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Chapter XXXIII
Alex had managed to stay away from church for three months, but on this particular Sunday, Vivian was insistent. And she was probably right. He had to make an appearance. This was a godly crew that Alex worked with, and Alex had better walk the godly walk.
The gospel reading that day was the story of the prodigal son. Alex’s mind drifted and he wondered what Isabella was doing and if she’d be free later that evening, and how he was going to get her mind off of politics and on to sex.
But Pastor Woodrow’s voice was loud, and broke in on Alex’s reveries. “Not long after that, the younger son got together all he had, set off for a distant country and there squandered his wealth in wild living.” Loser, thought Alex. Like all those stupid, poor folk, squandering money and then coming crawling to their father, or to their Uncle Sam, as it were, sniveling with their hands out for welfare. Alex saw himself as the older son. With seven billion dollars and his Halliburton stock shooting its way through the roof, he needed a full-time accountant just to invest and re-invest his capital. As the preacher talked, Alex mentally counted his assets, and included Isabella and the very nice asset she sat on.
Pastor Woodrow seemed particularly passionate about this story. He all but shouted the sermon, and his words kept interrupting Alex’s daydreaming. “The prodigal is right here among us.” No doubt about it - the preacher was in rare form. “It’s not about squandering money. It’s about sin and disrespecting God, our Father.”
As Pastor Woodrow continued Alex fantasized about re-decorating his office with gilt accessories to accent his picture of Winston Churchill.
“…coming back to God. For us, it’s not a matter of walking miles wearing rags, but a matter of confession and repentance…”
And here the pastor paused. When he continued, his words rang out like explosions - burning with divine fire, as if God Himself were speaking and Pastor Woodrow was merely the vessel. “…a matter of our souls, on a spiritual plane, trekking their way back to God.
“In the early church, the congregation would make public testimony, each member confessing out loud to his brethren any egregious sins that he’d committed.” Silence enveloped the congregation.
I’d like to hear that, thought Alex. Reality TV in church - what a show! Public humiliation! “The Apprentice,” only with God playing Donald Trump!
“I invite anyone who feels that he’s transgressed to come forward, and to ask forgiveness before God and His people. God offers His peace in exchange for your sins.”
Fantastic, thought Alex. This service was getting better and better. All he needed was a tent, and a fountain of holy water. Would some dumb asses really come up and publicly confess to whatever? What a side show! Somebody, do it, he thought. Somebody spill and make my day.
The congregation sat still and expectant, each person searching his soul, and the silence was charged as if it were a living creature.
From the back of the church, a man leaning over his cane began to shuffle forward. The skin on his face hung in deep pouches exposing blood-filled sacs below his eyes. The man walked slowly, and it seemed as if the whole church froze in time as he made his way up to the front.
Suddenly an unreasonable urge grabbed Alex, like his father’s strong arm, propelling him toward the altar. Do it now. Tell it all - the lies, the schemes, the secrets - your secrets, your sins, and all your mayhem. The urge to confess pulled Alex hard. Resisting it all but ripped him in two. He needed to stand, to shout. “We’re murdering thousands of Iraqi innocents, and I am responsible. I – Alex Lidecker, not the Taliban, not Saddam Hussein. I am the terrorist. I planted the anthrax. I made up the nuclear weapons scare and spread the rumors of Saddam’s undiscovered arsenals.”
The words screamed and exploded inside of his head, demanding to be heard, and Alex had to look around. Had he actually said them out loud, or had he just imagined this mad unreasonable impulse? No, the church was quiet, all eyes turned towards the old prodigal wending his long way to the front, and now mounting the steps up to the altar.
“I spent ‘bout fourteen years worshipping alcohol. Lost my job, my wife, my kids.” He whispered the words, but the sound carried through the stillness, and he stared at the floor while he talked, as if unworthy to lift his face. “Always told myself that I wasn’t as bad off as the other guy. Said it wasn’t my fault. Told myself - anyone who’d been through my life, seen what I’d seen, would’ve done the same. And maybe he would have. But that don’t matter none. What matters is what I’ve done. And I’m ashamed. And I feel burdened with the sin of it. See, I know the prodigal ‘cause he’s me, and I’m here to ask God to forgive me and to lift the burden off of my shoulders, because it’s mighty heavy, and I can’t carry it no more.”
Like the fires of Pentecost, God’s spirit shook Holy Final Words Church. You could feel it - driving hard as a blast of sleet, but also gentle like a lover’s kiss, or a baby’s soft skin. Power, but so much more! God’s love, and with it healing and redemption. And as the prodigal walked back to his seat, he stood a little taller, and marched with stronger step. And, his face, oh his face! You couldn’t exactly say what it was that had changed. The features were the same; the lines were still there. But it shone with God’s mercy and there wasn’t a soul in the church that didn’t see Christ in the man’s eyes.
Alex saw it too, and was shaken. The urge to stand grew stronger now - like a flying cannonball - and he was holding it back with just his little finger.
Chapter XXXIII
Alex had managed to stay away from church for three months, but on this particular Sunday, Vivian was insistent. And she was probably right. He had to make an appearance. This was a godly crew that Alex worked with, and Alex had better walk the godly walk.
The gospel reading that day was the story of the prodigal son. Alex’s mind drifted and he wondered what Isabella was doing and if she’d be free later that evening, and how he was going to get her mind off of politics and on to sex.
But Pastor Woodrow’s voice was loud, and broke in on Alex’s reveries. “Not long after that, the younger son got together all he had, set off for a distant country and there squandered his wealth in wild living.” Loser, thought Alex. Like all those stupid, poor folk, squandering money and then coming crawling to their father, or to their Uncle Sam, as it were, sniveling with their hands out for welfare. Alex saw himself as the older son. With seven billion dollars and his Halliburton stock shooting its way through the roof, he needed a full-time accountant just to invest and re-invest his capital. As the preacher talked, Alex mentally counted his assets, and included Isabella and the very nice asset she sat on.
Pastor Woodrow seemed particularly passionate about this story. He all but shouted the sermon, and his words kept interrupting Alex’s daydreaming. “The prodigal is right here among us.” No doubt about it - the preacher was in rare form. “It’s not about squandering money. It’s about sin and disrespecting God, our Father.”
As Pastor Woodrow continued Alex fantasized about re-decorating his office with gilt accessories to accent his picture of Winston Churchill.
“…coming back to God. For us, it’s not a matter of walking miles wearing rags, but a matter of confession and repentance…”
And here the pastor paused. When he continued, his words rang out like explosions - burning with divine fire, as if God Himself were speaking and Pastor Woodrow was merely the vessel. “…a matter of our souls, on a spiritual plane, trekking their way back to God.
“In the early church, the congregation would make public testimony, each member confessing out loud to his brethren any egregious sins that he’d committed.” Silence enveloped the congregation.
I’d like to hear that, thought Alex. Reality TV in church - what a show! Public humiliation! “The Apprentice,” only with God playing Donald Trump!
“I invite anyone who feels that he’s transgressed to come forward, and to ask forgiveness before God and His people. God offers His peace in exchange for your sins.”
Fantastic, thought Alex. This service was getting better and better. All he needed was a tent, and a fountain of holy water. Would some dumb asses really come up and publicly confess to whatever? What a side show! Somebody, do it, he thought. Somebody spill and make my day.
The congregation sat still and expectant, each person searching his soul, and the silence was charged as if it were a living creature.
From the back of the church, a man leaning over his cane began to shuffle forward. The skin on his face hung in deep pouches exposing blood-filled sacs below his eyes. The man walked slowly, and it seemed as if the whole church froze in time as he made his way up to the front.
Suddenly an unreasonable urge grabbed Alex, like his father’s strong arm, propelling him toward the altar. Do it now. Tell it all - the lies, the schemes, the secrets - your secrets, your sins, and all your mayhem. The urge to confess pulled Alex hard. Resisting it all but ripped him in two. He needed to stand, to shout. “We’re murdering thousands of Iraqi innocents, and I am responsible. I – Alex Lidecker, not the Taliban, not Saddam Hussein. I am the terrorist. I planted the anthrax. I made up the nuclear weapons scare and spread the rumors of Saddam’s undiscovered arsenals.”
The words screamed and exploded inside of his head, demanding to be heard, and Alex had to look around. Had he actually said them out loud, or had he just imagined this mad unreasonable impulse? No, the church was quiet, all eyes turned towards the old prodigal wending his long way to the front, and now mounting the steps up to the altar.
“I spent ‘bout fourteen years worshipping alcohol. Lost my job, my wife, my kids.” He whispered the words, but the sound carried through the stillness, and he stared at the floor while he talked, as if unworthy to lift his face. “Always told myself that I wasn’t as bad off as the other guy. Said it wasn’t my fault. Told myself - anyone who’d been through my life, seen what I’d seen, would’ve done the same. And maybe he would have. But that don’t matter none. What matters is what I’ve done. And I’m ashamed. And I feel burdened with the sin of it. See, I know the prodigal ‘cause he’s me, and I’m here to ask God to forgive me and to lift the burden off of my shoulders, because it’s mighty heavy, and I can’t carry it no more.”
Like the fires of Pentecost, God’s spirit shook Holy Final Words Church. You could feel it - driving hard as a blast of sleet, but also gentle like a lover’s kiss, or a baby’s soft skin. Power, but so much more! God’s love, and with it healing and redemption. And as the prodigal walked back to his seat, he stood a little taller, and marched with stronger step. And, his face, oh his face! You couldn’t exactly say what it was that had changed. The features were the same; the lines were still there. But it shone with God’s mercy and there wasn’t a soul in the church that didn’t see Christ in the man’s eyes.
Alex saw it too, and was shaken. The urge to stand grew stronger now - like a flying cannonball - and he was holding it back with just his little finger.
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