by James Dobson
“Crawford. Phil Crawford.”
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” said Troy warmly. “You see, there’s been an increasingly overt effort to pressure our older citizens to kill themselves.”
The man winced. “Volunteer,” he said as if correcting a mischaracterization.
“Right,” Troy said, missing or ignoring the intimation. “Something those of us in this room know to be wrong.”
“Not so fast,” said another man. “We can’t assume every member of Christ Community Church views transitions as immoral in all circumstances.”
“I didn’t say every member of Christ Community, I said those of us in this room.” A brief silence while Troy scanned the faces around the table. Julia sensed her husband gauging reactions the way he did when sitting in on one of Kevin’s presentations.
“Hang on just a second,” Phil Crawford said, his neck turning red. Not because he was embarrassed, Julia realized, but because he was angry.
“Now, Phil,” the pastor interjected in an apparent effort to quell an eruption, “why don’t you let Mr. Simmons finish his explanation of the strategy before we discuss any concerns?”
The man ignored his pastor’s comment. “Not everyone in this room agrees with your assumption, Mr. Simmons.”
Julia noticed a glimmer in her husband’s eye. He had smoked out the pastor’s chief nemesis.
“I see,” said Troy. “Please explain.”
“There are a good number of people attending this church with loved ones who have volunteered. How do you think it would make them feel if their pastor was to sign a letter like this? Worse, if they found out their pastor wrote it?”
Troy took a moment to consider the question. “Well, I would hope they’d be proud of him for having the moral fortitude to—”
“Condemned,” Phil interrupted. “They would feel judged and condemned, Mr. Simmons.”
“Perhaps,” Troy said calmly. “But I imagine they would also feel relieved.”
The comment appeared to surprise the pastor. “Why relieved?” he asked.
“Well, if what you’ve taught us about the moral law is true, then every human being has an intuitive knowledge of right and wrong,” said Troy. “So that must mean a whole lot of our people carry an unspoken guilt over a parent’s transition they either encouraged or affirmed through silence. Wouldn’t it be a relief to hear you diagnose their symptoms? To realize that the lingering remorse they feel is more than normal grieving? It’s the shrapnel of a lie believed and acted upon.”
“What lie?” asked the second skeptic.
“The lie that suicide is some kind of noble act. The lie that it’s better to send spoiled kids to an elite university than to honor one’s father and mother. And the lie that we can choose our own expiration date rather than accept every moment of life as a precious gift from God.”
All eyes turned from Troy to Phil, seated at the opposite end of the table. Guns had been drawn. A showdown was about to begin.
“Hold it right there,” Phil said with a halting gesture. “There’s no need to get on a soapbox. I’m sure we all agree that life is a gift.”
Do they? Julia wondered.
“And none of us like the transition industry per se. But this isn’t about what’s moral and what’s immoral. It’s about roles.”
Troy appeared confused. “I don’t follow. What do you mean by roles?”
“It’s not our place as a board to tell Pastor Alex how to vote. He’s perfectly free to support whatever candidate or public referendum he likes, just like the rest of us. But when he decides to speak or write as the pastor of Christ Community Church, we do have a say in that.”
“Which is why I asked Mr. and Mrs. Simmons to join us this evening,” said Alex. “I wanted to consult the board before taking any further steps.”
Phil half nodded at the pastor’s comment. “And it’s a good thing you did,” he said threateningly.
“So you mean it isn’t Pastor Alex’s role to speak or write on behalf of the church?” asked Troy.
“When it comes to something this divisive, absolutely not.”
“Divisive? You consider affirming Christian beliefs on family and human dignity divisive?”
The second skeptic drew his weapon. “Like I started to say earlier, not everyone at Christ Community believes transitions are always wrong.”
“But they are always wrong,” Julia heard herself say. She looked at her husband before continuing. “I know what it is to blindly support the popular lies of our generation. I was one of the public voices cheering the Youth Initiative when President Lowman introduced the idea. I would use derisive terms like debits without a second thought. I even parroted all of the common arguments about wasting public funds keeping half-comatose seniors on a life-support machine. Two years ago the letter Pastor Alex wrote would have insulted me. But I would have been wrong.”
“What changed your mind?” asked a woman two seats to Julia’s left.
“To be honest, I’m not sure,” she said while reaching for her husband’s hand. “But I suppose part of it had to do with confronting the reality of what’s going on. I met a young man named Jeremy Santos who let me read a journal written by his teenage brother, Antonio, a person I used to call a debit because he cost society more than he could possibly produce. But Antonio wasn’t a half-comatose vegetable with a feeding tube. He was a bright, articulate kid who loved robotics and art and food. He also loved his mother and his brother.” She paused. “And they loved him.”
Julia’s voice cracked as a swell of emotion overtook her composure. The moment surprised her. It had been nearly two years since she had read Antonio’s journals. Why did they still prompt such raw emotion?
“I’m sorry,” she continued after receiving a tissue from one of the other ladies. “But I’m one of the people who helped throw that young man onto the bonfire of human dignity. I helped make him hate his own life. I wrote well-crafted columns shoveling mindless rhetoric that made him feel guilty every time he took another breath.”
The room fell momentarily silent as the group absorbed Julia’s regret.
Phil cleared his throat awkwardly. “Well, I’m sure we all appreciate Mrs. Simmons’s feelings,” he began, “but we’re not discussing whether transitions are good or bad. We’re discussing whether it’s a minister’s role to get involved in politics. Our minister’s role, to be specific.” He looked at Alex. “With all of the problems already on your plate, why would you want to take on yet another distraction?”
“Because I don’t consider it a distraction,” the pastor replied. “I consider it an obligation.”
“To whom?” Phil asked, pointing at Troy. “Him? No offense to Mr. Simmons, I’m sure he’s a great guy, but why would you put the church at risk just because a random member asked you to do some politician a favor?”
“Because some of us think it would be a good idea,” a hesitant voice answered. Julia looked for the source: a young man seated to Troy’s right. “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Simmons.” He nodded in the couple’s direction. “My name is Brandon Baxter. I’m the newest member of the board, so I’m not sure how much my opinion matters”—he looked back toward the other attendees—“but I like the idea.”
Phil glared in the young man’s direction like a third-grade bully suddenly challenged by a first-grade twerp. “You can’t be serious,” he snapped. “I can name at least a dozen members of this congregation who’ve listed Christ Community as a primary beneficiary to their transition inheritance. If Alex sends that…that…declaration, some of them might find out. I mean, this thing could get picked up by the news, for Pete’s sake. What if that happened?”
“Actually,” said Troy, “that’s exactly what we hope will happen. The government is getting ready to launch a huge marketing effort to encourage more transitions. We can’t compete with that. But we can create enough of a stir to get the attention of the press. Who knows, with a little help from some old friends”—he winked in Julia
’s direction—“we might get a few million fellow religious types to join the cause.”
Phil’s eyes turned to saucers. “You plan to release the document to the press?”
“If there’s one thing I learned during my time in Washington,” answered Troy, “it’s that politicians only respond to one thing: public pressure.”
The second skeptic spoke up. “I’m with Phil,” he said. “I mean, it’s bad enough you want our pastor to send a letter to politicians, but going to the press is crossing the line.”
“What line?” asked Troy. “Can you be specific? Exactly what line does it cross?”
“The separation of church and state, for one.”
“Oh, really.”
“Yes, really!” snapped Phil.
“So you think a letter from a group of religious leaders affirming the value of parenthood and the dignity of the elderly will establish a state religion?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I didn’t say that.”
“You said this letter crosses the line separating church and state. Read the Constitution. That refers to Congress establishing a state religion, not religion holding the state accountable.”
“I just mean that the letter feels wrong. The Church shouldn’t meddle in state affairs.”
“So the abolitionists were out of line?”
Silence.
“And the civil rights leaders? They should have kept their big mouths shut. Is that right?”
“I never said—”
“Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was, I believe, the pastor of a church,” Troy continued. “Or am I mistaken?”
Phil appeared flustered by the line of questioning. “I don’t mean it would be illegal for Alex to send the letter. Just unwise.”
“Because it upholds Christian ideals?”
“Yes…er…no.”
“Perhaps because it might make people angry?”
“In a way, yeah,” said Phil. “I mean, why create unnecessary obstacles to reaching people?”
“We didn’t create the obstacle. The Youth Initiative did. We’re just responding by clarifying a Christian belief that killing the weak and elderly is wrong.”
“Not our job!” said the second skeptic. “Our job is to shine a light, not scream at the darkness.”
The verbal joust continued for several more minutes until Alex interrupted by leaning forward in his chair and raising a single hand that halted the debate.
“Phil,” he said while looking into the skeptic’s eyes. Then he turned toward the rest. “Everyone. Let me try to help us reach consensus, or at least clarify differences.”
Phil leaned back and folded his arms across his chest while rolling his eyes in condescending deference to the pastor’s request.
Alex began. “Imagine you see a little girl skipping across the sidewalk on the other side of the street. She’s six years old and on the way home from a friend’s birthday party wearing an adorable frilly dress and a matching ribbon in her hair that her mommy bought for the occasion. You notice that the girl is clutching a party-favor bag in her hand. She can’t wait to get home to tell her mommy and daddy that she won a prize during the game of pin the tail on the donkey.”
Julia joined most of the others in smiling at the thought. She loved the way Pastor Alex told stories.
“Then you notice a large man hiding behind a bush watching the little girl approach. You stare intently at his face. You’ve met the man before. He has visited our church. You give him the benefit of the doubt, but you keep watching until the girl reaches his location. That’s when you see the man slip out from his hiding place to grab her. He covers the frightened girl’s mouth to prevent screaming and drags her into the woods while her legs flail wildly in silent protest.”
The room fell quiet.
“Let me ask you this. In that moment, what is your responsibility as a Christian?”
“Protect the girl,” said a woman seated beside Brandon, a look of anxious dread in her eyes.
Alex turned in her direction. Then he scanned the others. “Does everyone agree with Lydia?”
Unanimous nods.
“The man is bigger than you. And the girl isn’t your daughter,” continued Alex. “Does that alter anyone’s opinion?”
No takers.
“What if I told you that the man is hurting and lonely, and that he visited our church in search of something that might bring meaning to his life? If you confront him you might drive him away. Wouldn’t it be better to ignore the situation so that you can preserve the opportunity to win that man to Christ?”
A few sniggers punctuated the nonsense.
He answered himself with a wink. “Of course not. In that situation the proper response for a Christian is to do whatever he can to protect the innocent little girl, including risking his own life if necessary.”
Phil uncrossed his arms with an impatient huff. “What’s your point, Alex?”
“My point, Phil, is that circumstances often dictate the proper Christian response. If you saw that same man sitting alone in a fast-food restaurant your responsibility might be to strike up a friendly conversation, perhaps share your faith over a meal. But when he tries to abuse a little girl, your desire to win him is trumped by your duty to fight him.”
He paused, letting the comment settle.
“I’ve come to view the Youth Initiative as a very big man abusing God’s beloved children. All I’m asking you to do is let me confront the abuser.”
Phil pounded his fist on the table like a judge’s gavel. “No,” he barked decisively.
Every head turned in his direction.
“I beg your pardon?” said Alex.
“I won’t allow it.”
Brandon spoke next. “Excuse me, Phil, but I don’t believe that’s your decision to make.” He leaned forward in a show of bold assertion. “I move that we approve the pastor’s request for permission to send the letter.”
“I second the motion,” announced Lydia, flashing two fingers.
“All in favor?” Brandon asked.
Four hands shot up immediately.
“Just a minute,” interjected Phil. “If we’re going to do this we need to follow the official rules. It’s the chairman’s job to call for a vote.”
“Then I suggest you do it,” said Brandon impatiently.
The bully looked at the raised hands around the room. It was too late. The question had already been decided.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Kevin accepted Angie’s congratulatory kiss.
“This is wonderful, sweetheart,” she said while handing back the tablet. “Clear, positive, and respectful.”
He leaned in for a second peck. Angie didn’t notice, distracted by the demanding whimper of little Ricky, who had been holding his mouth open for a next spoonful of applesauce.
“Troy was right about his pastor,” Kevin added. “Definitely the right man for the job.”
“So what’s next?”
“Well, now that they have approval from the church board, Troy and Pastor Ware plan to recruit additional clergy. We hope to get about a hundred signatures before sending the letter to every member of Congress and distributing it at the convention. Julia plans to call in a few favors to convince RAP Syndicate to cover the story.”
The phone rang.
“I’ll get it!” they heard Tommy shout over the thud of feet galloping down the stairs.
“Anyway,” Kevin continued, “I think this could work.”
“I hope so,” said Angie while wiping a mushy glob from the side of Ricky’s grin.
“But that’s not the best of it,” he said.
“What else?”
“Daddy!” shouted Tommy from the living room. “It’s Grandpa Tolbert.”
Kevin kissed Angie on the head on his way out of the kitchen. “Hold that thought.”
Moments later Kevin overheard Tommy’s side of a conversation.
“Little Ricky’s doing great,” he said before pausing fo
r Grandpa’s next question.
“She’s still not talking,” Tommy answered. “But I’m doing what you said every single day.”
Kevin smiled at the reminder of the “therapy” his dad had assigned. Tommy was to give Baby Leah a daily dose of the same medicine Grandpa administered for Grandma’s back pain. “One kiss and a hug twice a day will help a whole lot,” he had instructed his seven-year-old grandson.
In truth, no amount of kisses and hugs could cure a genetic disorder. Kevin had learned to accept a very different set of hopes for Leah from the ones he held for his other three children. Reluctantly at first. He, like Angie, had only gradually settled into the realization that their second daughter might never live on her own. Leah would likely always require the loving attention of her mommy, daddy, and, someday, siblings. Grandpa’s prescription was not intended to cure Leah. It was intended to groom Tommy for the highest calling any person can receive.
“Hey, Dad,” Kevin said after accepting the phone from Tommy.
“Hi, Son.”
“How’s Mom doing?”
“Oh, you know how it is. Her back has been acting up again.”
“So the kisses and hugs aren’t helping?”
His dad chuckled. “Not as much as I’d like.”
Kevin hesitated, then said, “Let me make a few calls, Dad. I might be able to—”
“No,” interrupted his father. “Your mother insists. No special intervention. What you’re doing is too important to risk a scandal.”
“It shouldn’t be a scandal to ask that my mother receive the medical attention she needs.”
“No, it shouldn’t. But we don’t manage what ought to be. We manage what is.”
Kevin groaned at the truth of it.
“How you holding up?” Kevin asked. His father hadn’t looked so good during their recent trip to Denver. He had seemed a bit tired, and frail. “Have you seen a doctor like I asked you to?”
“I did. Actually, that’s why I called.”
A brief silence.
“Dad? Are you still there?”