing around the room. The look was relaxed, confident. It seemed to say – we understand each other, don’t we? – we’re on the same side, aren’t we? David wasn’t quite sure where to place him between the Dalai Lama and a king cobra.

  “I see we have a few new friends here this morning. Welcome.” The gaze continued roaming around, unruffled and unhurried. Somehow David felt like an ant under a magnifying glass with the sun about to come out. He said “friends”, but there was something deeper that said, I know who my friends are. Are you one of them? But Sonia had been right about one thing. It was undoubtedly captivating.

  A couple of miles away in Marchmont Gillian Lockhart had not been having the best of mornings either. She knew David loved lamb so she’d thought she’d try something new – a slow, pot-roasted shoulder with slivers of garlic thrust deep down inside the meat then cooked in a reducing sauce of onion, carrot, tomatoes, and thyme, all served with watercress, halved black olives, and mustard mash. Not Spanish, but hey, you have to broaden your mind. She’d just got the joint prepared and browned when the text came in. Brooke Fraser was singing “Something in the Water” on iTunes at the time, which always made her want to dance around the kitchen – and then she read the message. Her first thought was, Who’s going to eat all this lamb? then her second was, That man is soooo frustrating. Would it have been so hard to phone or, better still, to mention it when they’d been out to a movie at the Dominion the previous night? In any case, what made David Hidalgo Sleuth-in-Chief? Once was understandable; twice definitely looked like carelessness. She understood that ministers had responsibilities and that sometimes families had to just grin and bear it. But David wasn’t even b
eing paid and she wasn’t family – yet.

  She took the lamb off the hob and slammed the pot down on a chopping board. The weekend had started off so well too, with a late email on Friday night from BBC Scotland no less. She was used to having her academic work published and acknowledged but somehow a radio producer had got hold of her name and wanted her to come on some mid-morning chat thing and talk about the language of teenagers in the new millennium. No doubt it would do a grave disservice to the subtlety of vocabulary drift and influence of English accents on TV but all the same it was flattering. She’d mentioned it to Gary, Head of Department, who’d given it his blessing. “Knock their socks off, Gilli,” he’d said, and she thought she maybe would. Hence a small treat was in order. She left the university’s David Hume Tower early and headed straight to the house of treats large and small – John Lewis at the top of Leith Walk. She’d been meaning to replace a slightly worn hall rug for some time so now went hunting in earnest. She decided on a “Royal Heritage Kazak” for £625. Like it said on the tin – not cheap but a beautiful weaving of geometric patterns in deep shades of red with creams and blues. You can keep those abstract blotches that look like the results of careless house painters, she thought. On a whim she bought some nice lacy underwear too. It was all gorgeous and she was looking forward to telling David her news and showing off (at least the rug) over Sunday lunch – the one that had just been cancelled. For half a second she thought she should have accepted the Springsteen invitation after all. Then she caught herself. Come on Gillian, she thought, get a grip. It’s just lunch. But of course it wasn’t; it begged the question of where this was all going. Well, I’m going to church anyway, she suddenly decided, David or no.

  Juan Hernandez was a bit surprised to see her coming in her customary ten minutes early. When he’d had a call from David saying something had come up he kind of assumed that meant them both. But no, Gillian was here, poised, fresh, stunning as ever. ¡Que guapa! he thought. There was no reason a happily married man (waiting to become a happily married dad) couldn’t appreciate beauty – was there? And that girl was la leche, no doubt about it. Why David didn’t get his act together and get a ring on her finger he could not understand; it was obvious. And he had no issue comparing her with Rocío, even though she’d been his own sister. They are both just beautiful examples of God’s creativity. Hadn’t Solomon put it perfectly (probably a man who knew a thing or two about beauty): Todo lo hizo hermoso en su tiempo, y ha puesto eternidad en el corazón del hombre. Everything beautiful in its time and eternity in the heart of man. For some reason he couldn’t fathom and maybe never would Rocío’s time had come and gone. But out of the ashes of that fire a new relationship had come and maybe a new faith as well. Sometimes David Hidalgo was soooo frustrating. ¡Hombre – simplemente hazlo! Just get on and do it!

  With Alicia’s pregnancy progressing and more and more of the restaurant work falling to him, he knew he hadn’t been seeing much of David recently and wasn’t helping at all in this latest crisis. Maybe the strain was telling and David was spending so much time and focus on other people that he was missing the most important thing staring him right in the face. Sometimes Juan found himself falling back on his father’s favourite insult – ¡El burro sabe más que tú! – and in this case it was true. He felt like grabbing David by the lapels some Sunday, pushing him up against a wall, and saying ¡Mira! ¡Hombre! When it comes to women, donkeys know more than you! What are you waiting for? She won’t wait forever for you, you know. She’s a clever, good-looking girl. There are lots of clever, good-looking guys out there. If you don’t take your chance now… well, just do it, that’s all! When he got like that Alicia would tell him to calm down. It’ll all work out. “You say it yourself, amante, El Señor is in control. It’ll work out in its own good time.” In the restaurant he knew you couldn’t make good paella in less than an hour – even after the rice had gone in. Maybe he needed to take a lesson out of his own cookbook and stop trying to turn the heat up or add a bit more salt. Anyway, this morning he’d been doubly annoyed not just that David wasn’t getting his love life in order but also for failing to show up and preach – and dumping it at his door. ¡Madre mía! You don’t think I’ve got enough to do? Anyway, he had grabbed something from his daily reading that looked like it could be bulked up into a ten-minute talk and headed out the door.

  Listening to Juan speaking about love – God’s love, varieties of human love, what happens when you love somebody, what Jesus had done out of love – all made Gillian think back to slipping into the last row of this same room less than a year ago and listening, part amazed, part bemused, to one David Hidalgo speaking from the selfsame platform. Today was the first time she’d come to Southside without him and it felt strange. That first time he’d been speaking about the Good Samaritan, then seemed to get stuck. Not being used to “preaching” she wasn’t entirely sure whether something had gone wrong or if this was normal, but as a background buzz of shuffling and murmuring began to grow she realized that everyone else was uncomfortable too. Then he’d gone on to compare the Samaritan’s pretty good performance with something he was currently facing and not handling too well. It was weird but fascinating too. Not in her wildest dreams could she imagine any other type of talk that got so personal or confessional. It seemed this sort of thing wasn’t very normal here either; hence the general confusion even once it was over. Getting involved in the hunt for Jen MacInnes, she’d gradually realized what it was all about and that was what really struck her first about said David Hidalgo. He was an odd animal in the modern world: well read, articulate, witty, not an offence to the eyes (despite totally lacking the fashion gene), but with a very unusual, almost anachronistic, compulsion to “do the right thing”. Going after Jen MacInnes had almost been the death of both of them – hers unexpectedly, his by a deliberate act of putting himself in harm’s way. So, not just talking the talk then. She remembered finding that startling and strangely compelling. Now it was looking not so much like an isolated incident – more just his normal way of life. By no means perfect of course (she was still annoyed about the last-minute cancellation), but even that was a consequence of the same guy. He was off again, looking down the barrel of a gun because it was simply the right thing to do. Admirable but also soooo frustrating. As Juan continued emphasizing the self-sacrifice and the fruits of love, she spotted Jen MacInnes with new boyfriend Carlos, recently arrived in Edinburgh to start a crime-free life. Maybe having a man so committed to doing the right thing wasn’t the worst thing in the world. What was the alternative – the wrong thing or, more commonly, nothing at all? But while there were things more important than Sunday lunch on their agenda, that still didn’t mean what happened today was ok. Words might need to be had.

  By the time all Sunday morning sermons had finished the rain was off and David came out into hazy sunshine. A few more people were about and it looked like the worst was over. It certainly hadn’t been the worst he’d ever heard – far from it. Like the warm-up guy, the accent wasn’t native English but the ease of delivery made you quickly forget that. The jokes and cultural references all seemed to be spot on from audience reaction – David wouldn’t have known what was in the charts or on TV – and the biblical explanation was sound – on the face of it. But somehow David found it deeply unsettling. It didn’t feel right, like listening to Franco talking about reconciliation or Dalí on the virtues of self-restraint.

  Max’s theme had been that God loves leaders. The point seemed to be that God has a leadership role for everyone and that everyone could have a positive influence on those around them. So far, so good. Husbands in the family, Christian children among their friends, wives and young women in the workplace or the home, teens on their peer group, older people mentoring the young, etc. The point he was building to – David saw it coming from some way off – was that God has also appointed leaders in the kingdom of God and that God required good “followership” as much as good leadership. So you lead where
God had placed you but ultimately everyone – this was emphasized several times – everyone has a duty before God to follow, and indeed obey, their leaders in the church. This was what was pleasing to God. And they lapped it up, smiling at the jokes, nodding at an apt catchphrase, and taking notes at every turn. It was a tour de force. David was impressed, not just in the talk but in the total effect. The congregation were entirely behind both the concept and the man. He half expected a Q&A at the end, when individuals would be given specific instructions. Very impressive, and totally contrary to everything he believed about responsibility, personal relationship, and each finding their own way forward. It left him thinking of Jonestown and Waco. Max’s warm but knowing manner also extended to the handshaking at the end. Rather than position himself at the door, he worked the aisles, up and down and round and round, meeting, greeting, squeezing arms, and ruffling the hair of the kids. David tried to pick his moment and head for the double doors while Max was on his way to the front again but he was held up by a gaggle of teenagers and finally made it just as “the Prophet” approached from the other side.

  “Good morning. I don’t think we’ve met…” was the disarming greeting, but the look said, Who are you? Are you going to be my friend? David took the offered handshake and was on the point of muttering a good morning in response and nothing more but his hand and his gaze were held. He half considered introducing himself as Ralph but wondered if Max would say, Come on now, we both know that’s not true.