She settled back and folded her arms across her chest. “I’ve been married to Daniel for over ten years. Some of those years have been better than others. There have been things I-I-didn’t exactly enjoy. Or approve of. But I don’t-I-I can’t conceive of a life without him.”

Ben tried to sound reassuring. “We’re not going to let it come to that, Andrea.”

“Absolutely,” Christina echoed.

“Your husband did not commit this crime,” Ben said. He broadened his gaze, bringing everyone at the table into view. “And we are not going to let him be convicted. We will win this case.” He paused, then looked at each of his staff members in turn. “We will.”

The Gospel According to Daniel

As a theologian and a former philosophy major, I’m aware that most of the great minds of human history have written about “home” at one time or another.

Robert Frost: “Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.”

Thomas Wolfe: “You can’t go home again.”

And, of course, the greatest of them all, Dorothy Gale: “There’s no place like home.”

But today, as I sit down to write a few words on the subject, I find I have mixed feelings-and mixed definitions-regarding the elusive word. Most people would assume that the house Andrea and I shared on Sandusky would be my home, but to me, in both my heart and mind, home was St. Benedict’s. It was there I felt most relaxed, most comfortable. It was there I did my most important work. The house on Sandusky was chosen by a Realtor; my home at St. Benedict’s was chosen by God. St. Benedict’s-during the good times-gave me a sense of contentment and fulfillment far more intense than the ambiguous signals that often attended the tiny cottage on Sandusky. At St. Benedict’s, I felt closer to myself, and as a result, closer to God.

Therefore, despite all that had gone before, and some might say, despite all common sense, I looked forward to my return to St. Benedict’s after my brief all-expenses-paid sabattical courtesy of the Tulsa Sheriff’s Department. I naively thought that with the worst behind us, we could begin to rebuild, to do God’s work. I saw it as a fresh beginning.

Alas, I was the only one. None of my detractors had altered their opinions in the least; to the contrary, their animosity had intensified, something I would not have thought possible. Even those who had previously been my supporters did little to welcome me back; they seemed weary of the fight, more than ready to admit defeat and end the protracted power struggle. Indeed, more than one of my most ardent advocates suggested that it might be best for all concerned-for me and the church-if I resigned. Why protract the misery? they would say. Why involve the church in a high profile criminal prosecution? Everyone seemed convinced that this was the time when I should finally throw in the collar and call it quits.

Except me. I wouldn’t hear of it. I have been called to this church, I must’ve said a million times. The bishop installed me here to do God’s work. Who am I to say that His will should not be done? Did Job quit when he was persecuted? Did Christ? Of course not. They survived their tests-for that is what this surely must be-and went on to do great work. To be cherished messengers of the Word of God. I would do the same. I would not betray my divine commission.

That was my thinking at the time, at any rate. Now, looking back on it after so much has happened, I wonder if my reaction had more to do with ego than religion. No doubt the role of the Christian martyr appealed to me subconsciously, particularly when there was so much trauma in my life. It was all a matter of where I mentally pictured myself, of what I called home. Did I prefer to locate myself in the cottage on Sandusky, with a wife who had never really accepted the lifestyle I adopted-we adopted? Was it in the political arena of St. Benedict’s, arguing with the vestry and disputing even the most minor points of theology and liturgy? Or was it on the cross, suffering with my Savior? What would I choose? What would anyone who perceived himself as a man of God choose?

Viewed through the refracted light of memory, my choices made a sort of irrational sense. But now, after all I have seen and experienced, and in the light of the tragedy that has befallen, I can see myself for the fool I was. And am.

Ben felt as if he must be carrying a magnetic charge, because as soon as he stepped through the front doors of the church, everyone began to gravitate toward him.

Ernestine, being squired as usual by her puffball nephew, reached him first. “If you’re looking for your client,” she said sniffily, “he’s in his office. Alone.”

“Thanks. But I’m just here for choir practice.”

Alvin Greene, the Altar Guild man, rose up behind Ben. “Is it true? Is he going to stand trial?”

“It’s true,” Ben said ruefully.

Ruth O’Connell tottered beside Ernestine. “Isn’t there anything we can do to end this?”

“No, I’m afraid-”

“Do you mean end the trial,” Ernestine asked, “or the occupation of our church by this priest?”

“Now, Aunt Ernestine,” Bruce said, patting her hand. “Let’s not be testy.”

“I’m sixty-seven years old,” she said sharply. “I can be testy if I want to be. Go fetch me some lemonade.”

“Aunt Ernestine, I-”

“And hurry. My throat is dry.”

“Yes, Aunt Ernestine.” He slinked away down the corridor.

The questions continued to fly. “What evidence do they have against him?” “Do you think you can get him off?” “Is the DA seeking the death penalty?”

Ben was reminded of the “Heal thyself” crowd Jesus had to bust loose from. He held up his hands, backing away. “Please,” he said. “I’m not here to be a lawyer. Or to hold a press conference. I’m just here for choir practice.”

“I don’t see that it hurts you to answer a few questions,” Ruth said.

Ben didn’t care. He was already halfway down the corridor, scrupulously not making eye contact with anyone he met. He passed Father Beale’s office and could see through the glass windows that he was in. He was seated in the chair behind his desk, all by himself. He didn’t appear to be working or reading or anything. Just thinking. Staring at the wall and thinking. Ben couldn’t guess what he might be thinking about-and didn’t want to. The possibilities at this point were all too painful.

Ben continued down the corridor, ducked inside the choir room, and closed the door behind him.

Practice had not yet begun; most of his fellow choristers were standing around chatting. Masterson, the minister of music, saw Ben and headed his way.

“We have two new members tonight,” Masterson whispered. A small smile danced on his lips. “And I believe I have you to thank for it.”

Ben’s eyes swept across the room, searching for the newcomers. It didn’t take long. Two pink painted fingernails waggled at him in front of two tightly braided pigtails.

Judy. With her friend Maura.

“A little young for the adult choir, aren’t they?” Ben asked.

“Not really,” Masterson answered. “I’ve always welcomed teenagers. I just never got any. Until now. Thanks to you.”

“I doubt if I had anything to do with it.”

“Oh? Then why are they both insisting on singing in the tenor section?”

Masterson wandered away to his piano and began pulling out bolts of sheet music. Judy skittered down from the back row, Maura close at her heels.

“Ben! Ben!” Judy leaned forward conspiratorially. “Everyone in the church is all abuzz about Father Beale and the trial.”

“I’m sure it will blow over soon enough. I’d recommend you concentrate on more interesting subjects.”

“Are you kidding? This is the most exciting thing that’s happened to this church since-well, ever. Have you been investigating?”