“That’s one way of putting it.”

“I’ve noticed in church that sometimes he’ll put his hand on your shoulder and you… sort of cringe, don’t you? You pull away.”

“I don’t mean to.”

“I’m sure.” Father Beale locked eyes with Ben. “I’ve also noticed more than once the bruises on your arms. Your legs. That black eye you had last winter. A lot of injuries for a boy who doesn’t play sports.”

Ben fell silent. He looked down at the floor tiles.

“That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?” Beale continued. “You don’t want to be an acolyte-because you father does want you to be an acolyte.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I just don’t believe in all that mumbo jumbo.”

“I expect I’ve got a lot of acolytes who don’t believe in all that mumbo jumbo, but they’re still happy to be acolytes. If for no other reason, it’s fun. Lighting the candles, wearing the robes. Hanging out with the other kids.” He batted his lips with a finger. “But that doesn’t really speak to you, either, does it?”

“I just don’t want to be an acolyte, okay already? Are you going to make me?”

“No, Ben, I’m not going to make you. I think it would be good for you. I think God wants you to do it. But you have to come to Him willingly, or it’s meaningless. Don’t you agree?”

“I agree that it’s meaningless.”

Beale grinned. “I like you, Ben. I really do. You’re a rebel, just like me. And we need more rebels in this world.” He stretched out in his chair. “I do think it would serve you well to have some friends, though.”

“I have friends.”

“What? Books? I’m talking about the other kids in this church. Why aren’t you out in the back shooting the breeze with the other boys your age?”

Ben’s voice was soft and halting. “I don’t really… get along with the other boys. They always talk about… weird stuff.”

“Like sex?”

Ben’s eyes widened. “How did you know?”

“For starters, I was twelve once. In my experience, the conversation of twelve-year-old boys principally deals with bodily functions. Sex being the most popular.”

Ben looked down at the floor. “I just can’t… follow all that dirty talk.”

“Dad hasn’t had the chat with you yet, huh?” He sighed. “Well, your father is a busy man. Tell you what, Ben. I’ve got a book I’m going to lend you. You like books, right? It should solve some of the mysteries. But, uh…” He tugged at his collar. “You don’t necessarily need to tell your parents I lent it to you. In fact, I don’t think they need to know you have it at all. We’ll just make it our little secret. Okay? That shouldn’t be a problem for a twelve-year-old nihilist.”

“Okay. Cool.”

“Read it through a few times. Then you should have no trouble conversing with the other boys on this all-important subject.”

“But-even when I know what they’re talking about… they talk so dirty. They make fun of me ’cause I don’t talk like them.”

“Well, other boys can be nasty. Other people, actually.” Father Beale pondered a moment. “May I make a suggestion? Another one that your father probably wouldn’t approve of?”

“Sure.”

“Next time you see the other boys, just say fuck a few times.”

Ben gasped. “Wha-wha-”

“You heard me. Just say fuck, loud and clear. It’s a very flexible word. An Anglo-Saxon classic. You can use it, or a form of it, as a noun, a verb, an adjective, or an adverb.”

Ben gaped. He’d never in his life heard any grown-up use that word. Especially not a priest.

“Just do it and get it over with. God won’t hold it against you, I promise. And once you’ve done it a few times, you’ll be in the club. You’ll be one of the gang. And,” he added emphatically, “you won’t have to do it any more thereafter. Understand?”

Ben nodded.

“Good. Now run along. I’ll tell your father we’re doing some soul-searching, and we’ll put off this acolyte decision for a while, till you’ve had more time to think about it. I want you to join-I want you to feel that you’re dedicating your life to a higher cause-but it’s something you have to come to on your own.”

“Okay.”

“And be sure to admire my new stained glass window on your way out of here. It’s a beaut, isn’t it? I’ve waited eight years to put something that exquisite in this church.”

Ben did admire the new window, a full-length, multicolored portrayal of a dove rising above a rainbow. The conclusion of the Noah’s Ark story. He could see why Father Beale was so proud; it was positively breathtaking.

What he did not know then, what he could not possibly imagine, was how that window-and Father Beale-would change his life forever.

The Gospel According to Daniel

My first service after my release from jail was not, I would have to say, a rousing success. I had feared a boycott, but when the parishioners began to arrive in their usual numbers, I was lulled into the false belief that all was well, that they were willing to give me another chance. No one spoke to me, true, but that in itself was not unusual before a service, when both they and I are in a contemplative and prayerful state. They took their seats in the pews and all proceeded as usual. The choir sang, the readers read. I preached a sermon on the importance of forgiveness. I’m sure many in attendance thought I had chosen a self-serving topic, but in fact I had based my homily, as I always do, on the gospel reading for that Sunday prescribed by the lectionary. Whatever their thoughts, everyone sat quietly and listened. I was elated.

Until it came time for communion. At St. Benedict’s, as at many Episcopal churches, we take communion at every Sunday service. I went through the usual procedures, breaking the bread, blessing the wine, singing the Sanctus and the Agnus Dei and so forth. But when I opened my eyes, the congregation was not moving forward to take the sacraments of Christ. One by one, they were moving in the opposite direction. They were leaving.

My people would not take communion from me.

Like Christ in the Garden, I stood alone.

That afternoon I cried like a baby. Cried and cried and cried. Cried to myself, cried out to God. Why would he visit this upon me? I still believed I was following his calling, that he wanted me to be at St. Benedict’s. But if that was true, why was he punishing me so? For a shepherd to watch his own flock walk out on him-that went beyond testing. That, it seemed to me, was pure cruelty. But I did not-I could not-believe that my God was a cruel one. I do not believe that God causes tragedies to test us, that he kills tiny children to bring about some greater scheme. So why then was this happening? Either God truly was cruel, or God was powerless to stop the chain of events that had ensnared me. There seemed no other possible explanations.

And I did not know that I could live with either of those.

“All right,” Ben said to all those gathered around the conference table, “this may be our last chance, so if there’s anything you’ve learned, anything you’ve suspected, anything you haven’t told me yet, this is the time. The trial starts Monday morning at nine a.m., and I intend to be ready.”

Despite the fact that it was a Sunday afternoon, Ben had his whole staff gathered in the office-Christina, Loving, Jones, and Paula, just for good measure-as well as Father Beale. Everyone was trying to put a brave face on it, since the defendant was present, but Ben knew they were all conscious of the same omnipresent fact: The prosecution had a lot of evidence against Father Beale, and they had come up with precious little in his defense.

“What about all the people from St. Benedict’s you’ve interviewed, Loving? I’ve read your reports. Is there anything more? Any suspicions you couldn’t quite nail down? Any possible theories or motives?”