I don't know anything

“Come in,” hollered the more than familiar voice.

Ray entered through massive hardwood doors to find a small, makeshift Sunday office space. Seated at the center was the man whose mind and heart Ray had spent more than half his life gradually working through on paper.

All Ray could think to say as he stood slightly trembling was how utterly astonishing he considered The Pastor to be.

For a moment, they were two stately ambassadors about to sit to cups of tea and exchange pleasantries before planned negotiations.

“Ray! How can I help you?” beamed The Pastor, his smile as thoroughly genuine as it was a tad sly.

“Oh. I have to tell you something,” mumbled Ray, frowning. He had almost forgotten his terrible reason for having just rushed over.

“It’s okay,” assured The Pastor. “I’m glad you came. Of course I’ve had my eye on you, though you’ve always done such a great job here, and . . . well, go ahead: Tell me what you’ve come to tell me. Where do you think we might see things differently?”

Ray blinked, bewildered, suddenly living out a moment he’d half-envisioned since his youth. But instead of any kind of golden-ticket opportunity, the open invitation felt like being squeezed through a sponge. And as old pat answers began to knife their way through his mind, something barely noticeable seemed to happen in the room . . . though nothing near as obvious as a gashing slice through fog or scorched not-a-person.

“I…” Ray hesitated. “I saw something I really felt like I needed to tell you about.”

“It’s okay,” came the low, smooth reply. “You can tell me. Especially if you feel it’s something we’ve never covered that people need to hear. I really do think it’s fine to come to different conclusions about . . . especially about the more minor tenets or doctrines. Does that make sense, Ray? Is my impression true? Do you see things differently?”

Another nearly imperceptible change like a tiny shift in some unknown direction cut short the waves of honor Ray felt at being addressed with such respect by this world-renown superhero of the faith.

Then thoughts of dark flames birthed partly in murderous rage wrenched Ray’s thoughts back to the urgency at hand. “I don’t have any problem with the doctrines,” he said, hoping to nip the subject clean and move on. “I love them. I think they . . . they really do help people.”

“As much as they can, right?” pressed the patient Pastor. “So, what’s missing then?”

“No,” said Ray. “I mean, honestly, my only problem with The Church isn’t the teaching or anything. I love the teaching.”

“Tell me what you don’t like,” The Pastor softly ordered. There would be no arguing.

“I…” Ray held back, then gave in, “I really don’t like the . . . the art. Okay? That’s all.”

“What do you mean by ‘art’?”

“Well,” Ray stalled again, “I don’t know who The Church . . . is, I guess. But maybe there’s something I’m missing. I mean, I just sort of think if you’ve got something to show the world . . . well, show it. Put yourself out there. Put your ideas out. And if they’re good, people will listen, and… But, really, I don’t have a…”

“Ray,” The Pastor soothed, “your opinion is worthwhile. So never be ashamed to share what you think. I appreciate it, actually. And if I’m hearing you properly, I suppose I’d respond and say that the purpose of the church is not just to put out ideas . . . though sharing the gospel is our highest aim. But the way we do that . . . the real purpose of the church . . . is by doing life and growing together.”

“Yes,” said Ray after a small pause, wondering what the disagreement was. “That’s awesome. I mean, now everyone can, y’know, connect for free, and…”

He let the words patter out, again lost for how to avoid getting further sidetracked.

But then as if to clutch and subdue Ray’s wandering train of thought, The Pastor shot back with, “Ray, tell me: Are you a believer?”

“I’m not sure,” Ray sighed, his head turning slowly from left to right. “And if being unsure, or feeling like belief isn’t something I can choose . . . if that’s the same as unbelief . . . I guess I’ll have to accept it. And if believing the right way really is what matters most, well…”

“And now you share your beliefs with whoever wants to hear them,” stated The Pastor. “But you also claim not to know if your beliefs are true?”

Ray sighed a second time, feeling a deep sense of release. “I feel like I connect with your story,” he answered, “and the pictures you paint of . . . of just what it means to be human. I’d never want to cause you any grief or stop you from doing what you’re doing. Not at all.” And then after another pause, “I don’t know exactly what I believe. I want to believe what you do if it’s true.”

“Was that what you came to tell me?” asked The Pastor.

“No. I . . . I think you might be in danger,” Ray blurted, feeling another instant surge of ease. The hard part was over. The rest would be tidying up details.

“Oh?” ventured The Pastor, nodding. “Well, what happened? And what do you think I should do to be safe?”

The way The Pastor emphasized “you” brought Ray almost to tears. He remembered what he had heard of The Pastor’s message just moments earlier from out in the lobby. He then considered how seamlessly The Pastor had transitioned from preaching up on stage to being so accommodating and generous with this weird former-employee goof, this wildcard, this…

And suddenly aware that he had in fact caught The Pastor during what was but a tiny window between two Sunday services, Ray’s astonishment at the man’s utter selflessness and grace only multiplied.

“Well, you have everything set in place already, right?” Ray mumbled hurriedly.

Yet even as the words left his lips, Ray thought of something new that made him want to spin around, sprint away, and never look back. How much had The Pastor been told about Ray’s last day at the office? What of that final, awful conversation with Todd?

Might The Pastor see Ray, himself, as the very danger Ray was there to warn of?

“We are prepared,” answered The Pastor evenly. “Ever since we went live on TV and had that huge spike in membership a few years back. We should have it all under control.”

Their eyes met.

“I guess,” Ray heard himself begin, “sometimes I feel like I’m just laughing with you . . . like we’re both alone in this world where so many are trying to think things like money and commercials have to matter, and . . . I don’t know. I mean…”

The Pastor was silent even after Ray’s trail-off.

Finally, to close a very long gap, The Pastor said flatly, “I have to be honest, I’m having a little trouble following.”

“When I was a teenager,” Ray began again, “I worked at this video store. And they had a deal where new customers got a card that gave them a free second rental with every movie they took for the first month. So, I made all these fake accounts in the computer, and pocketed every second seven dollars that came in, y’know, adding those movies as free second rentals on all my fake accounts. I’d make hundreds of dollars doing that every Friday night. Then I’d go out and spend all of it. And no one ever knew. No one noticed or cared. And when I had to disappear, I got all the money I needed in one night.”

The Pastor nodded, his grin’s mischievousness dominating like an eclipse in a flash of what seemed to be recollection. “Why did you just tell me that?” The Pastor asked.

“I’ve been seeing this fog everywhere,” Ray said simply, giving his eyes some wriggle room to bounce around the little room. “The first thing the fog does is it keeps you from looking at it.”

“Well, that makes sense,” answered The Pastor. “Sin is that way. Pride was the devil’s sin. And proud people are usually quite blind to it themselves. It’s like how the devil is a master of lies. He even masquerades as an angel of light, the Bible says.”

Some fog in the room seemed to sway and flow downward, covering the floor and table in a bland, cloudy haze.

Ray almost wondered if the fog knew it was being talked about.

“It’s like that for me too,” said Ray, “but the fog isn’t the devil or Pride. No, it’s more like how afraid we are not to…”

But Ray was caught away from the sound of his own voice by the stunning revelation of his favorite not-a-person shining like a massive golden crucifix high and beautiful above The Pastor’s head.

Ray heard himself still speaking but couldn’t make himself care enough to listen . . . something about translations of texts keeping parts unfairly isolated.

The fog rose as pale steam, uncovering a hidden cluster of not-a-persons coiled together behind The Pastor’s desk. Satisfied, though not knowing why, Ray was somehow sure the beings he saw would never be caught or taken advantage of again.

Lost for words, he chuckled at the idea of himself as some sort of officially chosen representative of the not-a-persons sent to boldly declare their deliverance with confirming signs and wonders (though hopefully not plagues of icky frogs or painful sores).

Old contracts levitated from cabinets to reveal acceptance signatures condoning cultures of universal dependence in the name of Kingdom Grace. And as the fog continued to re-disperse like portions of a collapsed riot, Ray considered arguing more about the likes of art and buildings.

Or, maybe he should apologize, slink out, and go hear the next service message.

Maybe The Psychologist had been too nice.

“Ray,” said The Pastor, “can you put in a nutshell what you’re trying to say? I really do have to get in soon.”

Ray fired back with, “I guess I’d just say: Never underestimate . . . what’s possible.”

“What does that mean?”

“Watch…?”

And with that, Ray turned to leave.