by Nolan Edrik
“Well, I’m here,” I said. I was surprised at the snap in my voice. “Barb and I were worried.”
“There’s no need to worry. I’m fine. You can go.”
The statement had the air of a command rather than a grant of permission. I fought my reflexive urge to obey.
“You couldn’t condemn her, could you?” I said.
Caldwell turned and met my eyes.
“You knew you’d have to choose between condemning your sister or admitting an error in doctrine,” I said. “And you couldn’t condemn her. Or change doctrine.”
“Is that what you think this is about?” he said.
“I have a sister, too. An unbeliever. And I wouldn’t have been able to condemn her either.”
He squinted. I couldn’t tell whether his anger was surfacing or the sun had emerged from behind a cloud.
“I hope that doesn’t get me fired,” I said.
Caldwell waved his hand as if batting away the idea.
“You need to come back,” I said.
“And say what? That I was wrong? The whole Church would crumble.” He sighed. “People want certainty, and I can’t give them that anymore.”
“Yes, you can,” I said. This is what I’d thought about for the whole maglev ride. And for long before that, I realized. “Maybe you can’t give them certainty about every fact of our world, but you can give them certainty about our values, how we conduct ourselves, how we treat each other.
“How we behave shouldn’t change just because the Earth is older than the ancient Israelites thought it was or because they didn’t know about dinosaurs. So why should we waste our time fighting science? Maybe science is God revealing himself to us. And since when were we ever supposed to understand him entirely?”
Caldwell smiled and crossed his arms. He knew that line would be well-received, even if it contradicted the aura he’d projected for the last thirty years.
“What are you suggesting?” he said.
“That it’s time for a new revelation. The Bible hasn’t been updated in a couple thousand years. Maybe you’re the guy to do it.”
He stared at me, not reacting, inviting me to continue.
“So there has been world-changing news this week, and you go away for a few days to reflect on it.” I wondered if he’d seen the statement I’d put out in his name. “Then you come back with a new truth revealed to you. One that humanity hadn’t been ready for. Until now.”
“And what would this truth be?”
“I don’t know. You’ll figure out what people need to hear better than I ever could. You’re brilliant at that. The main point is this: This story that we’ve been telling ourselves for the past 3,000 years – the garden, the fall, the flood, the return, the Crucifixion, the tongues of fire – this story is not over. It’s just beginning.”
Caldwell remained silent, his eyes looking beyond me. He was imagining how he’d do it, how he’d claim the authority to change the holiest book. What if his followers found the idea blasphemous and deserted him? But what if he remained silent? Would they all leave to become Buddhists?
But what if worked? The Church would be stronger than ever. He’d be the bulwark against the greatest test the faith of man had ever encountered. The flock would grow, overspreading the rest of Earth. And maybe even a new planet. He could carry the light of Christ into dark void of space.
The ocean lapped in the distance, and a seagull cawed overhead. Already the verses were forming in his mind.
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