Godless

by James Dobson

  Clearing coffee mugs replaced by grading thesis papers.

  Struggling to pay the rent replaced by proposals to obtain a grant.

  Calming Mom’s forgetful nerves replaced by receiving a department chairmanship.

  The second envelope represented Matthew’s angst. It held a note blaming Thomas Vincent for a descent into darkness the man’s lectures, writings, and chats had propelled. Despite years of mental gymnastics, Matthew felt the gravitational weight of a reality his mutinous spirit had been trying to flee. A truth expressed in creeds he had recited as a boy yet rejected as a man.

  There is a God. So all things are not permissible.

  He held one envelope in each hand like a scale tilting between options. His former professor might have embodied Matthew’s aspirations. But Father Tomberlin had been right. Just like Reverend Grandpa and, more recently, Pastor Ware.

  They believed that every human being carried dignity as one made in the image of God. People are not debits.

  They believed that God himself had taken on human flesh. The body is not bad.

  They believed Christ had come to redeem what had been lost and restore what had been damaged. That he had come to conquer death, not embrace it.

  Dueling envelopes awaited the decision. What do you believe?

  He couldn’t answer. He only knew what he had done.

  Matthew placed the letter of blame on Dr. Vincent’s desk while tossing the other in a nearby trash basket.

  He slipped out of the classroom unseen before exiting the mostly vacant building. He took the long path to his car in order to take one last glimpse at his old place of employment, Campus Grinds. He peered discreetly through the window to see his former shift manager, Sarah, chatting with the only customer. She looked even lovelier than he remembered, her soft features defying rumors of a dreadful world. Then she turned. Matthew caught his breath. Pregnant? He smiled at the thought of Sarah becoming a mom. She’d be terrific, a nurturing presence throughout life for some lucky boy or girl. The kind his own mother had been before she left. Before he had insisted she go.

  Five minutes later Matthew sat in the quiet solitude of his car trying to summon courage for what he was about to do.

  No more hiding, he told himself.

  No more guilt or shame or fear.

  And, he could only hope, no more nightmares.

  He looked at the passenger seat. It held the at-home transition kit originally intended for Congressman Tolbert’s father. He paused while reaching for the object, the angry face of the elderly man invading his memory.

  “Leave her alone!” he had shouted while swinging an old boot in Matthew’s direction. That’s when he had realized the Tolberts weren’t doddering old debits eager to end their misery by supporting their son’s cause. They had been targets, human beings he would have murdered had it not been for the old man’s chivalrous courage.

  Matthew thought of his first client, Brianna Jackson. She, too, had resisted his aid. She, too, had had a look of angry fear in her eyes.

  “What have I done?” he whispered.

  He lifted the lid. A small envelope printed with an elegant font greeted his eyes. “A Message from NEXT Transition Services.” He broke the seal to read the note inside.

  On behalf of NEXT Inc. we wish to express our deepest thanks to you for joining millions of other heroic Youth Initiative volunteers. As you are aware, your sacrifice will ease the financial burden on those you love and free desperately needed resources for the common good of a grateful nation. Please know that we admire your courage and feel honored to serve your needs as you carry out a simple, painless procedure.

  Matthew froze. A surge of fear invaded the moment as the echo of laughter, the same sadistic, ravenous cackle that had haunted his dreams, overtook the silence. He dropped the page like a hot coal. But the laughter reverberated louder still, as if approaching from a shadowy darkness below.

  He tried to open the car door. The handle was stuck.

  He looked desperately out the windows, forward, right, and left. Then he peered through the rearview mirror. What had he expected to see, perhaps a crazed specter eager to pounce?

  The laughter increased until it felt like a scream penetrating every fiber of Matthew’s quivering form.

  He tried whispering a prayer. But the impulse made him angry. Had he already descended too far? “When we reject the good that God is,” Pastor Alex had warned, “all that remains is the evil he isn’t.”

  Matthew looked at the box. It contained the same supplies he had used on three prior occasions. It seemed to be offering itself as an escape. From what? Insanity? Worse?

  The noise rose louder still.

  “Please, God!” Matthew shouted, pressing both fists over tightly clenched eyes. “Make it go away. Make it go away!”

  Nothing happened. Matthew reached for the kit still resting on the seat beside him. A needle and vial of PotassiPass awaited its next willing volunteer.

  Its next desperate soul.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Alex searched his wife’s eyes for any hint of doubt. Tamara had said three times that she supported his decision. But the moment of truth had arrived. In a few minutes he would exchange a steady paycheck for a clear conscience. Resignation, he agreed, was the best course of action. And, despite uncertainty over how he would provide for the family, an inexplicable sense of confidence had taken up residence where nagging timidity had lived for the past year.

  He felt the change during Sunday’s sermon. Alex delivered the kind of message he should have preached long before. Rather than indirect, vague references to respecting elders he told the congregation what they needed to hear.

  Volunteering for the Youth Initiative is not heroic. It is suicide.

  Coaxing parents to volunteer is not a prudent financial move. It’s a violation of the fifth, sixth, and tenth commandments.

  Remaining silent in the face of evil is not pastoral sensitivity. It’s implicit consent.

  Alex even told the congregation about the letter. “I don’t want any of you to be surprised,” he had said, “when you read in the news this week that I wrote an open letter to our elected officials challenging them to uphold human dignity rather than expand the transition industry.”

  The look on Phil Crawford’s face during that message should have struck fear into Alex’s heart. But it hadn’t. Alex had already decided his next move. The church deserved to know the real reason he was leaving. It might, he hoped, prompt some to reconsider their own choices. Perhaps even their own worth.

  “Are you ready?” asked Tamara, tightening her grasp.

  He squeezed her soft hand. “I am. You?”

  She nodded bravely.

  “Then here we go.”

  They walked through the same office complex Alex had entered nearly every day since becoming pastor of Christ Community Church. He glanced at Mrs. Mayhew’s empty desk.

  “Well,” he said with a chuckle, “I guess this is one way of getting rid of an incompetent assistant.”

  Tamara gently slapped his shoulder in rebuke.

  “Truth is,” he added, “I’m going to miss her. She can’t keep a confidence, but she does care about people.”

  As they approached the conference room they noticed the lack of mingling camaraderie. It had been trumped by an awkward hush of tension. Phil Crawford, the lawyer, and five members of the board sat along with a gentleman Alex didn’t recognize.

  “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure,” he said while extending a hand toward the stranger.

  The man ignored the offer.

  “This is Freddy Baxter,” said Phil tepidly. “He asked to join us for part of the meeting this evening in order to clear up the…um…misunderstanding that triggered a lawsuit against Christ Community Church.”

  “Not a misunderstanding,” the man objected. “Your church caused a real mess for me and my—”

  “Please, Mr. Baxter,” interrupted the lawyer, “let’
s not jump to conclusions. We invited you here as a good-faith gesture to discuss what happened. I promise, we’ll get to the bottom of this situation and, hopefully, avoid a prolonged ordeal in the courts.”

  Alex looked toward Tamara. She looked every bit as confused as he was. Both took seats at the conference table. “I was sorry to learn of your mother’s diagnosis,” he said to the man. “She’s a delightful person.”

  The man huffed. “My mother is sick and, thanks to you, will probably suffer more than she needs to.”

  Alex looked toward the lawyer, who remained silent. Alex understood. Let the pastor, a man who has been asked to resign, take the fall.

  “May I ask why you blame me for her illness?”

  “Not for her illness. For her decision.”

  “Her decision to live?” asked Alex, prompting an agitated wriggle from Phil Crawford.

  “Her decision not to volunteer.”

  “I see,” said Alex. “So you think I’m to blame for your mother’s view on suicide.”

  Freddy Baxter appeared to resent the statement. “There, you see,” he said accusingly, his eyes shifting back to the lawyer. “He equates transitions with suicide.”

  “Now, Pastor,” interjected the lawyer, “it would be best if we avoided moral judgments while discussing such a difficult, personal decision.”

  “Actually,” said Alex, “difficult, personal decisions are exactly the time to discuss moral judgments.”

  A sudden sound summoned all eyes to look toward the door. Brandon Baxter was entering the room. “Sorry I’m late, everyone,” he said. “I just learned of this meeting about an hour ago.”

  Phil Crawford flashed a false, puzzled expression. “Really?” he said with a lilt. “Sorry about that, Brandon. Must have been some sort of mix-up that—” Phil stopped short when he noticed an elderly woman following Brandon into the room.

  “Hello, Freddy,” she said in her son’s direction. The man appeared alarmed, then ashamed.

  Ellie Baxter winked in Alex’s direction with the same spark for life she had displayed when they first met in the restaurant. The day she relayed the story of her husband, Freddy’s late father.

  Alex rose to his feet. “Hello, Mrs. Baxter. Please, sit here.”

  She accepted the offer gratefully. Alex moved two spaces, allowing room for the woman and her nephew.

  Freddy Baxter made a single nod toward his estranged cousin. “Brandon,” he said coldly.

  “Freddy,” came Brandon’s chilly response.

  Alex sensed a showdown was about to begin.

  Phil Crawford spoke next. “Um, I’m afraid this is a closed-door board meeting.”

  “And I’m a member of the board,” Brandon replied before Phil could continue, “who invited a long-term member of Christ Community to shed some light on a matter of pressing concern to the financial stability of this church.”

  Phil, for once, held his tongue.

  “Please, Aunt Ellie, tell the board what you told me earlier today.”

  She fixed her gaze on her son’s wilting eyes. “First, I’d like to correct a mistaken impression that I’m told prompted this evening’s meeting.”

  “Mother,” Freddy threatened.

  Mrs. Baxter raised a single hand of maternal rebuke to silence her son.

  “To begin, contrary to what my son may have assumed, he does not stand to receive any portion of my estate when I die.”

  Freddy’s eyes betrayed panic at the revelation.

  She looked toward the lawyer. “Both my doctor and attorney were present when I made the decision. They will confirm that I was very much of sound mind and body at the time.”

  All color drained from Freddy Baxter’s face.

  “You should also know that my decision to reject the transition option had nothing to do with the activities of, sermons from, or conversations with this pastor. Although, I must say, I greatly appreciated what he had to say during Sunday’s message.”

  She offered an affirming nod in Alex’s direction before continuing.

  “So any claim to damages my son has made can be ignored. Neither Christ Community Church nor Pastor Ware can be blamed for whatever financial problems Freddy and his wife may be experiencing.”

  The man’s head fell into his hands.

  The board seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief at the disappearance of a threatening cloud.

  “You should also know,” Mrs. Baxter continued, “that I had my lawyer draft language for a revised will. In short, I intend to leave a sizable portion of my estate to Christ Community Church.”

  Phil Crawford slid his chair away from Freddy Baxter and toward the potential donation.

  Brandon Baxter spoke next. “Aunt Ellie intends to give an initial contribution that is more than enough to pay off the remaining balance on the mortgage. With additional donations occurring on an annual basis until her passing, which, Lord willing, won’t occur for many years.”

  The woman placed her hand sweetly on her nephew’s arm. “Now, Brandon dear, we don’t know that.” She turned toward Alex. “I only know what someone recently told me.”

  “What’s that, ma’am?” asked Phil, as if suddenly enthralled.

  “That God isn’t finished with me yet,” she said with an endearing grin.

  “Well,” said the chairman, “on behalf of the board I would like to extend my sincere thanks for your generosity. We believe the best days of Christ Community Church are ahead of us and—”

  “There is one more thing,” interrupted Brandon. He appeared to enjoy cutting Phil short. “My aunt has included a stipulation on the gifts.”

  The lawyer tapped a tablet and positioned himself to take official notes.

  Brandon continued, “Alex must agree to continue serving as lead pastor.”

  The chairman’s eyes shot in the pastor’s direction. Alex shrugged to indicate he’d had no prior knowledge of the suggestion. “I would be honored,” he said, “but I serve at the pleasure of the board and they’ve already asked me to resign.”

  “Then I move that the board annul the earlier severance package offer,” said Brandon, “and instead offer Pastor Ware a ten percent raise if he agrees to continue on as pastor of Christ Community Church.”

  “I second the motion,” said Roberto Wilson and Lydia Donovitz in unison.

  “Now wait just a minute,” Phil objected. “The chairman is supposed to call for a vote.”

  “The chairman wants to know who supports the motion,” said Brandon.

  Before Phil could react, Brandon received near-unanimous approval.

  Alex looked toward his wife. She appeared to be forcing back tears of relief. Then he looked back toward Brandon, who was wearing a satisfied grin.

  “Pastor and Mrs. Ware,” Brandon said, “I think I speak for the entire board when I say we owe you an apology.”

  “For what?” Phil Crawford interjected.

  “For ignoring his objections to the transition industry, among other things that have tied his hands.”

  “I appreciate that, Brandon,” said Alex. “But I’m the one who owes you an apology. I should have taken a stand much sooner than I did. I was as much a frog in the kettle as anyone else. I figured evil was part of the world in which we live and that our job is just to do what we can to comfort the suffering.”

  “That is our job!” said Phil.

  “It is, in part. But we must also do what we can to prevent the suffering.” He paused, then released a determined sigh. “And so I need to make my own stipulation. I will stay on as lead pastor if the board agrees unanimously to sign a statement of belief.”

  “Already done,” said Phil proudly. “I instituted that policy about five years back.”

  “Not the statement of doctrinal belief,” Alex explained. “A statement affirming the dignity and worth of every human life, from conception to natural death. And”—he hesitated—“clarifying that it will be the official position of Christ Community Church to oppose th
e transition industry.”

  * * *

  Before the meeting was adjourned, three monumental shifts had occurred.

  First, Phil Crawford threatened to resign before storming out of the room. Mary Sanchez immediately recommended accepting the offer and nominated Brandon Baxter to replace Phil as chairman. The group approved by a vote of five to one. Alex finally had an ally in the chairman’s seat. He also had an official invitation to craft a statement everyone would sign at the next meeting.

  Second, Ellie Baxter wrote a check that would retire the church mortgage. With no monthly payment to cover, Alex could finally hire additional staff. Possibly even someone to “assist” Mrs. Mayhew.

  And finally, Freddy Baxter slumped into the chair beside his mother like a boy who had, at last, seen the error of his ways. While closing the door behind him to offer the two a private moment, Alex watched them embrace: merciful mother forgiving a penitent child.

  Alex now sat beside Tamara in the car, reflecting on all that had transpired. They prayed together, thanking God for invading dark moments with bright surprises.

  That’s when he heard the phone.

  “Hmm,” he said after glancing at the screen.

  “Who is it?” asked Tamara.

  “Just a second,” he said while accepting the call.

  “Pastor Ware?” A voice he didn’t recognize. “My name is Tyler Cain, Denver Police. I hope you don’t mind me calling so late.”

  “Not a problem, Officer,” he said. It wasn’t the first time the police had phoned after hours, usually to alert him to some tragedy that had befallen a parishioner.

  “I have someone in custody who asked me to track down your number and give you a call.”

  “A member of Christ Community?” asked Alex.

  “Couldn’t say. He told me you would know him as Frank. He turned himself in about an hour ago. Seems pretty down. Can I give him the phone?”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Alex replied.

  A short silence on the other end of the line.