Playing Saint

by Zachary Bartels

“I believe he’s called you his ‘great discovery.’ What do you suppose he means by that?”

  “I don’t want to sound like I’m getting a big head over this, Brett, but I do believe God has brought Joshua and me together so that my message can reach his audience.”

  “But is your message any different from his?”

  “I like to think it’s nuanced a bit differently, yes. Of course Joshua Holton’s been a great influence on me, and he and I have spent some significant time visioning together, so there will naturally be some overlap, but that’s not a bad thing.”

  Brett flipped a page on the pad in front of him. “Most of our readers will be aware that Reverend Holton not only has a very highly rated television show, but his books, Focus on Being You and (God Wants You to) Live Well Now, have spent a combined forty-three weeks on the New York Times bestseller list.”

  It annoyed Parker that the reporter pronounced the parentheses in the book’s title.

  “And now your book is scheduled for release in the next season. Will you have an endorsement from Joshua Holton?”

  Parker’s eyes flashed slightly. “I’m not all that involved in the nuts and bolts of the publishing business, Brett, but trust me when I tell you this book will do its own publicity work when word starts to spread about all the changed lives and reborn destinies.”

  “Do you mind if we talk about your background a little?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Your father and grandfather were both ministers at Hope Presbyterian Church here in Grand Rapids.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Were you on staff there as well?”

  “Yes, for a while. I’ve joked that I had to leave Hope to keep it from becoming a dynasty. Dad was associate pastor with my grandfather for ten years. He took a few years away at another church, then came back and pastored for almost twenty years. During the last five I was on staff with Dad as an associate.”

  “While you completed your studies?”

  “Correct.”

  “And then you started your own church, Abundance Now Ministries.”

  “That’s not exactly accurate. My church grew out of Hope organically.”

  Brett looked at him blankly for a moment before saying, “I’m never sure what people mean when they say something happened ‘organically.’ ”

  “Well, my grandfather always had a radio ministry, even from his earliest days. In the eighties my father expanded that into a television ministry. It was called Hope This Week, and it started out as just his sermon from Sunday morning and a little closing thought.

  “Near the end of his life, we began putting more and more emphasis on that aspect of the ministry. It actually caused a little bit of tension in the church. When Dad died it seemed natural for us to officially split the church proper from the television outreach. So Abundance Now sort of grew out of Hope Presbyterian.”

  “And you rebranded the television program as Speak It into Reality.”

  “An Outreach of Abundance Now Ministries.”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “That’s the full name of the show. Speak It into Reality: An Outreach of Abundance Now Ministries, with Pastor Parker Saint.”

  “That’s a mouthful compared with Hope This Week.”

  “Sure.”

  “And you’ve gone in quite a different direction theologically.”

  “I don’t know if I’d say ‘quite different,’ but yes, we have our own vision.”

  “How is the old church doing, by the way?”

  Parker looked at his watch and everywhere but at the reporter seated across from him. “I’m sorry, is this interview about Hope Presbyterian or is it about me and my current ministry? Because I’d like to talk about some of the amazing things God is doing here and now.”

  Brett smiled politely. “Okay, let’s talk about you. Your doctrine has come under fire by a number of conservative Christian leaders and self-described ‘discernment ministries.’ There are even a few blogs dedicated to ‘exposing’ your theology, or lack thereof. What is your reaction to that?”

  “Well, Brett, I don’t really sweat that. I preach what God wants me to preach. I’m sorry if some folks want to nitpick and divide, I really am. But I’m not going to worry about a few squeaky wheels when so many lives are being changed.”

  “So would you call your doctrine orthodox?”

  “Yes. I certainly would.”

  “One Christian broadcaster recently called you a Modalist because of the way you spoke of the Trinity in your series on family dynamics.”

  He could see in the reporter’s body language that he did not expect Parker to know what Modalism was. Parker was used to that. When they saw his television program and his style of preaching, the Brett LaForests of the world assumed that he was biblically and theologically illiterate—just some slick huckster and self-esteem expert who knew how to use quasi-religious language. Parker relished opportunities to prove them wrong.

  “Again, I think that’s just nitpicking and looking for a way to knock others down. Modalism teaches that God does not exist in three eternal persons. I’ve never taught that. All I did was use the Trinity as an illustration for how close Christians ought to be to one another. Jesus himself did the same thing in his high priestly prayer in John chapter 17.”

  If Brett was impressed, he hid it well. He skimmed through his notes and settled on, “You’ve also been accused of denying the historical and literal reality of hell, sin, and the resurrection.”

  Parker narrowed his eyes. “When have I done that?”

  “Perhaps a better question would be: When have you affirmed those things in your preaching?”

  “I preach about resurrection every week. Have you ever actually listened to any of my sermons?”

  “I have indeed. While you do preach about the concept of resurrection in an individual’s dreams or relationships, you almost never bring up the resurrection of Christ as a historical event. Not in the twenty sermons I watched on your website.”

  “You should read my book.”

  “I will, I’m sure. But can you just give me an answer now, for the article? Do you deny the resurrection?”

  “You know what? I do deny it. Every time I walk past a hungry person and don’t help them, I deny the resurrection. Every time I fail to see the divine in the other, I deny the resurrection.”

  “Mm hmm. And what about hell? Do you deny the existence of hell?”

  “Look, you have to understand: I don’t focus on that kind of stuff in my preaching. But I think we all deny those truths and we deny Jesus every time we fail to grasp our destiny.” Parker hated evading questions with this kind of doublespeak, but Holton had convinced him that it was necessary in order to broaden his influence.

  Brett scanned his notes, apparently on the verge of asking another question, then seemed to think better of it. He flipped closed his pad and held out his hand to Parker.

  “Thank you so much for your time. I’m really glad I was able to get your perspective for this article. It’s very helpful.”

  “The pleasure was all mine,” Parker said. But he had a growing knot in the pit of his stomach, and it wasn’t just the unease of a bad interview. The conversation about his ministry was just a reminder that tomorrow was fast approaching. And tomorrow, he’d have to fight to keep everything he’d built from crashing down.

  TWO

  THREE MEN IN SUITS ARRIVED AT BRANDON CRAWFORD’S DOOR JUST after seven on Sunday night. They seemed to be standing in line youngest to oldest. On the left was a muscular kid in his twenties, his neck popping out of his shirt collar; next to him, a wiry man in his fifties with a neatly trimmed goatee and hair graying around the temples; and on the right, a rugged older man with a mop of white hair and unruly eyebrows that seemed to be reaching out in every direction.

  The one in the middle spoke. “Is this the residence of Melanie Jane Candor?”

  “It was.”

  “Yes, of course. Forgive
me. I’m terribly sorry for your loss. I assume that you are Brandon Crawford, her boyfriend?”

  “Fiancé,” he corrected.

  “Again, my apologies.” The man’s speech was soft and even. “We’d like to ask you a few questions if that’s all right.”

  Brandon’s face fell. “I’ve already talked to the police. For like six hours total. I’ve told them everything there is to tell. More than once.”

  The wiry man retrieved a badge from his inside coat pocket and held it toward Brandon.

  “We’re not with the police, son. This investigation has a much further-reaching scope than local law enforcement. My name is Frank Xavier. We would really appreciate just a few minutes with you.”

  Brandon opened the door. “Federal agents,” he mumbled to himself. “For crying out loud.”

  He led them to a formal dining room, where a lone plate sat topped with most of a chicken potpie. “You can ask me questions while I eat,” he said flatly, “or you can come back when it’s not dinnertime.”

  “Not a problem at all,” Xavier replied. “May we sit?”

  “Go for it.”

  “I know you’re tired of giving the same answers over and over, and I know you’ve been through this before, but please, if you could . . . just start by telling us about Melanie.”

  Brandon thought for a moment. “Actually, no one’s asked me to do that.”

  “We’re asking you to do that.”

  He set his fork down and tipped his head back toward the ceiling. “She was amazing. She was everything I’m not: smart, capable, creative, talented, caring. She could listen to your problems, you know, and not say a word, just listen. And somehow everything felt better when you got done jawing at her. You weren’t mad anymore or stressed out or . . .” He trailed off.

  “She sounds incredible,” the youngest agent said.

  “She was. And for whatever reason, she loved me. I mean really, really loved me. I told her once that she deserved someone better, and she got so mad at me—for talking myself down like that. She gave me the silent treatment for three hours. That was the only time she was ever that mad at me. Can you believe that? For saying I didn’t deserve her.”

  “How was Melanie’s relationship with her parents?” asked Xavier.

  “Good. Pretty good, anyway. They’d had some rocky times when she was in high school. She ran away for a few months one time, spent some time in a foster home. But lately it was good. If it weren’t for me, it would have been better.” He shoveled a bite of potpie into his mouth and kept talking. “They agreed with me that Mel deserved someone more at her level.”

  “How tense was the situation?”

  “To be honest, they hated me. Her mom especially. But Mel took it all in stride. She told them she couldn’t stay away from me because I was the inspiration for her art.” He laughed a hollow laugh. “I doubt that. I can’t even draw a stick figure.”

  “I understand she was studying art at university?”

  “Yeah, illustration, at the Kensey School of Art and Design. This would have been her last semester. She could do amazing things with a pencil and a piece of paper. Look at this . . .” He disappeared for a moment into the adjoining kitchen and reappeared with a folio, from which he pulled a drawing of a woman half-submerged in a river, with the title The Rise of Aquarius in even block letters along the top.

  “Impressive,” the white-haired man said, his voice as crisp as his appearance was frowsy. “May I have a closer look?”

  Brandon handed him the drawing, which he studied against the light for half a minute, making sounds of approval.

  “Aquarius,” he said, musing to himself. “The subject matter reminds me—we have some reason to believe that Melanie’s murder and that of the boy who was found this morning may have been religiously motivated.”

  “You think the same person killed them both?”

  “Similar markings were found on both victims,” Xavier explained.

  “Spades are religious now?”

  “There may be more to it than that. Was Melanie a religious woman?”

  “Not really. She was born a Catholic, I guess. Baptized as a baby, Catholic school as a kid, but she wasn’t really into that. She wasn’t a fanatic or anything.” His voice cracked. “Love was her religion. She believed in kindness.” He squeezed his eyes shut as hard as he could until the tears passed, unwilling to let them out.

  “We’re very sorry to be dredging all this up for you again, Brandon,” said Xavier. “Just a couple more questions. Do you have any idea why Melanie might have been in the neighborhood where her body was found?”

  “No. None. She was really careful about going out at night. She certainly didn’t hang out in abandoned houses. Someone forced her to go in there. I know they did. Or they just dumped her body there when they were done with her. And if I ever find out who it was . . .” His face darkened. “Well, the way they killed Mel will seem like nothing compared to what I do to them. Love isn’t my religion. Not anymore.”

  The three agents glanced at one another and stood in unison.

  “Again, we are so sorry for your loss, Mr. Crawford,” Xavier said, “and we thank you for your time. You’ve been very helpful. We’ll show ourselves out. Try to enjoy your dinner.”

  The three men filed wordlessly out the door, down the steps, and into a late-model Cadillac sedan, the oldest man behind the wheel, the youngest riding shotgun, and Xavier in the backseat.

  As the car pulled out of the driveway, the young man spoke up. “Stuff I need to get off my chest: first, I know you two are used to your good cop versus bad cop, diplomatic versus semiautomatic routine. You’ve been doing it forever. I get it. But remember who the Superior General tagged this time around.” He shot a look at the old man behind the wheel, who just glared at the stretch of road ahead of him. “Also, let me go on record that I’m skeptical about the connections here. Tying the murders to the church burning and the vandalism seems like a stretch to begin with. But does anyone really think this has something to do with the Crown?”

  The driver answered, his voice now thick with a Spanish accent. “Someone above us believes the two are linked or we wouldn’t be here, Michael. Therefore, we approach this with an open mind.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” The young man pulled off his tie and clawed at the button on his collar. “Man, I hate these things.” He tossed the tie on the dash and took a deep breath, rubbing his neck. “It’s funny, I started wearing a clerical collar in seminary, what, seven years ago? All my friends from back home kept saying, ‘Aren’t they uncomfortable?’ and ‘It looks so tight!’ but they’ll wear these things to work every stinking day. It’s a noose. How is this not a noose?” There was no response. “What are your thoughts, Father Ignatius?”

  “I think you talk an awful lot,” the older priest said.

  “Just making up for letting Father Xavier do all the talking back there.” He glanced back. “Let me add to the record that I don’t like pretending I’m your intern or something. I’ve worked hard to earn this appointment, and now it’s like I’m back in diapers.”

  Xavier answered from the backseat, his voice firm but gentle. “Father Michael, take some advice from a more experienced priest: you need to repent of your pride and think of the order, and the church, and the mission at hand. Being one of the Jesuits Militant means blending in with the expectations of others. Anything that would stand out, seem odd or memorable, we want to avoid.”

  They pulled to a stop at an intersection.

  Michael sighed. “Father Ignatius, you do realize that you can just roll on through yellow lights here in the States, right? That’s allowed.”

  “As Father Xavier said, I am avoiding suspicion by obeying the laws of the land.”

  “No, stopping at a yellow arouses suspicion here. And your left blinker is on.”

  He turned it off.

  Father Michael fought down a smile. “Look, I’ve been meaning to ask you something for a while now.
When you were a young man, fighting the Moors in Spain, did you prefer the musket or the saber as your weapon of choice?”

  Silence.

  “Father Ignatius . . . ?”

  “I get it. I’m old.”

  Michael slapped him on the knee. “Yes! You are. You’re an antique. I, on the other hand, am young and fresh. But that’s cool! We can complement each other.” He gestured back and forth between them. “Old school; new school. Inquisition; intervention. Council of Trent; Vatican II. If you can set aside your grumpiness, I think we could have something snappy here. What do you say?”

  The light changed and Ignatius slowly accelerated. “I say that I never question my orders from the Superior General. And he has decided that I answer to you for the duration of our time here.”

  “That’s good to hear.” Michael made eye contact with Father Xavier in the rearview mirror. “You’re awfully quiet back there.”

  “Leave me out of this.”

  “Fair enough. But really, you guys, let me just say that after all we’ve been through together, it’s an honor to be telling you what to do. I mean that.” He placed a hand firmly on Father Ignatius’s shoulder. “And look, I’m sorry about all that Moors and muskets stuff. That was out of line.”

  “Yes, it was. It was disrespectful and unprofessional.”

  “I totally agree and I apologize. Just tell me one thing, though: did you wear a cape back then? Because I think capes are awesome.”

  Sunday afternoon, in theory, began Parker’s day off. He liked the thought of unwinding after all the stress of the previous week, which had slowly built up to the climax of the morning’s broadcast. But it was just a theory and it rarely happened. Someday he would have a large enough staff to deal with every little detail, he often told himself. For now, he’d have to settle for a little time off here and there.

  The Reverend T. Charles Watkins, however, always took Fridays off. He worked like a dog Saturday through Thursday, but Friday was sacrosanct. How he could rest and unwind that close to Sunday morning was a mystery to Parker, but that was one of the things he loved about Charles. Charles could let go of it all.