Christian, n. One who believes the New Testament is a divinely inspired book admirably suited to the spiritual needs of his neighbor. One who follows the teachings of Christ in so far as they are not inconsistent with a life of sin (Ambrose Bierce, The Devil’s Dictionary).

Two weeks before the black eye, and counting.

Things were not supposed to unravel this way. Not this way. Some other way maybe. Perhaps even inevitably some other way. But this charge is false. Reckless. Not on the menu. Deeply and profoundly unfair.

Chad Lester leaned against the inside of his office door, the newspaper sticking to his sweating hands. A secretarial heads up had reached him just half an hour ago, and he had stopped to pick up the paper on the way in. Front page and above the fold. The last time that had happened he’d been wearing an apron at a soup kitchen. Why hadn’t the paper called him? He’d just golfed with Bryan three weeks ago. Area minister accused in sex scandal. His picture lurked in a tiny smudge box right next to another picture in a tiny smudge box. Who the hell was that? Never used to even think profanities, but a whole string of them were lining up now.

“Robert P. Warner II,” the caption said. Chad forced himself to read through the article again. He had never heard of the gentleman in question. Not only had he never heard of the gentleman in question, but he knew he was innocent of all charges, whatever they might happen to be, because he had never ever been with any gentleman in question. Why would God allow this? Deeply and profoundly unfair.

To be honest, Chad thought, between deep calming breaths—a technique he had picked up at his wife’s birthing class—there was some material lying around in his life out of which a sex scandal could be assembled. But all that material involved different chromosomes. I’m not . . . gay.

An all-knowing but disinterested observer might have said that the Rev. Lester was a compulsive sexual predator. Call me Chad, no need to stand on ceremony here. We have an informal approach to worship. We do church differently here. This is not your grandmother’s church. Compulsive sexual predator? Call me Chad wouldn’t have put it to himself that way, of course, but fair was fair, and he was an average red-blooded male, with perhaps above average red-blooded male problems. What could he say? He and King David both. Chad had slept with quite a number of women who did not have the last name of Lester, but it’s not like he was even in Solomon’s league. A friendlier age would have simply called them concubines, except maybe the married ones. He wasn’t sure what they should be called.

Some less than positive facts about his sexual monkeyshines were out there, certainly. And there were more than a few participants in these irregular ecclesial liaisons who were women from his own congregation. But, Chad reasoned compellingly to himself, people relate better to ministers who have their own deep personal struggles. Women especially. Empathy? Is empathy the word? There was probably a way to make it all seem kind of tawdry, and Chad would not have been surprised if the front page of the newspaper had headlined some accusation or other from some of these women. He had been more than a little braced for that for years, and the dozen or so church pay-offs to various women had headed off more than one close call. Most of the women he had been with had not needed pay-offs, but he had the resources available for those who did. Miguel Smith, the church’s CFO and Chad’s personal-accountability-of-sorts confidant, had been most cooperative. There is a friend that sticks closer than a brother. Is that Proverbs? Not sure. The writers would know. They’d put it in a sermon once and he’d made a note to remember it.

But all these mutually affirming relationships—though some had been mutually affirming for less than half an hour—had one thing in common. The nature of Chad Lester’s undecaloguelike activities had been extensively and exclusively hetero. He was straight. Straight and narrow. He didn’t leave that path, at any rate, imagining it as a point of pride. He just found special visitors along the way—in the ditches, good Samaritan-like. Not all of the women had been beaten and robbed by others, though some had been. But all of them had been in need. He had merely met needs, lots of needs. He had needs too, and some of those women had needed to meet needs, needed to be needed, if only as a needy recipient. It had probably even helped some of their marriages. And then here was this guy named Robert leering out at him from the front page of the smudgey damn newspaper! Roberta was a possibility. There might have been a Roberta. But there had certainly never been a Robert P. Warner the First or Second. Chad Lester cursed his way through the article again, and resolved to stop swearing. Keep yourself clean, Chad. Think it and you’ll say it, say it and you’ll say it at the wrong time. Be above reproach, untouchable. He cursed loudly, a whole string of rather awkward and unpracticed words.

Fifteen minutes later, externally composed, his executive voice summoned his secretary into his office to take a memo. “Sharon,” he said, “I need you to send an email to the leadership team. Schedule an emergency meeting for this afternoon.”

Sharon Atwater took down the notes for the email, marveling at the confidence that radiated from Chad’s voice like heat from a stove. Unshaken. He had to be shaken. But he didn’t sound shaken. Chad could be president. Cool customer. Amazing administrative gifts. Don’t know how he does it. What a talented toad. She had read the article already and knew as completely as he did that the charge was false, but she had thought he would at least have been shaken. She’d looked forward to him being shaken. He wouldn’t like being called gay.

A good portion of the permanent staff knew something of Chad Lester’s tom-catting. Chad knew that some of the staff knew, and Sharon knew more than most, and she knew more than he thought she did. On a night during her first year attending the church, the last night of an older singles retreat, she herself had even made the great sacrifice to Chad Lester’s virility in the back seat of his BMW. And there had been another incident in her first year working at the church, to the point of an all-night-long-indiscretion. Chad had been all aura then, charisma, smiles, and eyes that penetrated what you thought at first was your soul, but then just turned out to be your clothes. And so if the nearby riverboat casino had been taking bets on the subject, she would have laid long odds against any Robert being involved in any of the incidents.

Sharon was two years away from having saved enough money to get out, get out, get out, and of her eleven years of service—twelve, if you include her early informal role—all but six months had been fraught with cynicism. Having been burned, she was almost entirely skeptical. She was probably the only church secretary in that region of the country who would call herself (but only to herself) an atheist. And she had been chaste since then. An atheist evangelical nun. Chaste is a much better word than sour.

Hang tight. Just two years. Back to Tennessee.

* * *

“You see the paper?”

“I most certainly did.”

“Think the prosecutor saw it?”

“You kidding? He doesn’t say, but he wants to run for governor. The average newspaper reader doesn’t know how to spell his name yet. Not that I blame them. Radavic. It’s his own Yugoslavian fault. What’s with that? My desk phone is going to ring within fifteen minutes. No way to avoid it. I am resigned to the will of Zeus.”

The two detectives sat in the gray, formica lounge at the station, each holding a stained mug of coffee. Daniel Rourke was the veteran and Mike Bradford wasn’t. They got along all right, and made a decent team. Bradford was a quick study, and Rourke knew the department rules up and down, how real non-departmental police work was done, up and down, and was on the honest side of not too scrupulous. They had been together for a year and a half and had done some good work together. At least that’s how the chief put it on the last round of evals.

Bradford grinned. “What’s he gonna say?”

“He will express his concern that Robert P. Warner should have had to bring the charges before the public in this way. No individual citizen should ever carry that kind of weight alone. Newspaper interviews not the way to go. Civil suits not the way to go. As a prosecutor he is a public servant, and he has a solemn responsibility. Prosecutors have a thankless task, but all very serious anyways. Nosy reporters. Ecclesiastical misdoings. Furrowed brow. We cannot let this kind of thing happen here in our community. I want you to open a file on this, Detective Rourke, and pay yourselves a visit to Camel Creek Community Church.”

“Huh.” Bradford got up and filled his coffee again. While he was up, Rourke’s phone rang, and as Rourke headed out into the hall, Bradford yelled after him, “You’ve been reading Nostradamus!”

Bradford stared at the formica for five minutes and picked at his teeth with an unwound paper clip until Rourke came back in. Rourke then said, “It was all there except for the furrowed brow part. On that point I shall remain agnostic. The phone has its limitations. But his brow sounded furrowed.”

Bradford nodded. “Well, let’s go. I haven’t been to a church since Easter.”

“I was there last week, and my priest is going to be really happy about this. Finally, the Protestants are doing their part to get the heat off us. True Christian unity is a wonderful thing. That’s what he will say. He’ll probably send Lester a card.”

* * *

At five to three, the leadership team of Camel Creek silently began to assemble in the executive meeting room. On the wall opposite the two doorways was a small bulletin board. In the upper left-hand corner was a motivational poster, an image from a lost world. A soft-faced woman in a pink uniform and apron was handing a hobo a milkshake on the sidewalk in front of a 1950s diner. But behind the hobo, semi-transparent, stood another figure, a figure with a clean beard wearing a sheet and smiling approvingly with his blue eyes. “It’s great to serve the KING.” sprawled across the bottom. Chad had designed it himself, and had actually made a lot of money on it. A copy of it was in virtually every room of the entire church complex and it wall-papered most of the computers.

Those who arrived early were silent, shifting nervously in their seats, and all their customary business-traveler-in-the-hotel-lobby chatter was absent. There were quiet hugs, tears, and a few murmured exhortations to prayer. A Christian man was being fed to the hungry lions. Eleven men and women, not counting Chad, were expected. Along the mahogany table, at each place, Sharon Atwater had placed a blank notepad, a sharpened pencil, a copy of the newspaper article and a roll of Testamints®. A matching mahogany box cover for some Kleenex was in the middle of the table, and a pitcher of water and ice was down at the far end. The thick carpet muffled the sounds of the few greetings that were exchanged, and finally, when all were there, Chad motioned for them to sit. Sharon sat in the corner with a notebook on her knees.

“Miguel,” Chad said. “Why don’t you read something from the Word and open us up with prayer?”

Miguel had just seen Hebrews 13:1 on another poster at the church radio station, and it seemed like just the ticket. Two hands holding in the foreground, and a roaring California sunset as the backdrop. Unfortunately, the poster had not let him know what to expect in the following verses. He picked up a copy of The Message on a side table and found the place. The elder board all held joined hands and looked down at the table. Miguel cleared his throat and began.

“Stay on good terms with each other [And the poster begins.], held together by love. [So much for the poster.] Be ready with a meal or a bed when it’s needed. Why, some have extended hospitality to angels without ever knowing it! Regard prisoners as if you were in prison with them. Look on victims of abuse as if what happened to them had happened to you. Honor marriage, and guard the sacredness of sexual intimacy between wife and husband. God draws a firm line against casual and illicit sex.”

His voice faltered at the reference to prison as well as the bit about God drawing a firm line. Prisons and firm lines were a bad combination in his book. But he soldiered through anyway, and then said a quick prayer. Why do these things happen to me anyhow? Have to stop looking at those stupid posters. But at least I’m not Chad.

When Miguel was done, Chad lifted his prematurely gray executive head, from long habit murmured a belated amen that everyone could see, and looked slowly around the room. “Brothers, sisters. I do not need to tell you the charge is monstrous and false. The enemy is a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour. We have some work to do in finding out where this charge comes from, and what the point of it is. I confess that I am entirely baffled. You know me. We are close companions on this leadership team, and we have labored together in this vineyard for a number of years. We shall weather this together, and whatever doesn’t break us makes us stronger. At the same time, we need to make a plan.”

Michael Martin, the associate pastor, was studying the table closely. Wood grain was actually a fascinating study. Robert P. Warner II didn’t sound very familiar, but it would still be prudent to check the counseling logs. This thing could blow up regardless of who did or did not do whatever to whom. Whatever does not break us might be content with maiming us and leaving us in a ditch outside of town. Nothing to drink but ditch water. Three miles to town. Maimed, can’t walk. Metaphor way too swollen. Reel it in, Martin.

The other elders of the church were gazing steadily at the pastor. About half of them knew about him and his hormonal hobbies, but the problem was that they knew these facts through their very similar activities with some of the same women—women who happened to be talkative in bed. We all struggle with temptation. Christians aren’t perfect, just forgiven. And some of the indiscretions had been forgiven for years now. True, some of the others had only been forgiven for weeks. And others were still ongoing, with requests for forgiveness not yet entering the picture. But still. That doesn’t affect the theology of the thing. They would be forgiven eventually.

Of the four women elders there, two of them had been some of the women in question. It was all very complicated, but nevertheless resulted in a remarkable unanimity. We know he’s innocent because we are as guilty as he is. That won’t fly at a press conference, but it certainly helps maintain perspective. If we have the goods on him, he has the goods on us, and none of the goods involve a Robert P. Warner anyhow. How can I protect myself? was the interrogative thought of the hour floating around in about seven of the minds present, although one of the earthier elders, Kenneth by name—not that it matters—was expressing it to himself in terms of covering his white little evangelical hinder parts. The remaining four elders were confident of their pastor’s innocence for all the normal reasons, and they looked at him expectantly waiting for the next reassuring evangelical cliché, like so many show poodles waiting for their treat. Still, they were unsettled the way naïve people always are when dealing with slander. How could these things be? It must be the last days. Sign of the times. Did this happen in Left Behind? Godly men attacked. No provocation at all.

Stephanie Nelson, a slender five foot seven inch, happily and naively married brunette, was hit the hardest. Her eyes were filled with tears. In this dark and sinful world, the godly minister can have no rest. When the meeting was over, she hugged Chad around the neck and held him tightly for a count of thirty seconds or more, her breasts comforting his ribs. “I’m praying,” she murmured as she released him, and for the first time Chad wondered if even Stephanie might have needs lying around unmet. But she didn’t look back. There was no hint that she was anything but genuine.

* * *

Most of the leadership team left rapidly. Although they were quick about it, it would be too strong to say that they scurried. Bill Turner stopped at the door and then turned back. “Mary, you coming?”

“I’ll meet you at the car in fifteen minutes. David and I have to set up a meeting with the attorneys, and David has to call his lawyer friend to see if he can be there.”

“Got it.” Bill tried to nod sagely, and seemed immediately aware that the effect was inadequate. He then wandered aimlessly down the hall, trying to stretch a brief return to his office to pick up a few things into fifteen minutes.

David got up and slowly shut the door, and Mary stood up and kissed him on the neck. “Well, we’re cooking in old grease now,” he said. “Whatever that means.”

“Yes, well, we are alive in interesting times.”

“Mary, I have to tell you something. You know that you are the love of my life, my sun, my stars, my . . . you know. But before you were the love of my life, there were, um, others.”

“You’re not astonishing me yet.”

“I am saying this because I happen to know that our minister’s proclivities would not bear up well if subjected to close scrutiny. And it looks to me as though close scrutiny is on the way. Several of the women I knew that I thought at the time were the love of my life told me about Chad. There were at least two . . .”

Mary raised her hand. “Make that three.”

David looked momentarily surprised. “Oh, well. I see. Now the problem is not that Chad as an individual might blow up under scrutiny. I have heard rumors that three . . . um, might be a low number.”

“Perhaps we have heard the same rumors.”

“Yes. Well, this means that the approaching scrutiny must be directed in appropriate and edifying directions by us. On grounds of principle, I am unalterably opposed to indiscriminate scrutiny.”

“And there, love, we entirely agree.” She kissed him on the cheek. “See you tomorrow after the worship committee meeting? Don’t forget your little blue friend this time.”

* * *

Chad Lester sat down behind his desk and put his head in his hands. The meeting had gone well. No revolts. No sign of revolt. He knew about the ones who knew about him, and everyone seemed willing to be on the same team. Wouldn’t do to turn on each other. Mutual interests in this one. Got a committee to deal with the press, and I steered the right elders to that committee. Stephanie wanted to be on it. Close call. David Lindsey has a high-octane powered attorney friend, and he will sound him out about any possible interest in this case. In the meantime, the regular legal staff can do all the preliminary spade work. Miguel had clearly picked up on the hint to double check with all the current feminine pension-holders to let them know that silence would indeed be fruitful. Miguel is a rock. Integrity to count on. So little integrity these days. Sign of the times. Chad lifted his head and sat back in his chair.

If anyone had cared to look through the office door at that moment, they would have seen a magisterial executive, leaning back in his leather magisterial chair. Actually, they would have seen a magisterial executive in a Hawaiian shirt. We don’t stand on ceremony here at Camel Creek. But even the bright floral print could not obscure the weariness from the fight. Scars from the battle. I have run the race. Poured out like a drink offering. Sunbeams streamed through the slats of the well-adjusted blinds, spotlighting tiny motes wrapping up a hard day of dancing. Rich wood and thankless ministry. Polycarp. Augustine. Calvin. Hybels. No one knows loneliness like a bishop.

The picture framed by the doorway was a perfect one. Sharon Atwater walked by once and saw it. Didn’t believe in it anymore, but she could still see it. Something welled up in her throat. She wondered what it was. Respectful hatred? But there was something else there as well. She was impressed. He had been impressive. She got back to her desk and kicked herself sharply on the ankle. Don’t be stupid.

Chad’s great gift was that of being able to contain and almost completely suppress that internal sense of weightlessness and panic that he kept in an isolated chamber somewhere in the nether regions of his gut. This time the panic was a category hitherto unknown to him, and yet the view from the hallway was one of steely-eyed serenity in the face of leonine persecutors. Bulls of Bashan round about. But this was panic on stilts and steroids. This was a prison riot. The noise from that isolated chamber down below grew more insistent. A metal cup raked across the bars. Guards! And somewhere farther up unseen clammy hands were industriously attaching a nylon belt and winch around the upper portion of Chad’s chest and ratcheting it tight.

Robert P. Warner! It made no sense. Panic about things that made sense was one thing, but panic in a world gone mad? All his gifts were extended. All his instincts had crawled out to the skinny branches to see what was coming down the road. Nothing. Made no sense at all. How was he supposed to apply the seven effective secrets of the purpose-driven CEO to this? How do you charisma your way out of false charges? People thought he was gay? How could they think he was gay? He wouldn’t have been surprised if the world found out about all the women, but gay? Any woman who looked at him would know better. God was supposed to judge you for things you did, not for things you didn’t. And He was supposed to do it at the end of the world, not in the middle of your damn . . . in the middle of your life—when things had been going so well too. Deeply and profoundly unfair.

Michelle would just laugh at him. The divorce was not final. You would think she would show some sympathy.

Just like her too. No sense talking about it. She knows there were never any Roberts. Tense. Way too tense. Got to let off some steam. Stop at the fitness club on the way home and burn it all off. And despite his best counseling efforts, Bob and Erica had finally split up. Erica’s new apartment was just a couple or three blocks from his club.