Analog SFF, July-August 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  “Oh, He still answers,” the pastor said.

  Mary Lou's perfectly formed red lips twisted into a perplexed frown. “He can do that? He can be in two places at once?”

  A smile flickered at the corners of the Pastor Billy's penetrating blue eyes. “Well, He is God, Mary Lou.”

  The congregation laughed. As the camera panned out over their freshly washed faces, the folks at home could see what a good time they were having, even if it was a religious service. Some of them clapped, while others nudged their neighbors, enjoying their chance to laugh along with Pastor Billy and the Almighty at Mary Lou's puzzlement.

  “Uh ... do you think we could put Him on the speakerphone?” she asked, turning back to the pastor. “I'd just love to hear what He has to say.”

  The pastor grimaced. “You know, I asked Him about that. I thought it would be nice if the folks at home and here in the arena had a chance to hear the sound of His voice. But I'm afraid not. He says He doesn't like the way the speaker phone echoes when people talk to Him.”

  The audience sighed.

  “But we can ask Him anything we want,” the pastor added. “Like He says, the only stupid question is the one you were afraid to ask.”

  “Well, you heard it here first, folks,” Mary Lou said, turning toward the camera. “This is your chance to find the answers you've been searching for. So get those cards and letters in the mail, and be sure to tune in next week when we'll be putting your questions to the Almighty Himself.”

  And so it was, as the address scrolled down the screen—with a tastefully worded request for a nominal donation to cover the cost of collating and handling—that Pastor Billy used this exciting new application of telecommunications technology to reach deeper into the pool of potential parishioners, thereby reestablishing himself as the number-one redeemer of souls in the Greater Tri-Cities Market.

  * * * *

  At least until the following Sunday—which was when Reverend James Wheelwright, who was not about to sit back idly twiddling his thumbs as market share slipped from his grasp, announced that his Creation Science Institute, which had long been committed to proving the historical and scientific truth of Holy Scripture, had finally isolated the gene for the human soul.

  “So the Bible is right,” his graying, African-American sidekick, Willis McGregor, said. “There really was an Intelligent Designer, and now our hard-working scientists here at the Institute have proved it.”

  Reverend Jim gave him an encouraging nod and slipped off his wire-rimmed glasses, leaning across the desk on one elbow to squint resolutely into the camera. “FCC rules still won't let me tell you the Intelligent Designer's real name, but there's no doubt about it, Willis. We've finally put the lid on Darwin's coffin!”

  “All right!” Willis said, slapping his knee. He also turned toward the camera. “This is what we've been waiting for, isn't it, folks—a return to the old-fashioned, faith-based sciences that made America strong!”

  So saying, he and Reverend Jim joined hands across the desk and lowered their heads in prayer. Unlike traditional Sunday-morning services with large congregations and lots of lights and music, the Good-News Roundup worked more like a two-person infomercial. Reverend Jim—whose lean features and short-cropped red hair gave him the look of a tough-minded military officer—wore a tailored white lab coat with the institute's leaping-fish logo on the lapel pocket. Willis dressed in a conservative gray business suit as befit a member of the institute's board. Occasionally, one of the camera crew might lose control of himself and shout out an “Amen” or a “Go get ‘em, Reverend!” But, by and large, the service was conducted with the restrained decorum usually reserved for the promotion of vitamin supplements and health-food additives. The show's mission, as Reverend Jim liked to explain, was to show the folks at home that the faith-based sciences were more than equal to the threat posed by the atheist educators who were so determined to destroy the moral fiber of America's youth with their attacks on the historic accuracy of Holy Scripture.

  “So you're saying everybody has one of these soul genes,” Willis said when they'd finished praying. “White people, black people, Christians, Jews, even Muslims.”

  “That's right,” Reverend Jim said. “Our research shows that the Intelligent Designer spliced it into the human genome with His own hand, just fifty-seven hundred years ago, back in the Garden of Eden.”

  “Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle,” Willis said.

  “No, Willis, you won't,” Reverend Jim said. “None of us will. Because unlike what all those atheist science teachers keep telling our kids, we are not descended from monkeys. We're all the children of Adam and Eve. Every single one of us.”

  “In other words, we're all equal in the eyes of the Lord.”

  “Umm ... not exactly,” Reverend Jim said, sucking his lips back against his teeth. “You see, it's been a while since the Almighty did His splicing, and in the meantime, a lot of water has gone over the dam.”

  “What dam?” Willis asked, eying him suspiciously.

  “Well, like I said, we've all got the gene, but in some of us it's not as fully developed as in others. Which, as you know, is how faith-based genetics works. You have what are called your recessive genes and your dominant genes, depending on what gets passed down to you from your parents.”

  Willis frowned thoughtfully at the camera for a moment, letting the folks at home see that it was okay to be confused at this point, what with all the misinformation the secular scientists had been putting out about genetics. “So you're saying if your father was secretly an atheist, you could find yourself with a recessive gene?”

  “Exactly,” Reverend Jim said.

  “And if your mother was one of these activist judges, you might have two recessive genes. Maybe even end up being an atheist yourself.”

  The reverend nodded grimly. “You got it, Willis. You'd still have a soul, but it could be all shriveled up—dried out, so to speak, like an old prune.”

  “But isn't there anything we can do? Some way to help those poor, unfortunate people whose souls need watering?”

  “I'm glad you asked me that, Willis,” the reverend said as the camera moved in on his face. “Because it just so happens that along with our research into human genetics, our scientists here at the Creation Science Institute have also extracted a line of high-potency vitamin supplements from what we call the Fruits of Eden. These organically grown botanicals are genetic descendents of the very same peaches, pears, and plums that Adam and Eve cultivated in the Garden under the watchful eye of You-Know-Who. In addition to providing one hundred percent of your daily vitamin requirements, our test have revealed that our supplements will return you and your genes to full spiritual health when taken as part of a regularly scheduled program of personal devotion and daily prayer.”

  “So,” Willis said, “even if your mom and dad were activist judges or atheist educators, you can still make it through the Pearly Gates.”

  “That's right, Willis. But these products aren't available in any store, so if the folks at home want to take advantage of this once-in-a-lifetime chance to save their souls, they need to call the number on their screens today.”

  “Well, there you have it,” Willis said, turning toward the camera. “Our operators are standing by, ready to rush a thirty-day supply of our botanical supplements straight to your door. But remember, supplies are limited, so make that call. All it takes is faith, hope, and a major credit card.”

  And thus, with the final credits and disclaimers scrolling down the screen, Reverend Jim once again captured his rightful share of the Sunday-morning viewership, because as he well knew, Americans have long preferred pills and easy-to-swallow caplets to the more difficult lifestyle changes traditionally required for eternal salvation.

  * * * *

  With their viewers’ salvation in the breach, Reverend Jim and Pastor Billy hunkered down—face-to-face, nose-to-nose, eye-to-eye across the airwaves: neither of them willing to give an inch.
Until, that is, Pastor Billy blinked.

  Straight into the camera of Willis McGregor's cell phone, as it turned out. At the very moment, the pastor just happened to be climbing out a back window of the No-Tell Motel in his white satin undershorts with the little purple crosses.

  As the image streamed out across the Internet, Pastor Billy tried to explain that his only purpose in going to the motel had been to investigate reports that the motel's management had stocked its nightstands with counterfeit Gideon Bibles—a claim which was corroborated by Marigold Flowers, a local exotic dancer. Who, in her role as union representative, had gone to the motel with the pastor to investigate the claim. Because, as she put it, so many of her associates used the motel in their professional capacity.

  Needless to say, when Pastor Billy walked out in front of the camera the following Sunday morning, the Tri-Cities Arena was packed to capacity with press and parishioners alike—all of them anxious to see if another man of the cloth had finally bitten the dust. The air hummed with anticipation as Pastor Billy and Mary Lou climbed the steps to the ring. The pastor held the ropes for Mary Lou, as he did each Sunday morning, but his usual beaming smile had given way to a heavily lined grimace—like a man about to face his maker. Which, of course, he was.

  Mary Lou strode to the far side of the ring. Turning her back on the pastor, she crossed her arms and gazed off toward a distant corner of the arena, her jaw clenched in a disapproving frown. Behind her, Pastor Billy struggled through the ropes, momentarily tangling his purple robe, before he finally straightened to peer across the canvas at Mary Lou's rigid back. They both stood motionless, like a tableau carved in ice. A hush descended over the audience, the tension mounting higher and higher, until suddenly Mary Lou turned.

  “Well! What do you have to say for yourself?”

  She tried to control her anger, but as the camera moved in on her face, there was no hiding her trembling lips, the red blotches on her cheeks, the blue veins throbbing in her neck.

  “I, uh ... I don't know what happened,” Pastor Billy stammered. “It's all just a blur. A terrible white smudge in my memory.”

  “That's it?” she said, planting her fists on her hips. Her eyes narrowed to cold green slits. “You get caught red-handed climbing out the window of the No-Tell Motel, and that's all you got? A smudge?”

  Pastor Billy's features crumbled. “Oh, Mary Lou, I'm so ashamed. I feel like I could just curl up and die right here in the center of the ring.” Clasping his hand in front of his chest, he raised his face toward the steel beams supporting the arched roof. “I just pray the Lord will forgive me for letting all these good people down. I know how they were depending on me ... our parishioners here in the arena ... all those poor shut-ins watching from home.” He bit his lip, his features twisting in an agonized grimace. “I think ... I think I'm going to cry.” As the camera moved in on his face, the members of the audience looked up at the overhead monitors to see a single glistening tear slide over his lower eyelid, quiver for a moment, then slip down his cheek to drop to the mat with an unceremonious splat.

  Across the ring, Mary Lou's frozen features thawed. “There, there, Pastor Billy...” She hurried across the ring to rest a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “We're all mortals with sin on our souls and lust in our hearts.” She turned toward the audience. “I just want you to know, folks, you can take it from me, Pastor Billy has always been a perfect gentleman here on the set.”

  “You bring out the best in me, Mary Lou,” he sobbed, unable to lift his eyes from the mat.

  “Well, I think I can find it in my heart to forgive you,” she said. She looked up the sea of glowing faces that peered down at her and the pastor. “What do you say, folks? Should we give Pastor Billy another chance?”

  She clapped her hands, encouraging them to join in. But the audience remained silent. The only sound was the hum of the air conditioners, their wintry blast barely rustling the long blond curls that spilled down over Pastor Billy's shoulders.

  Keeping his head lowered, Pastor Billy peered nervously up at Mary Lou from the corner of his eye. Her mouth tightened, the strain drawing her lips into a rigid plastic bow as she blinked up at the audience, struggling to maintain her smile.

  Suddenly Pastor Billy dropped to his knees, threw back his head and thrust his clasped hands toward the roof. “Lord, I was afraid of this. I know You told us all to forgive and forget. But some of my flock are weak, Lord. Like You and I have talked about right here on the Prayer-O-Thon, half of them couldn't find their way to heaven if You pinned a map to their noses. But, even so, Lord, I wouldn't want You to send them to Hell just because they couldn't find it in their cold, cruel hearts to forgive a miserable, suffering sinner like myself. I mean, the thought of their flesh roasting on their bones ... of all those internal organs bubbling out through their noses—well, Lord, I guess it's just more than I could bear. So I'm asking You. I'm going on record, here and now. Please, please, please, don't send them all to roast in Hell just because they're too selfish and mean-spirited to forgive a poor, miserable, down-on-his-knees, begging-for-forgiveness sinner like me.”

  “Amen!” Mary Lou shouted. She threw up her hands and turned to the audience. “Well, what about it, folks? Can we forgive Pastor Billy, or do you all want to roast in Hell?”

  From the high seats a voice called out, “We're with you, Pastor Billy.” Then a woman closer down shouted, “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.”

  “There you go....” Mary Lou said, again clapping.

  Slowly the members of the audience began to clap along with her. First a few, then more, until finally the entire congregation was on its feet applauding the pastor.

  “Thank you, folks,” Pastor Billy said, climbing back to his own feet. “I just hope the Lord can forgive me, too.”

  “Well, what do you say we find out?” Mary Lou cried. “How about it, folks? Should Pastor Billy give the Almighty a call on the hotline right now? What do you think?”

  Again, the congregation clapped.

  Pastor Billy smiled weakly, allowing Mary Lou to lead him to his usual chair beside the coffee table. He sat down and she pushed the red phone toward him.

  “Go ahead,” she said. “Don't be afraid. The Lord has a place in his heart for all of us, Pastor Billy. Even low-down, good-for-nothing sinners like yourself.”

  “Okay,” he said, drawing in a breath. “Here goes.”

  He picked up the receiver and held it to his ear.

  There was a pause, during which he nodded his head as though listening to the first ring, then the second. Suddenly he straightened. “Hello...? Is that you, Lord? Yes, Sir, that's right. It's me, Pastor Billy.”

  There was another pause. As Pastor Billy listened, Mary Lou turned toward the audience. “Well, at least, the Almighty is still talking to him,” she said in a loud whisper. “He could have had the call transferred to you-know-where.”

  The audience laughed.

  “Yes, Sir, I understand,” Pastor Billy said into the receiver. “And You really feel that way?” He paused a moment longer. “Well, no, I never thought of it like that, but now that You mention it, well, I guess it does make sense, doesn't it? Yes, Sir, a lot of sense.” Another pause. “Well, You have a good day, too, Sir. And thank You. Thank You from the bottom of my heart.”

  So saying, he carefully hung up the phone.

  “Well?” Mary Lou said. “What did He say?”

  Pastor Billy drew in a deep breath, organizing his thoughts. “Well, first, He wanted me to let everyone know He's thinking about you.”

  “Yes,” Mary Lou said. “But what about you, Pastor Billy? Did He forgive you?”

  “Yes, He did, Mary Lou. In fact, He said...” He paused, biting his lower lip.

  “Yes,” Mary Lou prompted. “He said...?”

  “Well, He said it was good to have someone like me representing Him down here in the Tri-Cities, because when I call asking Him to forgive some poor sinner...” He looked out
at the audience. “Well, He says, I know what I'm talking about. I've got what He called a special expertise, so I'm not just going through the motions.”

  “Why, that's wonderful,” Mary Lou said. “That's ... that's...”

  “That's a lie!” a commanding voice boomed from the audience. “This man isn't talking to God. He isn't talking to anyone. In fact, that Heavenly Hotline of his isn't even plugged in!”

  “What...?” Pastor Billy said. “Who's that?” He squinted into the lights, trying to make out the figure who had risen to his feet midway up the tier of seats directly in front of him.

  Mary Lou glared up at the speaker. “Don't listen to that man, folks. All he wants to do is take your money. That fruit juice he's selling, it doesn't come from any Garden of Eden. He has Willis McGregor buy it down at the Safeway!”

  “Jimbo ... is that you?” Pastor Billy said, leaning forward to squint harder.

  “In the flesh, Billy boy,” Reverend Jim said as one of the spotlights that normally lit the ring swung around to engulf him in a circle of light. He waved to the audience as he descended the steps, shaking hands with those parishioners he recognized as he made his way down to the ring in his white lab coat. Willis McGregor, dressed in his usual gray business suit, followed just behind him, pausing now and again to exchange a few words with those old friends that the reverend had missed. The two of them climbed the stairs to the ring, stepped through the ropes and turned to face the audience. As they did so, the camera moved in on Reverend Jim's face, filling the overhead monitors with his lean, bespectacled features.

  “Folks, you can't believe a word this man says. The truth is, he's a complete fraud.” Crossing the ring, he snatched up the red phone and held the disconnected plug up to the audience. “See, what did I tell you. It isn't even plugged in!”

  “That doesn't prove a thing!” Mary Lou said. “The Good Lord doesn't need wires. Any fool could tell you that!”

  “Yeah? Well, if Pastor Billy's talking to anyone, it's the devil,” Reverend Jim shot back. “And you folks out there in the audience, if you keep listening to him, every single one of you is going straight to Hell!”