A New Kind of Zeal

by Michelle Warren

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Judgment

  Mark Blake stormed into the Beehive.

  “Where’s Connor?” he demanded of the receptionist. “I have to see him now.”

  “Sir!” The security guard called after him. “Sir – you can’t just barge in…”

  Flushing, Mark straightened – and then stretched his arms out, for the metal detector to move up and down his body.

  “Clear,” the guard announced, and then he moved away.

  The receptionist was hurriedly on the phone. Mark clenched his fists, and unclenched them, and forced himself to wait quietly. Finally she was off the phone.

  “He will see you,” she said, “up the stairs.”

  And he strode up the stairs, two at a time.

  Connor was at the top. “How can I help you, Bishop?”

  “I have some information.”

  “Information?” Connor’s eyebrows shot up, now in genuine surprise.

  “Where can we talk that’s private?”

  “Probably no-where on the surface of the planet.”

  “Then come over to St Peter’s – I can’t imagine anyone’s dreamed of putting bugs there.”

  Connor hesitated, looking over Mark’s face – then he nodded.

  “All right,” he said.

  Mark strode into St Peter’s, with Connor in tow. They were alone, amongst the congregational seats.

  “How can I help you?” James asked wryly, sitting down on a chair.

  Mark stared down at him. “You won’t believe where I have just been.”

  “Where?”

  “Wenderholm.”

  “Where?”

  “Thirty minutes north of Auckland. I just arrived back this morning.”

  “And you are pulling me out of a meeting to tell me this, why?”

  “That man Joshua was there.”

  Now James stared at him. Then he laughed.

  “You mean that guy on the news? Sounds like he could singlehandedly replace our social welfare fund: so much the better.”

  “I thought you were afraid of fragmentation.”

  Now a shadow passed over James’ face. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s prancing around like a king up there.”

  Connor frowned – and then he smiled again.

  “No matter,” he said.

  “No matter?” Mark repeated, exasperated.

  “Let him act like a king. A little bit of shaking hands never hurt anyone. Heck, it’s probably good for the morale right now – might stop some of these altercations in the streets.”

  “James…”

  Connor’s eyes were dancing. “Let them hope, Mark! Let them have their warm fuzzies. He will reach his natural boundary, and then the thing will die out as quickly as it started. In the meantime, less violent crime! I’m all for that.”

  Mark frowned at him. “You treat faith as though it is a game,” he said. “You always have.”

  “People will dream,” Connor said, “and then they’ll see the dream is false, and they’ll turn back to reality. This Joshua is our friend, Mark. Why waste time making him our enemy?”

  Mark shook his head at him. “You are a bloody enigma, James!” he said. “All this talk of your fear of political takeover from overseas, and here’s someone in our own backyard acting like a king! What do you do? You just shake it off!”

  Connor was grinning, now, from ear to ear – his enjoyment filled Mark with irritation.

  “Joshua Davidson is a piece of entertainment, Mark,” Connor said, “nothing more! A bit of light relief – a bit of distraction, before we then have to look at the threat of World War Three once more directly in the face.

  “Thank you for the comedy: much appreciated! But now, really, I must get back to work.”

  Mark grumbled, and ushered Connor through the glass doors – he paused for a moment, watching his high school friend hurry down the steps, across the road and back into the Parliament grounds. Then he turned back into the sanctuary.

  The church now was totally empty. Mark was grateful that it was – now, at last, he had space.

  Fury filled him. Why so strong? Fury. He strode up the aisle, hesitated for a moment on the steps at the pulpit, and then thrust himself toward the inner sanctuary, standing before the altar and the tiled Christ hanging on the cross.

  “How dare he?” he cried out to God. “How dare he?”

  The image was before him: Joshua, over his daughter – Selena screaming. As if that wasn’t bad enough, what about the words he had said? Those outrageous words!

  “Darkness can never coexist with light.”

  Those words had penetrated Mark as a knife. Darkness? Darkness? Was he saying that Selena was dark?

  “Only goodness will survive.”

  It was Judgment. Judgment! Joshua Davidson was passing judgment on his daughter! How dare he?

  “He pretends he is a king!” Mark declared, shaking his fist in the direction of Christ. “He pretends to know the state of our hearts! He doesn’t know! Only God knows!”

  And Mark stared at the altar – the table of communion.

  “Only God can judge, not any man! Only God!”

  And yet, with his outpouring, Mark felt no relief: instead, he suddenly felt exposed. He trembled, and found himself leaning heavily against the railing: the place where people knelt, and placed their hands out, to receive communion.

  “Bishop?” It was Choo’s voice.

  Mark stared up at Jesus’s face, on the cross. “Yes…?” he answered faintly.

  “Do you need help?”

  Help? He? He was the bishop! Who could help him? A sudden surge of wilful determination coursed through him – he straightened his shoulders, and turned.

  The Dean’s face looked thoughtful – her eyes gentle.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Wrong?” Mark replied. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

  “Only God can judge?”

  “Instead of that man! That’s what I meant. That man, up north.”

  “Joshua Davidson.”

  Mark frowned at her – and then looked behind her. Other ministers had gathered: why? Oh, yes – yet another Church Council meeting. He had forgotten. The Baptist pastor, Murray Simon, was there, in his usual casual shirt. The Catholic Andrew Stead, young and naïve. The others, as usual.

  “We may as well deal with this right now,” Mark said, gesturing them into the choir stalls. “What do we do about Joshua Davidson?”

  “Bishop,” Choo murmured quietly. “This is a place of forgiveness, not judgment.”

  “You’re wrong,” Mark quickly replied. “Communion is all about judgment. Our sin is judged first. Only through judgment can we be forgiven.”

  He had silenced her, though her eyes were not silenced. The other ministers awkwardly took seats in the choir stalls. Choo shifted in discomfort, but complied with his gesture – she also sat down.

  “This Joshua Davidson,” Mark began. “Have you seen him on the news?”

  Murray’s eyes were on him – his warm older face still smiling.

  “I have seen him. He’s helping the poor.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “He’s prancing about making judgments, as though he’s God.”

  Now Murray’s smile faded slightly. “What do you mean?”

  “Making judgments!” Mark snapped. “I saw him myself! I went up, to see! He…” And now, suddenly, he didn’t want to continue. Selena! No – he was not about to divulge about her.

  “What judgment?” Murray asked.

  “Never mind what,” Mark said. “The point is, he’s saying things he shouldn’t be saying.”

  “I suppose we all do that?” Young Father Andrew said.

  “Yes, yes,” Mark muttered. Darned purist! “We all do things we regret. But some of us do worse things than others. He is doing worse things! Anyway, forget I said anything. What other business do we have today? We should move onto that.”

  �
��Perhaps we should move into the meeting room?” Choo suggested.

  “Yes, yes, all right: let’s move into the meeting room.”

  And he complied with her, and followed her out of the cathedral, into the corridor alongside and into a meeting room.

  The meeting proceeded. Mark chaired it, as always. They talked about this and that – the talk bored him. And then, when it was over, Murray was there, again, in front of him.

  “What do you have against this Joshua character?” he asked.

  “What we all should have against him,” Mark quickly replied.

  “What did he do to you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Why were you there?”

  Mark shifted awkwardly. “To find my son.”

  “Your son?” Murray looked astonished. “You’ve met with him?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was he doing there?”

  Now Mark had to avoid his eyes. “I really have no idea,” he muttered.

  Murray shifted, and now he was sitting on the table, looking down at him, almost like a grandfather enquiring after his grandson.

  “Is Tristan following Joshua?”

  Mark swallowed. And then he looked directly at Murray.

  “What if he was?” he asked him. “Would that change your mind, Murray? What if you saw what I saw: thousands of people gathering around Joshua, hanging off every word that he said – international media lapping it up, as though he was Jesus Christ himself. Would that actually start to bother you?”

  Murray frowned. He glanced away for a few moments – muttered some words under his breath, as if in prayer. And then his gaze returned.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I think that would depend.”

  “On what?”

  “On who he actually is.”

  Mark stared at him, bewildered. And then he laughed.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “How’s that?”

  “The man is a fraud, pure and simple. A deceiver. A liar.”

  “Then you have nothing to fear.”

  Murray’s eyes were steady on him, challenging him – and Mark steadily held them in return. Fear? What did fear have to do with anything? Nothing! Nothing at all.

  “I am not afraid of the man,” Mark said. “I fear the deception.”

  “I don’t think so,” Murray replied. “I think you fear the truth.”

  Mark stiffened at the words. The truth? No! The truth was his friend, not his enemy: the truth was his foundation.

  “Darkness can never coexist with light.”

  Joshua was the darkness, not Selena! Joshua was the enemy.

  Only goodness would survive.