The Breath of God (17 page)

“Kinley's entire translation of the Issa texts, the one I emailed Billingsly”—he fought back the burning in his throat—“has been posted online.”

“L
OOK AT THIS BS,” Reverend Brady mumbled to himself.

The Birmingham newspaper headline read, NEW HOPE COMMUNITY IN FINANCIAL SCANDAL. Brady settled his ample frame deeply into the leather chair in his church office.

Decorated in an English gentleman's style, the office was spacious to allow for meetings with his parishioners. Brady's favorite touch was the Flemish painting hanging on the wall behind his chair: Jesus, with the cross on his back and thorns cutting into his scalp, struggled up the Golgotha hill as the tendons in his legs and shoulders strained under the weight of his effort. Clouds obscured the sun, casting dark shadows on a background of twisted, leafless trees and distraught followers, but a single ray of light illuminated Christ's face as his eyes looked ahead to the top of the hill. Despite the immense burden of the cross, his face expressed a sea of calm. Brady liked sitting under this painting when he met with people, so that every time their eyes drifted upward, they would be reminded of Christ's acceptance of his own sacrifice, just as they might be asked to make a sacrifice on behalf of the church.

Turning the page of the newspaper, he thought how Satan had an easier time in the modern world. Through print, television, and the Internet, the Evil One could reach millions of corruptible minds. Brady recalled the teaching of John 8:44, that Satan was “the father of lies.” Clearly he used the media as his pawns. Why else would they jump at every chance to condemn prayer in
schools, to lobby for the removal of the Ten Commandments in public spaces, and to promote other, heathen religions?

These godless reporters had been digging for dirt the moment he'd announced the plans for the New Hope Community. And now, after two years, this was what they came up with? Brady turned the page, shaking his head as he read about his own limited partnership interests in one of the developers building the town homes in the community. Just because he was a clergyman, why shouldn't he have the same right to make a living as anyone else? Anyway, the entire concept was his dream, with God's guiding hand, of course. The following page detailed the “severe funding crisis” the project faced, claiming that contractors were threatening to stop work if late bills weren't paid.

As he thought about the effect the article could have on his campaign for the presidency of the NAE, his stomach began to constrict as if it were attempting to fold in on itself. The surge in support from his fellow evangelical ministers had come after the dual home runs he'd hit with the ground breaking of the New Hope Community and the popularity of his book. The election was only a few months away, and he couldn't afford any negative publicity now that his popularity was peaking. Brady envisioned the trips to Washington he would make as the man who could deliver the votes of millions of Christians. Senators and congressmen would bend over backward for him, and the national news media would cling to his every word.

Who was the lowlife reporter's anonymous source?
Brady fumed. Then it came to him; he hadn't trusted that Carla woman for one second. She was one of those typical accounting types. They never understood the bigger picture, and yet they had access to his most personal data—his checkbook. He hadn't heard from Jennings about how she'd taken being let go, but he imagined it hadn't been pretty. She was one of those uppity MBA women, the type of woman Brady simply couldn't tolerate. Brady's other employees had more respectful attitudes. They saw him for what he was: the visionary leader of the church. She just didn't fit in.

A knock echoed through the mahogany office door. “Enter,” Brady said.

Jennings hurried inside without saying hello. He thrust several printouts in front of the reverend. Brady looked at his number two without glancing at the
papers. Brady noticed that Jennings had opted today for his ill-fitting charcoal Brooks Brothers suit instead of the frayed blue one.

“Yes, William. I've read the article already. What are you going to do about it?” Brady tossed the newspaper to the floor in disgust.

“The article?” Jennings said, momentarily confused. “Oh, that trash? Our attorneys already called the editor and threatened a libel suit. Your partnership interests are completely legal.”

“Legal or not, it's the perception of unbecoming behavior we need to fight. The last thing we need is this kind of publicity.”

“It'll blow over,” Jennings said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The paper won't risk a follow-up story after our attorneys finish with them. Not why I'm here, though. Have you read your email today?” Jennings jabbed a clawlike finger at the first sheet of paper he'd tossed at Brady.

Brady surveyed the printed copy from an academic website of a society of biblical scholars. “Why do I care what these egghead professors have to say? You know that most seminaries today don't teach the true word of our Lord. That's why we're building the New Hope Seminary—to teach the literal word of God, not some unbeliever's wishful thinking about what he wants God to say.”

“I know that, Brian, but to fight these types, we need to understand their positions.” Jennings rolled a ballpoint pen from one finger to the next in rhythm with his rapid speech. “These professors are more dangerous than the atheists and agnostics. Every time one of them writes a new historical Jesus book, it sets us back. People who should be listening to you are intoxicated by these professors' academic credentials and the pseudoscience behind their distorted views.”

Now Jennings was speaking his language, Brady thought. The reverend understood better than most that once the mystery and the magic were taken away from the Bible and people were allowed to interpret it in any way they chose, the Good Book lost its power and authority. That was why his own book was so effective: it took the dire predictions in the Book of Revelation and showed how these predictions clearly were coming true today. Brady reluctantly began to scan the article.

“What the ...” Turning the page, Brady's eyes widened. “But this is preposterous,” he sputtered when he'd finished. The article described a discovery by an Emory graduate student, Grant Matthews, in a country Brady had never heard of. The manuscripts found by this student purported to explain the missing years in the life of Jesus in a way that Brady immediately understood was very un-Christian. A chill crept up his spine. The claims being made by this kid were much more serious than any of the drivel he'd seen published about Jesus in the past few years.

“Who's going to read, much less believe, this crap?”

“This article has been online less than a day and over two hundred sites have already linked to it.” Jennings handed Brady another printout of an email message. “Even your parishioners are beginning to ask about it.”

The reverend glanced at the email's
from
line:
Tim Huntley
.

“Tim Huntley? The man who sends me all that conspiracy theory nonsense from the Internet? I delete his messages without opening them.” Brady recalled something he'd scanned not too long ago from Huntley about Americans being the real lost tribe of Israel. Huntley made him uncomfortable—the way he sat ramrod straight in the front row every single Sunday, the awful rashes that distracted Brady during his sermons each week, the way the man didn't seem to get that his minister wouldn't want to be troubled with conspiracy theories. After the man began to send him daily messages, each one more strident than the last, Brady added his name to his junk mail filter. Tim Huntley was one of those parishioners who took Brady's sermons about becoming a soldier in God's army of the righteous too literally.

“Read this one.”

Brady sighed and glanced at the page from Huntley. The tone was similar to his previous emails: urgent, as if the church's very existence depended on the lunatic's theories. As Brady reached the middle of the page, however, he began to fear that the church's future,
his future
, might indeed be threatened. Tim Huntley outlined how the discovery of the texts called into question the very nature of Jesus Christ. If the texts were to be believed, Jesus was a man with fears, insecurities, and questions, a man who developed his own view of God after studying other religions in India, where he spent a majority of his
life traveling. For once, Brady agreed with Tim. This view of Jesus was wholly incompatible with the teachings of the Bible,
with his own teachings
, that Jesus was divine from birth, sent to earth as the incarnation of God himself to judge and to save us.
These texts call into question the very nature of the divinity of Jesus,
Brady realized, fuming
.

The hairs on Brady's neck stood up when he reached the part of the email where Tim set forth his concerns about how this discovery, were it to be accepted by the public, would also directly refute Brady's recent book. People would claim that the influence of other religions was not the cause of the country's current problems, as Brady wrote, but that Jesus himself became who he was because of his contact with other religions.

“Brian, this story will spread and come out big.” Jennings continued to click his pen through his fingers in time with his speech. “If this kid's story pans out, the media will portray this find as far greater than the Dead Sea Scrolls.”

God almighty
, Brady thought. If the media seized on this story, the negative effect it could have on Christians everywhere was frightening. He knew that few Christians had the strength of faith that he had—a faith that could stand up to ridiculous claims like this. He flipped back to the first printout. Halfway down the page his eyes caught the reference to the “secret teachings” that Jesus had supposedly learned during his travels. Brady knew that every New Age flake would seize upon the idea of ancient texts containing secret teachings and make a big deal of it. He shook his head. The only ancient text with true teachings was the Holy Bible.

“But,” Brady said, “certainly this has to be a hoax. There's no way these texts could have remained undiscovered for centuries. They simply can't be real.”

“Brian, this is the opportunity you've been praying for.” Jennings finally stopped twirling his pen and instead began to pace around the office. “We should preempt the news. God is giving you the chance to stand up and speak, not just to your congregation, but to the country as a whole.”

Brady held his thick fingers to his chin, studying Jennings. He rarely saw his number two excited. Brady felt that Jennings lacked a certain spark, as if the Holy Spirit was having a bad day when it touched him. Jennings's emotions were about as upbeat as his wardrobe—old, tired, conservative. But the
reverend recognized that he would never have made it this far without Jennings's ability to see opportunities that others could not.

“We could use some positive publicity right now,” Brady said, more to himself than to Jennings.

“This story will dwarf anything about the financial situation at New Hope.”

“But my book—”

Jennings grinned, something he rarely did. “If you take the lead on this, your book sales will go through the roof. Our financial stresses will be solved.”

“You think so?” Usually the optimist, Brady had become increasingly disturbed by the tone of the last few development meetings. Even Jennings now spoke of delaying certain phases until they received the rest of the funding from the banks.

“I do, but we need to move quickly and control this story ourselves. We will establish you as the voice of opposition—the voice of the believers.”

The voice of the believers
, Brady thought. He liked the sound of that. Someone needed to protect the true Christians from the threat to their faith that academics like Grant Matthews posed. “How do you propose I do it?”

“I have a few ideas.”

Brady glanced at the page in his hand. The final paragraph contained an offer of help from Tim Huntley, who suggested that with his military background and his faith, he was the perfect soldier for Brady's and God's army. The man suggested that the world would be better off if the texts just disappeared.

“You aren't going to rely on this nut job?” Brady held up the page. Although Huntley had outlined the dangers of the texts accurately, everything about the man made Brady cringe. With the endless emails and the intensity with which the man stared at him on Sundays, Brady felt as if he were being stalked, like a woman trying to escape a jealous lover. Brady conjured up the image of Huntley in the first row and involuntarily recoiled at the thought. His face was always peeling, scaly, like a sunburned serpent. He again thanked God for his own flawless complexion.

Jennings began to rotate the pen between his fingers again. He shook his head. “I have something better in mind. Something public.”

T
IM CLICKED THE CAR door closed and scanned the parking lot. Two in the morning on a weeknight. The apartment complex was quiet and dark. Dressed in black cargo pants and a black sweater just as he was a week earlier for his op at the CDC a few miles from here, he blended into the shadows. He pulled a black stocking cap over his ears and strode to a staircase at the end building. An abundance of landscaping, particularly the freshly planted annuals, diverted attention from the cheap construction of the vinyl-sided, three-story building.

Although it was late, Tim was alert without being jittery—as if he'd consumed just the right amount of caffeine, although he never touched the stuff. Didn't believe in putting any drugs into his system, legal or not. His rush came from being back in the game. Tim was now part of something bigger than himself. He thought his missions with Johnny and the bombings they had planned throughout the Southeast would make a difference, but now he heard a clearer message from above. As he'd suspected, Johnny Meckle wasn't cut out for this type of work. Johnny had avoided Tim for two days after the bombing, and when Tim finally cornered him in the parking lot, Johnny broke down.