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He peered around her, then his smile widened. “Seems like a shame, but maybe today’s not the best day for your congregation to see that.”
“Dougie’s one of those kids who could get in trouble in a padded cell.”
“I imagine his parents find it hard to keep up with him, particularly when they have so many other things on their minds. You’ve got people who might be able to help.”
“After this morning we’ll see how much help they want to be.”
“Actually I was thinking about the goddesses. There are lots of different talents among us.”
She heard the “us” for what it was. “It doesn’t insult your masculinity to call yourself a goddess?”
“My masculinity is perfectly secure.”
She touched his arm in affirmation. “Agreed. And now will you take your masculine self outside and remove our little friend from the fountain?”
“I’ll be at the service. Break a leg.” He kissed her cheek and left.
She finished her last swallow of tea and tidied up in the adjoining restroom, where she donned her robe again. By the time she got back neither Ethan nor Dougie was in sight outside. For this service she chose a heavily appliqued stole that Elsbeth, her needleworker sister, had made for her. A collage of colorful figures with hands lifted in prayer was artistically intertwined with flames reaching heavenward and culminating with a magnificent white dove. The stole was her favorite and, as she smoothed it over her robe and matched the edges, she said a prayer. Then she went to meet her congregation at the door of the sanctuary.
Most people knew better than to engage in long conversations as they entered, and she shook hands and greeted those who streamed in for as long as she could. She was about to go to the front when Garrett came through the doorway and motioned her to one side.
“You’re going to tell them about the Fowlers?”
She was gratified he used the family’s name and didn’t simply call them “those homeless people.”
“I plan to, yes. I did in the first service.”
“That’s good, because, you know, the word is getting out.”
“It was never meant to be a secret.”
“Well, no.” He frowned, then he seemed to recover. “And it shouldn’t be. But you know how people talk. They need facts.”
“Which I’ll give them. With a story thrown in.”
He seemed to want to say more but didn’t. She nodded and took advantage of that silent moment to leave.
This more formal service began with a processional of the entire chancel choir from the back of the church into the choir loft, accompanied by the full power of their recently restored pipe organ. Afterward she offered an invocation, more prayers were said, hymns were sung, announcements were made, the offering was taken, and finally the time came for her to speak.
The Church of the Covenant pulpit was itself worthy of a sermon. The imposing granite exterior of the Gothic Revival church was matched inside by elegant timber beams, slippery tile floors, and treasured stained glass windows from the famed Lamb Studios of Greenwich Village. The elaborately carved pulpit had been a gift from an early benefactor, with eight steps so that the pastor could gaze down at his flock to more properly admonish them and remind them of his superior moral status.
Like many churches, the Church of the Covenant also had a lectern, a simple but elegant stand with only a few steps, which, until Analiese had arrived, had been used exclusively by lay readers delivering scripture. One of her first innovations had been to abandon the formal pulpit and deliver most of her sermons from the lectern, which was only as high as it needed to be for the congregation to see her.
Today she settled herself there and looked out over her congregation. Assuming many people had traveled over the holiday she had expected a lower attendance. Instead the polished walnut pews were filled with a respectable number of worshippers. She wondered if news about the Fowlers was already beginning to make the rounds.
As she searched for familiar faces she saw Ethan sitting beside his daughter, Taylor. Taylor was one of the goddesses and not a frequent churchgoer, although lately she had been bringing her daughter, Maddie, to Sunday school and staying for the service herself. Today the man in her life, Adam Pryor, was sitting on her other side.
Georgia Ferguson, another of the goddesses, wasn’t present, although she did attend on occasion. Georgia was most likely with her fiancé, Lucas Ramsey, celebrating the holiday with Lucas’s large extended family in the state she’d been named for.
Seeing Taylor reminded Analiese of what Ethan had said in her study. She hadn’t had time to consider how much and in how many ways the goddesses could help her now, but Georgia was the principal of the Buncombe County Alternative School, and nobody would be a better resource for Shiloh than she would.
She put that out of her mind and leaned forward over the lectern. “Pay close attention to your program this morning. Then set it beside you, because I’m not going to speak on ‘The Politics of Giving Thanks.’ If you spend the next twenty minutes trying to figure out how the message I want you to take home has anything whatsoever to do with that, you’ll be frustrated and annoyed. That’s the last thing I ever want you to feel in this sacred space.”
She heard the small ripple of laughter and felt slightly encouraged. “Instead I want to take you back to another time, to a land where turkey, a native of the Americas, was never on the menu, and the word pilgrims referred to the Israelite people who returned to Jerusalem for the festivals surrounding Passover, Shavuot, and Sukkoth. Let me begin with the Holy Scripture.”
Analiese opened her Bible and began to read the story of the Good Samaritan, but she stopped after a few lines and closed the book. “Let me tell it my way, because this story is timeless, and a little twenty-first century narrative won’t hurt, will it?
“Let’s go back to a certain day in the life of Jesus of Nazareth. As Jesus often did, on this day he was addressing a group who had come to listen to his words and seek guidance.
“It’s no surprise a crowd had gathered. After all, in previous weeks he had built up quite a reputation, catching the attention of King Herod along the way—which was not a particularly good thing, since Herod had already beheaded John the Baptist. Still, Jesus continued with his ministry, knowing it would lead to his death. In Luke, the only gospel where the story of the Good Samaritan is told, we also hear about the miracle of the loaves and fishes, about the healing of a boy possessed by evil spirits, and even a moment when Jesus is transfigured and seen to walk on a mountaintop with Elijah and Moses.
“This day, though, there were no miracles. A man of the law, listening to Jesus, asked what he should do to earn eternal life.”
She paused and smiled. “Now, apparently lawyers in the day of Jesus had much the same reputation, deserved or undeserved, as lawyers today. I’m sure there were jokes making the rounds in the marketplace, jokes like ‘How does a lawyer sleep? First he lies on one side, then the other.’”
She nodded at the laughter and then continued. “Of course there are plenty of jokes about ministers, too. A seminary friend installed hot-air hand dryers in the church restroom, but two weeks later he had to take them out. Somebody had taped a sign on the wall over them that said ‘For a preview of this week’s sermon, push the button.’”
She smiled at their enjoyment of that one. “I promise that today’s sermon is more than hot air, and I do have something important to say. So let’s move back to the scripture. Our lawyer in this ancient crowd was something of a sneaky fellow, and he was anxious to test Jesus. Wanting to get his future signed, sealed and delivered, he asked Jesus what he had to do to inherit eternal life.”
She looked out and raised a finger. “Well, be honest, isn’t that what you would have asked?” She waved her hand. “Here was your chance to have the entire purpose of existence laid out in front of you. But Jesus never gave simple answers. Instead he asked the lawyer for his own opinion, and the man said that he was required to love God with all his heart, soul and might, and also love his neighbor as himself.
“Jesus agreed he was correct, so therefore he needed to go and do exactly that.”
She paused. “Would you have known what to do?”
She watched for heads nodding or shaking before she moved on. “Maybe that would have been the end if the lawyer hadn’t been such an inquiring sort, but then he stuck it to Jesus, which I think was his intention all along. He asked exactly who Jesus would consider to be his neighbor. Do you know what you would have said?”
Again she paused, wanting them to really think about their answers. “My neighbor is everyone who lives beside, behind and in front of me? Or possibly your definition would be broader. Your neighbor is everyone on your street, or in your life, perhaps even, if you’re feeling really generous, some people you don’t like.”
She waited a moment, then went on. “Jesus loved to tell stories, so in answer he replied by telling the now-familiar tale of a man who, after leaving Jerusalem to head to Jericho, was attacked and robbed by thieves and left bleeding by the roadside. The story doesn’t actually say this man was a Jew, although I think perhaps that was assumed. We do, however, know what happened to him.
“As our traveler lay there, in the worst possible need of assistance, a priest passed by, perhaps, like me, somebody charged with the spiritual health of his followers. Do you think the priest stopped to assist the traveler?”
She waited for the shaking of heads. “Sadly no. Instead he crossed the road, in a hurry to get somewhere else and most likely a bit afraid that if he did stop, he might be courting trouble. Maybe he had a council meeting or a crisis that seemed more important. And who wants to court trouble when it’s easier just to continue on our way?”
She continued on, talking next about the Levite, a man charged with both religious and political duties, who appeared after the priest and followed the same course.
“And finally comes the Samaritan. Since we aren’t living in ancient Israel let’s brush up on the Samaritans and why they were so disliked. One theory claims the Samaritans were the descendants of Joseph, one of the sons of Jacob, while the Jews were the descendants of another brother, Judah. So even though Samaritans and Jews may have been related, we know that family ties don’t always stand the test of time. Look at the Palestinians and the Jews today. Look at the Shiites and the Sunnis or the Catholics and the Protestants in places like Northern Ireland.”
As she let that sink in for a moment, a movement in the back of the sanctuary caught her eye. People came and went during services. Sometimes late arrivals slipped into pews in the back, and occasionally, during her more controversial sermons, people also slipped out, never to be seen again.
She doubted she had yet reached that tipping point today, and this time she didn’t really expect an exodus, just some pointed questions. As she’d guessed, the movement was caused by a late arrival.
The arrival was Shiloh, dressed in faded jeans and a thin T-shirt, who stood in the aisle at the back and gazed around, as if unsure what to do. Just as Analiese was afraid she would turn and leave, Shiloh spotted an empty space in a nearby pew, climbing over other churchgoers to get there and disappearing from sight behind a row of taller men.
In that instant Analiese reconsidered her sermon, but she really had no choice now but to finish it.
She drew herself up a little taller. “Over the centuries the histories of these close relatives diverged, and eventually each group believed that they alone possessed the truth and all the rights that go with it. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it? Today aren’t too many people sure they know exactly what’s right for everybody else?
“So what would you expect a Samaritan to do, coming upon a man, most probably a Jew, bleeding by the side of the road? Laugh? Taunt him? Even, perhaps, put the man out of his misery and consider his day well spent?”
She paused. “Of course, you would be wrong.”
She ended the story, explaining that the Samaritan, despite every historical and political reason not to, helped the stranger, binding his wounds, even finding him lodging and paying for it himself so that the injured man could recover.
“And so the story of the Good Samaritan ends. It’s a great tale with a happily-ever-after, isn’t it? But the most powerful part comes now. Because Jesus then asked the lawyer which of the three men who came upon the roadside victim acted as a true neighbor. Of course the lawyer had no choice but to answer, ‘the one who had mercy.’”
She let that sink in a moment before she went on. “Luke 10, verse 37, ends this way.” She opened her Bible again and read the final words, although she knew them well. “Jesus told him, ‘Go and do likewise.’”
She closed her Bible once more and looked out over the congregation. “I’ve told you a story that Jesus left us to ponder. Did this event take place?” She shrugged. “The story of the Good Samaritan is a parable, which means in many ways it’s a riddle for us to solve. Jesus told these stories to make us reconsider the way we live, to dig for meaning so we would remember more clearly. Jews of that time were used to parables. They understood that parables have multiple meanings and are not meant to be taken literally, because that would diminish their worth. We aren’t supposed to simply be happy the traveler was finally safe. We’re supposed to consider how he was saved, by whom and why it was important.”
She let her gaze drift over the congregation and saw, as she had expected, some puzzled faces. “You might be wondering why I chose this story on this particular day, when speaking on gratitude might have been more pleasant and certainly less challenging for Thanksgiving weekend. So let me tell you another story. Mine is not a parable. It happened this weekend right here in our church.”
She took a breath and began to tell the story of the Fowler family. She avoided as many personal details as she could, partly because Shiloh was sitting in the congregation and partly because that had been her intention all along. But she knew she had to make certain the congregation understand how desperate the Fowlers were.
“I want you to see that as your minister I made the initial decision to invite this family to stay overnight in the parish house apartment where our sexton and his family used to live. I didn’t have time to consult with anyone on the council. I also want you to know that I am not apologizing, because I would do it again, exactly the same way.”
She paused—for the last time, she hoped—to make sure they heard the next sentences clearly. “I did not want to be the priest in today’s parable. I wanted to be the Samaritan. I still do.
“The next morning our council executive committee agreed to allow the Fowler family to continue living in the apartment for two weeks while I try to find them more permanent housing and perhaps help with other issues. Some of you may have expertise that can help them settle into our community, and any assistance will be warmly welcomed.”
She moved on to statistics about homelessness, both nationwide and locally, particularly homeless families. Then she talked a little about the rally in which she had participated.
“Here’s what I know. It’s easy to go to rallies, even to stand on the stage and exhort a crowd to do their part. It’s easy to throw money at a problem and think we’ve done enough. But putting ourselves in the place of people just like us, who, often through no fault of their own, have ended up on the street? That’s never easy. Because it brings the wolves right to our doorsteps, doesn’t it? You, too, might be one paycheck from setting up a tent on a quiet green space or sleeping in a car because there is no other place to go.”
She leaned forward and held up her hand. “It’s easier to pretend we’re immune, isn’t it?”
After a moment she wrapped up that part quickly. “Today there are families with well-educated wage earners blithely living in homes worth hundreds of thousands of dollars who will be out on the streets by next year. Faltering businesses will go under. Family wage earners will fall ill or lose jobs. A child with special needs or an aging parent might already have consumed all their financial cushion, so there’ll be no savings to start over. I can spin a hundred scenarios for you. One of them might even be yours.”
She let that sink in and wondered how many people in the pews were squirming.
She finished her sermon. “I am grateful to our council for agreeing to let the Fowlers live in an otherwise empty apartment. This isn’t a solution to our nation’s homeless problem, but it is, at least temporarily, a solution for one homeless family. I’ll be grateful to all of you who support this decision. I will even be grateful to those who don’t but who come directly to me to discuss it so we can learn from each other.”
She ended with a short prayer that asked for guidance and enlightenment. Then she lifted her hands as the strains of the introduction to their final hymn began and watched the congregation rise.
Only then, as her eyes sought Shiloh to try to read the girl’s reaction, did Analiese see Isaiah Colburn, who had been sitting beside the girl and had risen with everyone else. For a moment, just an instant, their eyes locked. Isaiah gave the slightest of nods.
This time there was no mistaking him. And this time there was no mistaking her own reaction. Isaiah was here in Asheville, and for better or worse, her life was about to change.
chapter ten (#ulink_ea7738b0-46d6-5938-b36f-6739643d4068)
MONDAY, OFFICIALLY HER day off, was the best opportunity for Analiese to sleep in. This Monday she was up by seven, morning prayers said, shower already behind her, and neither had done anything to elevate her mood. She was about to devote the day to finding help for the Fowlers, and while she was glad to do it, she suspected by day’s end she would have experienced the same slamming of agency doors that they had.
She considered a new prayer beginning with “Excuse me again, Lord, but here’s a long list of things bothering me,” and then naming everything that had kept her awake through a long night, in order of importance.
She rejected that idea because putting the list in order was impossible. This morning everything was equal. The woman who cornered her after the second service and politely explained that the Church of the Covenant had a reputation to uphold and homeless people wandering in and out would not enhance it. The man who told her that ministers who took on projects without congregational consent didn’t last long.
And no, she had not asked either if they were feeling a need to speak up for the lawyer who had questioned Jesus. Both had been at the church longer than she had. Both had taken leadership roles.
Of course many people had offered their support, and some had sincerely meant it. But the two most significant people she had wanted to see had disappeared. Shiloh had slipped out during the final hymn, most likely embarrassed her family laundry had been aired during the sermon, and even after Analiese had climbed the steps in the parish house to find the girl, no one had been at the apartment.
Then, of course, there was Isaiah.
Why did her mentor and friend keep showing up, then vanishing? Of course she had been busy with parishioners after the sermon, listening to their comments, shaking hands, whisking one family into her study for emergency counseling because a son had been arrested the previous night. By the time that family left, the building had been nearly empty. And Isaiah had not been among those few who were still waiting to see her.
“You could have left a note,” she said to the empty house.
In answer the grandfather clock chimed 7:30 and the telephone rang.
She knew better than to answer without checking caller ID. She was available for emergencies, but on her one day off she was firm about not taking calls that could wait another day. She couldn’t see the name and phone number without her reading glasses, so she waited for the answering machine, grabbing the receiver when she heard her sister Gretchen’s voice.
“I know, I know this is your day off,” Gretchen said after Analiese’s hello. “But I’m going to be gone all day and the girls are eating breakfast. This was my only chance to leave you a message. I didn’t expect you to answer.”
“I was up. What’s wrong?”
“You’ve had that kind of week, huh? Jumping to the worst conclusion feels natural to you?”
Analiese carried the phone into the living room and plopped down in a corner armchair. “You have no idea.”
Gretchen didn’t ask for details. “Well, nothing’s wrong in Providence. The girls and I are just wondering what you’re doing for your birthday. Because it’s a big one, and we thought you might like to come here to celebrate.”
And there in living color was the other thing on Analiese’s “what’s bothering me” list.
“It’s just another birthday,” she said casually.
“It’s number forty, glamour girl, and even you have to be feeling that just a little.”
Analiese lifted her feet to the ottoman and closed her eyes. “Why? Because I’m in a stressful job, alone and childless?”
Gretchen ignored that. “Why don’t you visit us and we’ll do the day up right? Maybe Elsbeth can fly in, too. Can you get away?”
“Not in this century.”
“They don’t deserve you, do they?”
Analiese could almost hear her sister checking the clock over the stove in her sleek Country French kitchen. Gretchen’s daughters would be eating, possibly squabbling, just as she and her sisters had done, and in a moment Gretchen would start reminding them to hurry. There was no time to share feelings. The fact that she and Gretchen had connected and were talking at all was surprising.
As nice as this was, now she felt even lonelier.
“I’ll come this summer,” she said. “My vacation’s in June. Maybe we can get to the beach for a day or two. Elsbeth, too.”
“We’re going to France in June, remember?”
Analiese did now. “Sorry, of course. Henry’s job, plus the girls in a language school.”
“You have no idea how competitive college applications are. Fluent French will help.”
Analiese thought of Shiloh and how, despite her obvious intelligence, she would never even be competitive for community college unless somebody intervened quickly.
