At that, I arrived at the church none too early, as I discovered when I wheeled the Mercedes into the big parking lot at ten-twenty-two. The blacktop already was well over half filled with cars ranging from Lincolns and BMWs to subcompacts, and a platoon of earnest, well-scrubbed young men in dark slacks and white, open-collared shirts deftly motioned drivers into spaces, neatly filling one row at a time.
I fell into step with dozens of others zeroing in on the tabernacle doors; except that most of us were dressed in going-to-church clothes, we could as easily have been surging toward the gates of the Meadowlands to see the Giants knock heads with the Redskins — although there were no bratwurst-scented tailgate parties in the tabernacle lot.
Inside the gold-and-chrome lobby, I took stock of my fellow worshipers: The majority were in their twenties and thirties, almost all of them white. My instant survey told me slightly more than half were couples, and that the overall man-woman makeup of the crowd was too close to call.
I sauntered to a counter along one wall that was manned by two grandmotherly types and stocked with pamphlets and books, including Bay’s Inspiration Theology, on sale for six-ninety-five in paperback and eleven-ninety-five in hardcover. I selected instead a free brochure headlined “What the Silver Spire Ministry Can Mean in Your Life” and moved toward the auditorium. Like the parking lot, it already was well-filled, and organ music wafted over the crowd.
A perky young woman with long red hair, a handful of programs, and a badge identifying her as “Jennie Amundsen — Usher” greeted me. She wore one of those little spire-shaped lapel pins just above the badge on her light blue dress. “Hi, do you worship with us regularly?” she asked as she slipped me a program.
“No, this is my first visit; I’m from out of town,” I improvised cleverly.
“Well, we’re really happy to have you with us today, Mr. ...”
“Goodman.” I was on a roll with my new identity.
“How far down would you like to sit, Mr. Goodman?” Her smile was dazzling.
I said about halfway would be fine, and she led me to a single open seat on the aisle next to a couple who looked to be about ten years out of high school. As I eased into the cushioned theater-type seat, they both pivoted my way with grins as big as Jennie Amundsen’s. “Hi, I’m Cal Warren,” said the full-faced, prematurely balding male half of the pair, who occupied the seat adjoining mine. He thrust a thick paw at me, vigorously shaking hands. “This is my wife, Darlene.” She nodded a head of short blond hair, and her blue eyes danced. She probably didn’t push the pointer on her bathroom scale over the one hundred mark, while her husband easily doubled that figure.
“You a member here?” Cal asked in a breezy tone.
“No, I’m in from out of town on business.”
“That’s what usually happens to us.” He laughed with satisfaction. “You see, Darlene and me — we’ve been members for five years now — every Sunday we sit here so there’s just the one seat between us and the aisle, you know? That way, we almost always meet a first-timer, somebody like yourself who’s giving us a try here at the Spire. Darlene and me, we just love to meet new people. Where are you from, Mr...?”
“Goodman. Alan Goodman. Chillicothe, Ohio.”
“Ohio. A doggone nice place, from what I’ve seen of it so far. I get over to Cincy once or twice a year in my work. Darlene went with me once. You liked it, too, didn’t you, honey?”
She nodded and made her eyes dance again. “How did you find out about the Silver Spire, Mr. Goodman?” she asked. “Have you seen our service on television?”
I told her I had a friend back home who recommended it, and she looked as if she was ready to ask another question when the lighting intensified, probably for the TV cameras, and a trumpet fanfare blasted from somewhere behind us, halting the murmurs throughout the big auditorium, where every seat now was taken. I turned and saw that the trumpeting came from three men in maroon blazers standing in one corner of the balcony. They stopped as abruptly as they had begun, and on their note, Barnabas Bay strode purposefully across the stage to the lectern that I knew — thanks to Nella Reid’s tour — had only seconds before been hydraulically raised from out of the floor. Bay was wearing a light gray suit, a blue patterned tie, and the hint of a smile.
“Good morning, brothers and sisters,” he intoned, spreading his arms wide, palms up. “Welcome again to our Hour of Glory. And to start us off right, the Spire Choir, directed of course by our own Marley Wilkenson, reminds us of ‘What a Friend We Have in Jesus.’”
With that, the choir, some sixty strong on risers at stage left and resplendent in silver-and-crimson robes, poured out one of the hymns I grew up on back home. Wilkenson was plenty theatrical in his directing, waving his arms more than a midtown traffic cop during the evening rush hour. And on the last verse, he pivoted smartly toward the audience and urged us all to stand and sing, which we did — following words projected on a screen above the choir. I spotted Carola in the center of the first row of singers — she’s hard to miss — but I’m sure she didn’t notice me, just another face in the crowd.
After the hymn, Wilkenson wiped his brow with a handkerchief and bowed. “You’re all in marvelous voice this fine morning,” he boomed into his lapel mike. “Now I want you to welcome a truly gifted young musician to our stage. She’s only nine, but she plays the violin like a Stern or a Perlman.” He introduced a taffy-haired little girl in a pink dress and petticoats who knew how to use her violin, all right. For those who were sitting more than a block from the stage, and there seemed to be plenty of them, her televised, twelve-foot image loomed on yet another screen, which had been noiselessly lowered from a groove in the ceiling. Lily probably could have identified the piece she played; whatever it was, it sounded good.
After she finished and bowed to the applause, Bay came back on stage, put an arm around her shoulders, and said, “Isn’t she wonderful, folks? What a gift. Her parents, Tom and Marie, are right down front here; they’ve been members of our Spire family for — what? — twelve years, isn’t it?” He looked toward the couple, who sat in the second row and nodded. “And, honey, you’ve been coming to Sunday school here for how long?” Bay bent down and thrust his microphone at the girl.
“Seven years,” the small voice responded.
“Seven years — isn’t that great?” he beamed. “Let’s give her another Spire-style round of applause.” We all did, and the girl left the stage while Bay resumed his place at the lectern, his expression now somber. He looked out over the crowd and said nothing for fully fifteen seconds. He then squared his shoulders.
“Brothers and sisters in Christ, I stand before you this morning heavy with sadness, weighted with grief. As most of you here in the tabernacle, and” — he stretched an arm dramatically — “many, many of you watching us from across the country and around the globe know, our beloved brother and friend at the Silver Spire, Roy Meade, has gone to take a place with his Father above. We cry out at the injustice of Roy’s sudden death, his violent death, his inexplicable death. We — or at least I — ask Almighty God why, oh why, have you allowed such a thing to happen to one of your good and faithful servants?” Bay’s shoulders sagged, and he paused once more, letting his eyes move over the hushed audience.