First Steps

In the stillness of his empty church, the preacher must’ve heard my body leaning against the creaky doorframe.

“The doors are open, you know.” Despite his back being to me, his voice reverberated across the wooden pews with a particularly booming bass, which didn’t ease my conscience.

“Middle ground suits me just fine,” I called back, holding my position. I knew I had to go in there eventually, but I wanted to dwell in denial for a bit longer. Did Trudy really want this story so badly? She should’ve gone after it herself. The suits are never willing to do the dirty work, yet they commission their minions to do it for them. 

Of course, it didn’t help that a self-righteous holy man was probably preparing to condemn me over whatever faux pas was in vogue for the evening. What was his title, anyway? Preacher? Reverend? Pastor? Grand Master? I didn’t much care.

“The middle is no place for a man who cares about his soul,” the old guy soliloquized. Called that one. “The Apostle John warned the church of Laodicea of this in the book of Revelation: ‘So, because you are lukewarm—neither hot nor cold—I am about to spit you out of my mouth.’ Chapter 3, verse 16. I cannot make you come through that door; that is a journey you have to make.”

Journey into a dead end of rules and regulations? Nah, I’m good. Some people just can’t enjoy anything in life, it seems. Unfortunately, he was persistent, turning his body toward me.

“Of greater interest, perhaps, is the leftover cake sitting in our fridge. If I can’t persuade you with Scripture, may I indulge you in celebrating our sister Georgia's last day of service?” I guess there was one thing he enjoyed after all. Fine.

“Our shared language might be that of food, then.” I was a bit embarrassed at my lousy attempt at humour, but it was enough to get a chuckle out of the guy. Church folks will laugh at just about anything. Could I make it two for two?

“Life has a funny way of bringing people together, doesn’t it?”

“I would argue that this ‘life’ you’re referring to would be God, but yes, I agree,” he retorted. Ugh. One for two is still a pass, technically. Before I had too much time to pity the decaying state of comedy, he stepped closer to me. “What brings you to Redding Street Baptist Church this evening?”

“Came by yesterday and you weren’t here. My boss made me try again today.” As the words left my mouth, even I was a bit taken aback by the sardonic tone. But the preacher just looked at me with curious eyes that inquired for more information. I let out a reluctant sigh. “I’m a journalist with the Times, and we’re doing a feature on how the Church is dying out and buildings are being converted into boutiques and shops and things. Are you aware of the fact that church attendance is lower than it has ever been?”

To an average preacher, I figured those words would’ve punctured the ego that they’re not supposed to have, but this guy just chuckled again. I quickly realized that it was no use for me to try to figure out his sense of humour, but I couldn’t give up on the story. “I’m glad you find this amusing, but I really need you to explain yourself.”

“Myself?” he raised his eyebrows. “My dear boy, I think it is you who might want to reconsider the implications of that question. I’m well aware of the lower head count—I’ve just about memorized where each congregant sits on Sunday mornings. And while I pray for the salvation of those who haven’t yet accepted Christ, I’m actually very hopeful about the future of our church.”

Within my scattered mind, I struggled for the life of me to figure out what he meant. This was some kind of weird religious puzzle and I didn’t care for it. I scribbled some notes on my pad, but I wouldn’t say they were coherent.

“A crumbling institution, converted buildings... and you still have hope through all of this? Care to explain?” As the words left my mouth, the smile slowly faded from the preacher’s face.

“Dark times certainly lie ahead, but the Church is very much alive and well,” he pondered. “We’re witnessing a cultural evolution—now, there’s a word you don’t hear in church circles too often—that has demanded Christians to stand their ground and maintain firm convictions in their beliefs. Those who don’t will quickly succumb to the various ideologies of the world today. I may have a smaller congregation than in years past, but I know that those who’ve stayed are brave souls, ready to charge into the fire wearing the armour of God.”

Wood chips crackled behind me as he spoke those words. We both turned to find a young family using a community fire pit to roast a few marshmallows. Preacher Man seemed to get a good kick out of that one. Even with my lack of faith, I’d be remiss if I didn’t feel a bit eerie at the timing of it all. That little girl waving her skewer had no idea.

“Where are you getting all this from?” I refused to let one more divine cop-out excuse this man from giving me a direct answer.

“The Bible, naturally. It’s the starting point for everything, providing us with a straight path back to God in the midst of our struggles. Even when we’re not always—”

“Straight paths don’t exist! As a journalist—no, as a human—it would be asinine for me to believe that. Stop puttering around and answer the question: Why bother having all of this hope when the entire world is trying to tell you that your religion is obsolete?!” 

Way to go, I thought to myself, you blew it. I couldn’t believe I had just let my professionalism slip so drastically. I could lose the story. I could lose my job. I could lose everything. “Father—preacher—sir—I don’t know what came over me. I know I’m not supposed to get emotionally involved in my stories, but this… this doesn’t make any sense.”

Was I about to get a tongue lashing? He had every right to do it, but he said nothing. He just stared at me intensely for a moment... a long moment... before closing his eyes, taking a deep breath, and opening them again to meet mine.

“Lost souls are never too far gone,” he placed his hand on my shoulder, “and the journey back starts with a single step. Let’s take a seat. I’ll get us some cake.”

***

This story is based on Dante Alighieri’s quote, which may be discovered upon revisiting the first word—or first step—in each paragraph.