As the man walked across the parking lot, Hassan started his car and drove past the line of parked cars that had separated them. When the man looked up, Hassan slowed and allowed him to walk right in front of the car. He was midforties and getting a little soft around the middle. Blond hair, soft blue eyes, pudgy nose, and smooth skin. The man gave a quick wave of thanks to Hassan for allowing him to cross.
Earlier, when the group was eating dinner, Hassan had found the man’s name in the church directory Hassan had grabbed earlier that evening. Martin Burns. He had two older children with him in the directory picture-a daughter who appeared to be in high school and a son who looked to be in middle school. There was no mother in the picture. Most likely Burns was separated from her. And now Burns was putting the moves on another man’s wife. Men like Martin Burns didn’t deserve to live another day. Hassan would be doing everyone a favor.
Sacrifice. Martin Burns had undoubtedly nodded along when the preacher told him how much he should be willing to sacrifice for the cause of Christ.
Hassan would help him understand what sacrifice really meant.
12
“According to C. S. Lewis, there is danger in the belief that ‘all will be well’ when in fact all is not well.” As Alex looked out on the faces of his congregants at the start of his sermon on Sunday morning, it was clear the words were falling on deaf ears. Literally as well as figuratively.
The average age at South Norfolk Community Church was somewhere north of mandatory retirement. Attendance was holding steady at about seventy on most Sundays, and the women outnumbered the men by about two to one. Pastors weren’t supposed to play favorites, but Alex was especially fond of a group of six or seven silver-haired widows who sat toward the front on his right side, snuggled firmly into the padded mauve pews, who couldn’t resist an amen or two even during Alex’s weakest sermons. When it came time in the service to greet one another, Alex went straight to the little pack of senior saints, gave each a hug, and came away smelling strongly of old perfume.
“We have an amazing ability to deceive ourselves,” Alex said. “Christ knew this. He told his followers that many would think they were going to heaven, saying ‘Lord, Lord, didn’t we do many wonderful works in your name?’ But he would tell them that he never really knew them.”
Deacon Harry Dent stifled a yawn. Somebody’s cell phone rang. A visiting single mom, sitting two-thirds of the way back on the left, turned red when everybody stared.
Alex didn’t let it bother him but kept preaching as if he had a stadium full of rapt listeners. Just before the closing prayer, he walked out from behind the podium, down the front steps of the platform, and into the aisle. Like most churches, there was some unwritten rule that nobody could sit in the first two pews, so Alex positioned himself at the beginning of row three and made sure he had their attention.
He looked around and realized that he really did care about these folks. Working class. Old school. Salt of the earth.
“We come to church all dressed up in our best outfits,” Alex said, though he knew it wasn’t entirely true. A few of the younger members of South Norfolk Community Church subscribed to the Sunday casual dress code, sporting polo shirts or shorts or even jeans. Alex left his own board shorts, flip-flops, and T-shirts in Virginia Beach. On Sunday mornings, he donned a white shirt with cuff links, a bold-print tie, a freshly pressed suit, and-before his recent buzz cut-an extra dab of hair gel. The women in the senior saints club always told him how handsome he looked.
Alex brushed both arms of his suit coat. “Nice suit, huh, Fred?”
Fred’s head jerked up from his bulletin. “Hm. Not bad for a lawyer.”
There was a smattering of chuckles. Alex smiled along. “On the outside, we look like we’ve got our act together. ‘How are you?’ ‘I’m great, thanks.’ But inside, we’re dying.”
As he talked, Alex removed his suit coat and elicited a few gasps from the congregation. Some of the younger families snickered. He had mutilated his white shirt-ripping it, spattering red paint on it to look like blood, rubbing it in the dirt. The only part that wasn’t messed up was the part everyone could see when he had his suit coat on-the cuffs, the center buttons, and the collar.
He tossed the suit coat on a pew. “God wants us to get honest with him,” Alex said. “He knows what’s under that spiffed-up exterior. The only way to get things right is to admit that you’re hurting underneath that nice new suit. To admit your failures and fears and addictions.”
And inadequacies, he wanted to say. But he left that out. It felt too personal. Who was he to be preaching to these good folks?
“The greatest danger is the belief that all is well when all may not be well.”
Alex paused and looked from one member to the next. Maybe he wasn’t the kind of spiritual giant that pastors were supposed to be, but he did have a gift for public speaking, for motivating people by talking to their hearts. It’s why he always wanted to be a lawyer, though he found that the practice of law was more about grinding it out in the office than wooing a jury.
But today, even a few of the deacons were slowly nodding their heads. This message, thought Alex, would at least be hard to forget.
“Let’s pray.”
13
On the way to work Monday morning, Alex’s own words kept echoing in his head. The greatest danger is the belief that all is well when all may not be well. He could apply that principle to so many areas of his life right now. His carefree and relaxed exterior covered deep fissures about to be exposed. One was his church and the fact that his congregation was slowly dwindling. He attributed the malaise to a stubborn refusal to change with the surrounding community, but he knew that some, including a few deacons, thought it had more to do with the inadequacies of Alex as a part-time pastor.
Another involved Alex’s own feelings that he didn’t really belong in the role of pastor. He had stepped into this position two years ago as an interim solution when the church was without a pastor. He had never intended to stay this long and couldn’t help feeling like the good folks at South Norfolk Community Church deserved more than he could offer. Maybe he should step away. But could he really leave the church without a pastor again so soon?
Then there was the law practice. Financially, the firm was taking on water. Most months they had negative cash flow, bumping their line of credit a little higher. They needed a big personal-injury case to set things right. Alex had already cut non-personnel expenses to the bone.
Madison and Associates was located less than a mile from Alex’s condo and less than two miles from the oceanfront. The firm occupied half of a gray vinyl-sided building in a small office park on Laskin Road. The building had a seventies look, as did the office furniture. The view from Alex’s office, the one previously used by his grandfather, overlooked the parking lot. John Patrick Madison had not been a big fan of expensive office space in the Town Center area of Virginia Beach. As a result, he could offer lower hourly rates than most of his contemporaries.
He posted those rates for all to see in the firm’s waiting area. In the seven years that Alex worked there, he could never remember the rate changing. And Alex still had the same sign up, two years after his grandfather’s death. We charge $200 per hour. $250 if you call more than once a week. $300 if you want to advise us on how to do our job.