Chosen

His wife Bev couldn’t even see the face in the ceiling. He’d asked her that morning. 

Tim slammed his car door hard, like a goodbye. If it didn’t close completely, Satan could infiltrate the seal. You had to be on guard. He was sneaky, a shape shifter. Like that young woman heading to her car—Mrs. Dolby’s niece?—he wasn’t fooled. Satan could take her form. He could smell sulfur. There were demons around. 

The face had talked to him for hours. That’s how trusted he was. He was chosen. Could there be another face like that in someone else’s ceiling? Pastor Nick’s? No. Pastor Nick was soft. Pastor Nick talked too much about love in his sermons. He was going to complain to the General Assembly about it. God is love is pablum; it’s the fastest way to hell. God is love says whatever you do is fine. God is love is NIV; God is King James. 

Why don’t we just throw out the Law then? He swung his briefcase. Just get rid of the Old Testament? That’s what some churches did. 

If he could cross the street before a car came, he was chosen. He willed himself not to walk faster. No cheating.

He crossed the street seconds before a car passed and he floated into the church on a cloud of invisible chariots. His cheekbones sharper, his posture more noble. Could everyone tell?

Mrs. Baker, the secretary, looked as unfriendly as ever. Idoloter. Heathen. She certainly smiled enough at Pastor Nick. As if  “Youth Pastor” weren’t as holy a title. Holier, even, because he did the work that others, less godly men, turned down. He hated teenagers just as much as they did, but he knew how fertile the fields were there. For saving. For turning away from lust and heavy drugs, yoga and video games. False idols. 

He turned to the door marked Basement without rancor today. Because it wouldn’t be long. The face had said he would be the head of the congregation. It was coming. 

The girl was sitting outside his office. She sat like girls from bad families sat. Slumped over. Pregnant by 15, if he didn’t get through to her. But the docile ones were easiest to flip. He motioned for her to follow him.

“But isn’t this the nursery?” Her voice ended on the upswing he hated. 

“This is temporary.” He grabbed a wooden chair and pushed it into the corner, put some blocks behind the rockers. It was hard to convey the proper gravitas in a rocking chair, but even that didn’t bother him today. 

The face quoted scripture, so he knew it was real. He’d tested him. He wasn’t a fool. Satan could have been tempting him with that face. But Satan wouldn’t have known the difference between justification and sanctification. Or he wouldn’t have been able to define them without hissing or glaring. The face had spoken firmly, with a strong expression, like a godly man should.