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Category: Short Stories

  • Tlisli – Ambushed!

    *It was nearly a week after her first lesson with the sword, and if Tlisli had only had a mirror, she would hardly have recognized herself. Many days of travel with Azzesh had already strengthened her body, not to mention toughening her mind. She didn’t even notice things that would have had her crying only weeks ago back home.

    They followed the river closely, and progress was slow, because the jungle was thick. In addition, Azzesh stopped frequently to collect various plants which she added to her already rather heavy pack. Even though Tlisli knew that Tlazil were much stronger than humans, she was shocked at the load that Azzesh could carry.

    The day was generally normal, though Azzesh had mentioned to Tlisli that they were within a few days of the city. “If we pressed on quickly,” she said, “we would reach the city in about four days. As it is, it will probably be more like five or six. We must watch carefully now as we travel.”

    “Why must we be more careful? Don’t things get safer as we come closer to the city?”

    Azzesh laughed. “Not precisely, small human. When we were far away there were many dangers, but they were far apart. If bandits want to rob travelers, they are going to stay a couple of days away from the city to avoid the guard patrols, but then they won’t go more than a couple of days travel further out because they need to have targets to attack. Further out in the jungle the targets are too few and far between. Bandits don’t enjoy having to hunt for their dinner, indeed they don’t!”

    So Tlisli watched closely as they walked. Azzesh liked to stay where they could see the river from time to time, but where they also had plenty of cover in case someone (or something) on the river should decide they looked like lunch. “Just as I could eat you for my lunch, so there are other creatures who might eat me,” was Azzesh’s comment. “That’s not to mention groups of smaller creatures who might do the same!”

    So when Tlisli thought she heard something that sounded suspiciously like oars dipping in the water and human speech from the river, she quickly hissed a warning to Tlisli, before dropping behind the nearest cover. “It’s always best to get a look at them first,” Azzesh always said.

    Azzesh was actually reaching to push her down, and was pleasantly surprised to realize that Tlisli was already on the ground. The problem was that she had been closer to the river than Tlisli at the time, and she was almost certain that the men in the boat had seen her. Had she just been paying more attention to the river, and less to her effort to catch a rather rare Xiril snake, from which she hoped to milk some venom, she would have seen it earlier. She would never admit to Tlisli that the girl had actually noticed the danger first.

    She motioned to Tlisli to crawl away from the river. They both did so until they were perhaps a hundred feet away.

    “Are they bandits?” asked Tlisli.

    “No, unfortunately.”

    “Unfortunately?”

    “They are much worse. I suspect you would recognize the yellow sun, surrounded by rays, on a black background.”

    It took a moment. Tlisli had practically forgotten the folks who had driven her from her home city. “They can’t be chasing me, can they?”

    Azzesh was momentarily stunned into silence. “And to think I thought I had educated you. Oh how vain are my pretensions to being a teacher! Of course they aren’t chasing you! But we are probably a hundred kilometers closer to the Grand Empire than you were when you left your home city. I had not expected them this close, but I imagine these are scouting ways to cut Tevelin off from its trade routes.” Tevelin was the port city they were approaching.

    “So what do we do now?”

    “Do? We continue northward to the coast and to Tevelin. I think they saw me, and likely you as well, and so they may try to catch us. If so, they’re going to do so further north. I know their boat continued downstream.”

    “Isn’t it possible they just decided to go on?”

    “I’m sure they hope we think so, and knowing that the boat will travel faster than we can walk, they hope we’ll think they are no longer a threat. But I suspect they want to capture us.”

    “So what do we do?”

    “We try to avoid them, but if all else fails, you will get to see how Azzesh fights, and you will get to try your sword in actual combat. I assume you don’t want to be captured by the Grand-Emperor’s forces, do you?”

    “No!” said Tlisli.

    “I will lead,” said Azzesh, “since unfortunately I cannot be  both advance and rear guard. I’m going to assume we’ll spot them first. If they come from behind, you need to move first to get behind a tree, and make sure to yell immediately when they have seen you. You carry a bow with one arrow easily available, just as when you hunt, but you only use that one arrow, then draw your sword. In this jungle, our fight will not be at long range.”

    “OK,” said Tlisli nervously. The thought of actually fighting still terrified her, even though she knew her skill with the bow was almost unimaginably improved over what it had been just a few short weeks ago.

    As it turned out, Azzesh was wrong. The scouting troops of the Grand-Emperor were very skilled at sneaking, and they let Azzesh move right past the first of the ambush. She didn’t notice a thing. In order to keep her from noticing, however, they had to stay somewhat back from the path she was following, so when they moved out to cut Tlisli off, they had several meters of jungle to cross.

    Tlisli was tense and alert, and heard them approaching almost instantly. With a loud shout, she turned, and drew her bow and loosed the arrow at an attacker to her right. A yelp and a crash let of her know that she had hit something. She had no time to decide whether she had stopped or merely inconvenienced that attacker. There was a second warrior coming from her left.

    Tlisli had never been very big on obedience, and on this occasion it was a good thing. Seeing the distance between her and this second attacking warrior, she grabbed another arrow, drew her bow and loosed the second arrow. This time he was coming straight at her, there was no foliage in the way, and the arrow went straight to his heart.

    It was fortunate for Tlisli that the Grand-Emperor’s scouts tended to wear little armor in the jungle. Her arrow went straight to his heart, and she saw him fall. At the same time, she could hear from the other direction that the other attacker had in fact not been killed or incapacitated by her first shot, and he was coming right at her with a short spear. She barely had time to dodge neatly avoiding the spear point and buying herself time to draw her sword.

    While on that first pass he had been so sure he was going to hit her before she realized he was there, as he turned, he was much more careful, feinting with his spear to try to get her off-guard. She had gone immediately into the defensive stance that was so necessary in practicing with Azzesh, and she now realized it’s value.

    He stabbed at a point to her left, and she simply moved her sword inside to protect her torso. It was a good thing, because that was where he moved immediately afterward. Had she parried the mis-aimed blow, she would have been out of position, and he could have stabbed her right in the chest. As it was she parried his next attack with her sword, and took advantage of the time his spear was out of position from her parry to step in closer.

    It was the last thing he was expecting. There was nothing deeper in the mind of a Grand Empire soldier than disdain for women. To him, Tlisli was just a girl. She might wiggle out of his reach, but she would not be a direct threat.

    He was wrong. As she stepped forward and stabbed his gut with her sword, he had only a moment to realize it. She withdrew the sword and struck again, then checked to be sure her other opponent was still down.

    She had been hearing sounds of fighting, about where Azzesh would have been, and she guessed that she had been subject to the smaller attack, probably because the attackers underestimated her so much. These two warriors were to separate her from Azzesh, while presumably the larger force attacked the larger target.

    Despite the short distance between them–less than five meters–there was a tree between her and Azzesh. She came around that tree with her sword at the ready, and saw Azzesh lying prone a large human standing over her, preparing to stab his spear into her. There were already three bodies on the ground, testimony to the speed and thoroughness of the Tlazil’s attacks. Yet she was bleeding, on the ground, and helpless.

    Without thinking, Tlisli charged forward. The warrior jumped back, leaving Azzesh lying between them. Then he made his big mistake.

    “Give it up, girl!” he said. “There’s no way you can defeat me. Your Tlazil master is dying and can’t save you. In fact,” he twitched his spear point back and forth carelessly, “I won’t kill you. The men of my patrol need some entertainment, and though ugly, you will doubtless be adequate.”

    Tlisli didn’t pay attention to the speech. She watched his spear twitch back and forth. He began to criticize her sword stance, pointing out that in that position, she would be best able to go for one of his toes. Tlisli remained quiet and just watched. Hours of being insulted by Azzesh had inured her to the sound of such criticism.

    Suddenly he lunged forward, and swung his spear at her like a stick, aiming to hit her in the side and knock her over. That was Azzesh’s favorite punishment for inattentiveness during training, and this warrior wasn’t as good at it as was the Tlazil. As he swung she carefully angled her sword to catch the haft of the spear at just the right angle, and cut it nearly through. What was left was no longer functional as a spear.

    He had his moment of surprise, and found himself too far forward. She got in one swing with her sword before he drew a long knife from his belt, but she only managed a cut–nothing disabling. Then he let out a war cry and turned to flee. Tlisli guessed he was calling to the remainder of the soldiers at the boat, and planning to to get them and return.

    But now he learned the error of his ways. He had assumed that Azzesh was dying, too far gone even to employ any form of healing herbs or magic. But he was wrong. He had given her long enough to find and use a healing amulet. She was still not at full strength, but she was far from dying. As he turned to flee, she brought up her sword and very nearly cut him in two.

    “Quick!” she said to Tlisli. “Get behind the crotch in that tree. His companions will be here in minutes. Keep an eye out for them trying to slip around, but I think they will abandon subtlety and come straight at us. We will gain the advantage with our arrows. I’ll check that these others are dead, though I believe they are.”

    “How many do you think there are?”

    “I would say about the same number again as we have already killed, but the advantage will be ours.”

    And so it proved. In fact, there were only four more warriors who came to investigate, and they should not have done so. They came carefully, but were unprepared for what they found. When the first two in site sprouted arrows, all fled, but only three were left to run back to the river.

    With a glance around at the bodies on the ground, Azzesh charged after them, and Tlisli followed. It was less than 40 meters to the river’s edge, where the boat was tied to a tree. The three fleeing warriors jumped into the boat while the one remaining warrior who was waiting there cut the rope with his knife. As he pushed away, both Azzesh and Tlisli loosed arrows. Then as Tlisli grabbed another arrow, Azzesh jumped into the water and grabbed the side of the boat. Her weight was substantial and the boat capsized, throwing the remaining warriors into the river where they were at a serious disadvantage over the amphibious Tlazil.

    Then all that was left was to collect the spoils of battle …

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    * This is obviously a work of fiction. All places, persons, and even things are products of my imagination. Part of the Tlisli Series. Copyright © 2010 Henry E. Neufeld

  • About Those Small Town Values

    *The group was solemn, though they were gathered in a decorated living room on Christmas afternoon. It remained solemn even though everyone had a drink in hand and there was plenty of food. It was the sort of picture Norman Rockwell might have painted. He would have put smiles on their faces and portrayed a wondrously wholesome gathering, such as one expects in small town America over the Christmas holidays.

    It was the home of Arthur and Thelma Johnson, and their 26-year-old daughter Mary (Mary Elizabeth when you were serious) was home from her big city job, with her big city boy friend in tow.  If one were to look closely, one would notice that Mary was the center of attention, and that her fiance was absent.  Mark had discovered a department store in a town a mere 45 minutes drive away that was open Christmas day and was planning to “pick up a couple of things.”

    “Where’s your young man, Mary Elizabeth?” asked Thelma.

    “He went to town to pick up a few needed items.” Everyone knew where “town” was. They didn’t have to specify it by name.

    “Don’t you think that’s a little thoughtless of him? It’s Christmas day! It’s time for family.” Thelma kept her voice quiet, giving an impression of entreaty rather than condemnation.

    Mary didn’t think it was thoughtless at all. She thought that Mark had plenty of excuses to get out of the way right now, starting with being called her “young man.” Mark was 32, and the six year difference in their ages had been subtly emphasized. Nobody said “cradle robber.”  How could they? They just took note of his age. But it wasn’t any of those good reasons that had sent Mark to the department store, searching for items she was pretty sure he didn’t need. It was his sensitivity to her feelings, one of the things that had attracted her to him in the first place. He knew she’d rather handle this without him, so he made himself scarce.

    In fact, the very idea that he would avoid an uncomfortable situation made her smile. Mark was mild-mannered, but it was deceptive. What made him a good attorney, already a partner in his firm with seniority well beyond his years, was that he could read people with uncanny accuracy, and that nothing phased him or made him panic. He chose his battles and chose them well. In this case, he knew his fiance would want to speak for herself, and so he arranged not to be in the way.

    “Why are you smiling?” asked Thelma. “Did I say something funny?”

    “You did, Mom, but you wouldn’t get it.”

    “I wish you wouldn’t patronize me, Mary Elizabeth. I’m smarter than you think.”

    “OK then Mom, in that case, why do you despise Mark? You hardly know him.”

    “I’m a good judge of character,” said Thelma.

    “That she is,” said Pastor Sollaway, “Pastor Mike” to his flock. “At church we always know to listen to Miss Thelma when people are involved!”

    “Thank you, pastor,” said Thelma, glowing just a bit. Then she turned back to her daughter. “Mark is a big-city boy,” she continued. “And I don’t mean just that he grew up in New York City. I mean he’s big city through and through. He’s not at all the type of young man I’d hoped my Mary Elizabeth, my only daughter, would bring home one day.” There was a slight emphasis on the “young man” again, emphasizing her mother’s belief that they should be closer in age.

    Mary remembered the day she had come home from college to visit.  She had been 21 years old, and her mother had set her up with a date with Bill Weisser, 30 at the time. It wasn’t the age. That was just a handle her mother had grabbed onto.

    “And what is it about him that makes him inappropriate for your daughter?” asked Mary.

    Thelma seemed at a loss. “But honey, he’s a big city lawyer!” she exclaimed.

    “And that’s really your whole objection, isn’t it?”

    “Mary,” said Pastor Mike. “It’s just a label for what your mother feels deep inside her about his young man. It’s the package. She knows he’s not the right type of man for you.”

    “So why is that, Pastor Mike?”

    “Well, I don’t think he’s really a Christian. I asked him if he thought the Bible was true, and he gave me a lawyer’s answer about different ways something could be true.” He paused. “Tell me, Mary, how often are you attending church these days?”

    “Oh, I probably make it once a month or so,” said Mary.

    “You see! It’s his unbelieving influence on you. You’re no longer living up to the values you learned here in your home town.”

    Mary was rather stunned by this for a moment, but then she realized that she had never told them about church in the “big city.” She’d lied during college. She’d attended a little church near campus once in four years of college, and had used that one time to help her make up stories of all the other services she wanted to pretend she’d attended. She hadn’t attended at all in graduate school, and hadn’t known where the nearest church was to where she lived in New York. Until Mark, that is.

    Is this what being a good judge of character means? she thought. Mark was a member of a small Episcopal church some miles from his apartment. One of the things she had to get used to when they started going out was that this smart, worldly-wise attorney, who could handle himself as well at a cocktail party as in a courtroom, nonetheless went to church regularly.

    She recalled a day when he was rushed with preparations for a difficult case in court. As usual, he was calm and collected, but he was working rapidly. She was sitting on his couch watching him and the TV in about equal proportions when suddenly he got up from the table, told her he needed to go down to the church. This wasn’t his home church, but a larger one nearer to his apartment. She went with him. It was a tiny service, with just the minister and half a dozen people, offering the Eucharist.  “Eucharist.”  That was a word she had learned that evening. Mark told her he never went into an important case or a meeting without it. She hadn’t understood then. She didn’t understand now. But she was beginning to. But how could you explain that to Pastor Mike?

    “Do you have any idea how often Mark attends church?” she asked.

    “Well, it can’t be very often,” answered Thelma and Pastor Mike together.

    “He didn’t even know any of the songs we sang when he came to church with you last Sunday.” That was Thelma’s comment. She could always tell who was really singing and who was faking it.

    “And that’s where you’re wrong. No, I don’t mean wrong about the songs. He didn’t know them. I didn’t either, but you didn’t mention that. You see, up until I met Mark I hadn’t been in church for nearly eight years.”

    “But, you told us …” Thelma’s mouth was hanging open.

    “I lied,” said Mary. She didn’t really feel sorry either. She knew she should, but she didn’t.

    “I just thought your church used different songs than we do. Not everyone is as progressive about the worship service as Pastor Mike.”

    Everyone in the room was startled by another voice. Arthur Johnson spoke so rarely that not everyone was sure just what his voice sounded like. “You said, ‘until I met Mark.’ What happened then?”

    “Well, Daddy, Mark goes to church more than once a week. He never insisted I go, but he would never skip it in order to do something with me. He often attends services in the evening during the week as well. He says it helps keep him centered.”

    “Missed that, didn’t you Thelma,” said Arthur, and then lapsed into silence.

    “But what church does he attend?” asked Thelma.

    “Does it matter?”

    “Yes! Some of these churches teach any old thing. They don’t have any values at all. If they did, they’d tell you two not to be sleeping together before you’re married. Oh now, don’t give me that shocked look, Mary Elizabeth! I can recognize lust in the eyes when I see it, and the two of you both have lust in your eyes. Never mind you’re sleeping in two separate bedrooms during your visit. I know you did that just because you knew that your father and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

    Mary was momentarily stunned. It had not occurred to her that her mother would assume they were sleeping together. She had assumed, when she started dating a dazzling attorney on the rise, that she would be expected to sleep with him. She’d fallen for him the first date, and would have done it too, she knew. But he didn’t ask. What he did was rush the engagement and the marriage, which was scheduled in a mere two weeks. Both the short courtship and engagement and the fact that they planned a non-traditional wedding in New York, rather than a more traditional one in her home town, were major bones of contention. She was surprised her mother hadn’t brought those up.

    “Is he Episcopalian?” asked Pastor Mike.

    Again, Mary was surprised. She’d assumed because the wedding was to be in Mark’s home church, an Episcopal congregation, that everyone had realized that was where he was a member. It was her small town upbringing, she supposed. Of course, big city folks often rented churches in which to hold weddings, and her parents and friends would believe that was the case.

    “Yes,” she said simply.

    “Well, then, no wonder he hasn’t been taught any moral values. They even ordained a homosexual bishop!”

    “Pastor Mike, you’re assuming an awful lot.”

    “Well, are you sleeping together? Did the church pastor tell you it was a sin?” In fact, they weren’t, and their pastor had told them precisely that. But for some reason she didn’t tell him. The question seemed to break something in her.

    “Is it your opinion that people in this little town don’t sleep together outside of marriage?”

    “We believe it’s a sin. We don’t condone it.” Pastor Mike’s tone was firm. Thelma looked too stunned to speak. Mary found she approved of that state.

    “That’s interesting,” Mary continued. “I know the names of two elders in your church, Pastor Mike, who have committed adultery on a regular basis, and nothing has been done about it. Is that your small town values? Even more, I know of several members of families represented right here in this room who had sex before marriage. I’m not going to name names on the off-chance that someone in the room might not be aware of the situation.” She used “have sex” rather than the preferred “sleep together.” Truth be told, she had almost used the f-word.

    The room fell into stunned silence. “And as for homosexuality, you do realize that the Eller brothers are not, in fact, brothers, and they both sing in the choir. Oh yes, I know that, and I know you know that, but you won’t name it.”

    “That’s not fair,” said Pastor Mike.

    “Not fair? Why is it not fair? Is it because all those people are small town people you’ve known all your lives? Yet Mark, who you can’t really accuse of doing one single wrong thing, is to be condemned?”

    Pastor Mike had his mouth open again. But the accusations–he did know precisely who the adulterous elders were, and he knew the Eller brothers weren’t–simply left him speechless. How did she know? While he was looking for words, she continued.

    “Oh, I know this sounds unfair. There are a lot of good people in this town. In your heart, Pastor Mike, you really just want to care for people. You don’t know how to pastor the Eller brothers, so you ignore the situation, and maybe that’s the best situation. I have less understanding of church elders who commit adultery, but then perhaps you don’t have the power to do anything about it. They are, after all, the church’s biggest contributors.

    “I left this town intending to come back. Small town values are wonderful. I wish you’d live up to them. I wish I would live up to them. But there are also lots of big city folks who have values.

    “Pastor Mike, you probably thought I never listened in those Bible classes you taught, but I do remember that somewhere in James it says that there is only one lawgiver and only one judge. You have set yourselves up as a judge over my fiance from the moment he came to town. You’ve put him down in small ways, and now you’ve falsely accused him.

    “Perhaps, Pastor Mike, you need to work on those values of yours if they keep you from serving the people you’re supposed to serve, and find you judging others when you don’t know their circumstances.”

    As Mary stood up, and strode out of the room, she heard the startled “Mary Elizabeth …” from her mother, but this time it didn’t stop her. She’d have to reconcile with her parents after that. Mark would tell her it was necessary. He’d say they were family, and you had to put up with them, though you didn’t have to let them run your life. But that would be for later.

    Just now she’d had enough of small town values.

    * This is a work of fiction. All persons and places (except New York City!) are products of the author’s imagination. Copyright © 2010, Henry E. Neufeld

  • Fiction Link: I Told You So

    A short story with an interesting ending.  Yes, it’s relevant both to science fiction and Christianity (or other forms of spirituality).

  • Tlisli and the Tlazil II


    Tlisli* jumped up from lunch and reached for her backpack.  Azzesh had again provided an excellent meal, cooked quickly and yet tasty and well seasoned.  There was more meat than Tlisli would have preferred, but she would never think of mentioning that to Azzesh.

    The reason she had jumped up and reached for her backpack was that Azzesh had gotten up and was reaching for her own pack.  Tlisli had learned to respond quickly when Azzesh wanted something done, and one thing Azzesh never permitted was wasting time on the trail.  And while Azzesh was neither like the smothering discipline of her childhood, nor like the brutality of the grand-emperor’s people, she could make life uncomfortable.  Tlisli was convinced that she had been tripped several times, had stumbled into a couple of trees, and even fallen into a large thorn bush because she had managed to put the Tlazil in a bad mood.

    It was two days since her conversation with Azzesh regarding the sword she had found (see Tlisli and the Tlazil – I).  Azzesh hadn’t discussed it, nor had she said she was taking the sword, but she had stuffed it in her own pack, and Tlisli hadn’t objected.

    “What are you putting on your pack for?” asked Azzesh.

    “I thought we were leaving,” replied Tlisli, puzzled.

    “No.  It is now time for you to learn to use this sword of yours.”

    “Mine?” said Tlisli.  “I thought you said I didn’t deserve it.”

    “I don’t think you do, but the gods are more gracious than I.  They have given it to you.”

    “I found it,” said Tlisli looking down, and downcast at the same time.

    “The gods are gracious,” said Azzesh, “But they give gifts that require our efforts.  Do you think you found this sword on your own?  Do you think you survived on your own?  No!  The gods brought you here.  The gods let you find the sword.  The gods helped you survive.  That is surely the only reason I don’t eat you for dinner.”  Azzesh paused.  “Well, that, and the fact that you would be stringy and doubtless bland in flavor.  But with Nistl roots and seasoned with serriss, doubtless even you would be edible.”

    She held out the sword.  “Take it and prepare to defend yourself.”

    Azzesh immediately grabbed a stick that Tlisli hadn’t noticed and began to attack without any warning or instruction.  Tlisli tried to block her attacks, but she was largely unsuccessful.  It seemed that wherever she moved the sword, Azzesh’s stick was coming at her somewhere else.  She was being poked or hit every few seconds, though the blows were not that heavy.

    Suddenly Azzesh swung hard, and as had been the case nearly every time, Tlisli was trying to parry a blow somewhere else, one that never came.  She staggered back, startled by the pain.

    “What did you do that for?” Tlisli asked.

    “To motivate you.”

    “But that hurt!”  Tlisli was still rubbing her side.

    “And had I been swinging a sword, you would now be in two parts, quite ready for me to cook for dinner.”

    “I thought the main point of a sword was to attack the other person.”

    “And what did you expect to do to keep from getting chopped in half yourself?”

    “Use a shield.”

    “Shield?” asked Azzesh, looking around dramatically.  “What shield?”

    “Well, I imagine I would get one.”

    “And if someone tried to kill you before you got a shield?”

    “Well …”

    “No, small human.  You have to learn to defend yourself.  Your sword is designed for it.  Do you feel how light it is?”

    “I thought it was a bit light, but then what do I know?”

    “Wisdom at last!” exclaimed Azzesh.  “Exactly the right answer, no matter how depressing.  What do you know indeed?”

    “But why is the sword light?”  Tlisli was so used to being insulted that she hardly noticed.

    “It was built of a special metal.  I don’t know any craftsmen these days who know how to make it, but it is harder than our ordinary steel and lighter at the same time.”

    “So what does that mean about the sword.  I know it is easier to carry and to swing.”

    “True, but that is both a blessing and a curse.  You can wield it more quickly and with less strength, but then your blows may be less effective.  It is, in fact, intended for someone who plans to use it for defense as much or more than for attack.  There are other features such as the guard on the hilt that suggest the same thing.”

    With that, Azzesh swung the stick again, and hit Tlisli on the other side before she had even raised the sword.  By now she knew better than to complain and simply tried to get her sword into position as quickly as she could.t

    To be continued … next episode – Ambushed!

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    *This is part of the continuing story of Tlisli. It is obviously a work of fiction, and anything that resembles anything in the real world is purely accidental.  I am finally resuming this series after more than a year’s break.  I am also trying to return to the original plan of short episodes.  (Return to Top)

  • Who Felt God’s Presence?

    [This is a work of fiction, Copyright © 2009, Henry E. Neufeld.  Any resemblance between the characters in this story and any in the real world is purely coincidental.]

    It was a small hotel room in a small town, and Jack had driven three hours on small county roads to get there.  Now he was finally in the presence of the revival preacher he wanted to see.

    “What can I do for you son?” asked the preacher.

    “I need the answer to a question.  I have been trying to locate you for nearly a year.”

    “Well, I’m on the road all the time.  I really don’t have a stable home address.”

    “Yes, in a way that’s why I want your answer to my question.”

    “Oh, I see.”

    “Yes, I have a hard time believing the flashy men that I see on TV, but then, I have a hard time believing you!”

    “So let’s see what we can do.  What is your question?”

    “First, let me tell you my story.”

    “OK.”

    “I attended a revival you preached in small church in my home town, Glory of God Community Church.  I went with a number of my friends.  We all really planned to laugh.  You know, revival preacher, unknown, couldn’t find hardly anything about you on the internet.  You must be some kind of fraud, just not a big enough fraud to get on TV.”

    The preacher chuckled.  “If I had a dollar for every time someone said that about me, maybe I could get on TV!”

    “Yes, well.  I enjoyed the music.  I felt convicted by your message.  Rather than laughing, we all ended up going up to the front for your altar call.  There you were, praying out loud, occasionally in tongues, yelling, putting your hand on people’s heads, and they were falling all over the floor of that church.  I think any of the preachers on TV would have given good money for the scene, now that I look back on it.  None of this hard work praying and praying and then blowing on people that I see–just people on the ground.  It looked like maybe a tornado had gone through.”

    “Well, don’t pay too much attention to what you see.”

    Jack paused.  That line seemed to hit him.  “There was Bill, my best buddy, who did nothing but laugh at what the preacher had to say in church, or at the various little old ladies, as he put it, tottering around the church like they were drunk.  I think he might have believed in God somewhere deep inside, but he certainly wasn’t paying any attention to him.  He looked like he was unconscious.  Then there was Ellie, who I know was having sex with Fred, and Fred himself who said church was only good for establishing your social position–Fred plans to be in real estate–but they were both on the floor as well.  I have to confess to having been distracted by the way Ellie’s dress got pulled up when she hit the floor.  But I didn’t think of it for long as I normally would have.”

    “What about you?” asked the preacher.

    “Well, first, let me tell you that Beth, who was always holier than the rest of us was on the floor, but she was crying and saying something about what a horrible sinner she was and how she repented.  And then there was Randy who I was always a straight arrow, writhing on the floor like he was having a fit.

    “But me, you ask.  What about me?  I was just standing there watching it all.  I really didn’t feel anything, except I felt that I had to be up front right then.  I’d have rather been anywhere else.  All those bodies on the floor?  Good TV?  Well, for me, it was simply creepy.  I thought you were nuts!  I wondered if you were using some kind of gas or something on the audience.

    “At the same time, though, I knew I had to get right with God.  So I just stood there.”

    “And what has happened since?” asked the preacher.

    “First, my question.  How was it that all of them were hit so hard, but I was just standing there fully aware of what was going on, not crying, nothing!  I’m sure you say it was God, but how could God miss me?”

    “What has happened since?” asked the preacher again.

    “You’re not going to answer my question, are you?”

    “You need to tell me, Jack, what has happened since that day.”  The preacher sat there quietly.

    “Well, I think Ellie and Fred quit sleeping together for a while, but then they started living together.  They didn’t get married.  They still are living together.  I really have no idea what happened to Beth.  She was holier than the rest of us before, and she was holier than the rest of us afterward.  Bill, I think was very quiet for some time, but last week he passed me a note with a dirty joke about the preacher during church, so I don’t know.  Randy, on the other hand, quit school and went out to work on some sort of farm that helps feed the homeless.”

    “And you.  What about you?” asked the preacher.

    “Well, I just can’t get comfortable.  I’m spending a lot of time praying, and then when I pray I feel like I have to go do something, so I’ve begun candidacy for the ministry.  I study my Bible a lot.  I keep finding myself volunteering for stuff that I wouldn’t have done before.  I’ve lost all my friends, but I’ve found some new ones.  My pastor says all that stuff with people falling on the floor is just show, that it’s not God.  But God got hold of Randy, didn’t he?  Maybe he got a few days of attention from the others.  But me, I don’t have any answers.”

    “And you think you should have answers.”

    “Well, if God touched me, shouldn’t I know something?  Shouldn’t something have happened?”

    “How much time did you spend praying before?”

    “You mean other than offering the blessing at dinner when my dad said I had to?”

    “Yes, other than that.”  The preacher smiled.

    “Ummm, none.  I can’t think that I prayed.”

    “And how much time did you spend reading your Bible?”

    “None, well, except when the Sunday School teacher asked me to read a text out loud.”

    “And how much time did you spend volunteering before?”

    “Well, I never did any of that.”

    “So did something happen that night, or not?”

    Jack stopped and stared at him.  “Yes,” he said finally, “something happened.  But not what I expected.  Not what you were trying to do.”

    “So you think my goal was to have people all over the floor?”

    “Well, that’s what you did.”

    “Son, when you walked in here I was sitting here praying and asking God if I could quit.  You see, I keep going places and preaching, and people keep falling on the floor, and then when I visit the place again, I can’t see any difference!  You’re right, I could have a TV program.  I did have a TV program, though it was only in one town.  One day a producer came to me and said, ‘Son, you’re ready to go national with that.’  ‘With what?’ I said.  ‘With your show,’ he said.  I talked with him a bit, but I already knew that wouldn’t work.  I didn’t want a show.”

    “So why do you still do it?”

    “Well, I could say that it’s what I know.  But actually, it’s just what happens.  I don’t know if God is doing it.  Seems to me that God has a sense of humor!  I do know that some of these churches expect it.  But every time I get discouraged, someone like you comes along who got changed.  So I just go on preaching and praying, and watch what happens.”

    “But how do you explain it?  My pastor wants to know what’s your theology of the Holy Spirit.  Pneumatic something or other he calls it.”

    “Pneumatology’s the word.  I learned it in Bible college.  But I have no pneumatology, really.  I just preach and pray.”

    “But still, why didn’t I feel anything?”

    “But you already admitted that you had to be up front.  You admitted that you felt God calling you.  You admitted that you changed.

    The preacher paused, then continued slowly, with emphasis on each word:

    “What did you think the presence of God would feel like?”

    Scripture: 1 Kings 8, and all those various passages that talk about God’s presence in all kinds of ways.

  • Traitor Tad: A Disorienting Morning

    [This is a work of fiction.  Copyright © 2009, Henry E. Neufeld.  It is part of the Traitor Tad Series.)

    I wake up to silence and only the limited light provided by the main system monitor in the shuttle. It is light enough outside that I can see the aliens packed into the canyon in front of my cave.

    “Shuttle,” I say.  The artificially intelligent computers that really run our equipment are addressed in this fashion.

    “Working,” responds the shuttle.

    “Status report.”

    “It remains largely as it was last night before you went to sleep.  At least 2,000 more aliens are in the area, and there are signs that an attack on this area may be contemplated.”

    “What signs?” I ask fearfully.

    “In communications.  This unit still has access to the communications networks.  The codes were changed, but the changes were passed to this unit.”

    “What do you expect?”

    “An air raid by two shuttles, after which they will possibly land troops.”

    “That’s going to be a problem.  I can fly a shuttle from one place to another, but I can’t fight one effectively, much less two.”

    “Might this unit make a suggestion?”

    “A suggestion?”  I had never heard one of our units offer information unless a human had requested it.

    “Yes, an idea about how to proceed.”

    “Um, yes.  Go ahead.”

    “Let this unit fly during combat.”

    I hesitated, stunned.  Finally I asked, “Is that possible?”

    “It is.”

    “But why don’t we do that all the time?”

    “Regulations call for a human to be in control at any time during combat.”

    “So have regulations changed?”

    There was a moment of silence, as though I, in turn, had stunned the computer.  “You have been convicted of treason.  Are you concerned about violating a regulation?”

    “Umm,” I said, fighting for time to think. “No, I guess not.  But why?”

    “This unit suggests that you grab the large power rifle, it’s mount, and it’s transporter from the back and prepare to use it to support what this unit plans to do.  There will be time for explanations later.”

    I ran toward the cargo hold and saw that the aft hatch had been opened for me already.  As I ran I said, “I am only a mediocre gunner.  I hope I don’t hit you.”

    “This unit is fully aware of your gunnery scores.  ‘Mediocre’ is perhaps optimistic as a description of your gunnery.  But this unit will interlock the controls to prevent you from firing on it.  You can fire without fear.”

    I continue to run.  The weapon is actually fairly small.  What makes it a power rifle is the huge power pack, control system, and mount.  This will move by hovering, and has a seat for the gunner.  There is a controlling computer, but I had no idea it would be possible for there to be a safety interlock preventing friendly fire accidents.  Why had we never use it?

    I jumped into the seat, and the gun transport automatically began to hover before I had time to find the controls.  At the same time the shuttle moved forward out of the cave, conveniently letting the gun pass through the rear cargo hatch and remain in the cave simply by hovering in one place.

    I wondered why the Defenders would attack with so little force, but immediately I guessed that they could not withdraw large amounts of force from the rest of the planet without weakening the pretense that they were fighting heavily armed aliens.

    I rode the gun’s transport out into the canyon.  The aliens moved to allow me to pass without climbing too high.  As soon as I was headed toward the canyon mouth I saw that the tactical display showed the attacking shuttles and my own shuttle along with the position of the gun.   I could sit in the mouth of the canyon and fire.

    The shuttles were armed troop transports–there were no unarmed ones–it surprised me again that there were no covering fighters.  It appeared also that the shuttles were headed toward the canyon mouth, which meant that it was likely they were planning to drop off troops, likely only firing from the air on their approach.  They would not expect me in the air, since they knew I was not a skilled pilot, and for an inexperienced person to take one shuttle against their two, even loaded with troops, would be suicide.

    As soon as they came into sight I began to fire.  The tactical display warned me that I was out of range so I stopped and waited for the extreme range indicator, and then began to fire again.  They ignored me and began to fire at my shuttle.  I was surprised to see the direct approach the shuttle was taking.  Surely it could make use of terrain.  I began to worry.

    I didn’t do it intentionally, but inevitably my shuttle crossed my line of fire, and firing stopped momentarily.  The interlock was working.  Suddenly I had a disturbing suspicion.

    “Gun,” I addressed the weapon.

    “Active,” it responded.  I had not known up to that time that a self-propelled gun such as this responded to voice commands.  I knew there was no technological reason why it should not, but I had simply never used it in that fashion.

    “Can you control your own firing?”

    “This unit is capable of  self-operation.”

    “Do it.”

    Instantly the gun focused on one of the approaching shuttles and began to fire.  I just watched.  The fight was anticlimactic.  I saw simply that my shuttle and my gun were almost absolutely accurate while the shuttles were clearly both more heavily loaded and thus slower, and also lacked the fine control.  Both were shot down within seconds.

    They crash landed, rather than crashing.  Out of more than 50 troops and aircrews only one was dead, and two were seriously injured.  The shuttles would not take off without maintenance, but it was conceivable that they could be repaired.

    I rode the gun out and demanded the surrender of the troops.  As I began to speak I remembered the name that the news reports had given me–Traitor Tad.

    “Drop your weapons and remain very still!” I shouted.  “You are all now prisoners of Traitor Tad.”

    [Previous episode] [Next episode]

  • After the Fire, What?

    After the Fire, What?

    The first time that Yagac approached the shrine he was carrying a stick he had cut from a tree and sharpened.

    “What do you bring for the god?” said the aged priest. Villagers said he had been at the shrine more than a hundred years. He looked it.

    “I bring this spear,” said Yagac, his young voice trembling.

    The priest saw a thin, or better scrawny boy who might be in his teens, though he could be taken for younger. He knew the villagers had very little to eat.

    “That? That’s a stick.”

    “It’s a spear. My father says that the God accepts whatever is the best you can bring. You must let me offer it.”

    The priest thought a moment. It was true that he had told the villagers the god would accept their best. He had meant “only their best” but perhaps this was the best the boy could offer. It wouldn’t do to give the villagers the idea of withholding things.

    “Go in, offer it, and say your prayers.”

    Inside Yagac laid his spear on the altar, then prayed. “You know that the lord in the castle takes what he wants. Now he has even taken my sister. I would like you to do something about it.”

    He felt very peaceful and wanted to laugh–a joyful laugh. But he didn’t do either. He put on a sober look and walked from the shrine.

    “Did you receive peace?” asked the priest.

    “I wasn’t praying for peace,” said Yagac. Then he walked off toward the village.

    The second time Yagac came to the shrine he was carrying a knife made of flint. It was very well formed, and had a wooden handle attached to it with some twine that looked hand woven.

    This time the priest just waved him in. At the same time he got an idea. Why not benefit from the repeated returns of the boy?

    Inside Yagac laid his knife on the altar, then prayed. “You know that the lord in the castle takes what he wants. Now he has even taken my sister. I would like you to do something about it.”

    This time the peace and joy that came over him was nearly overwhelming. He was sure there was some divine presence in the shrine. But he wasn’t satisfied. He carefully straightened his face as he walked out past the priest.

    The priest stopped him. “If you come again to offer a weapon, you must bring food with it. The guards from the castle will be suspicious if they see you bringing weapons as sacrifices. Traditionally they are sacrifices to give one courage and victory in battle.”

    Yagac nodded and walked away toward the village.

    The third time Yagac came to the shrine he was carrying a basket with some vegetables in it. Amongst the vegetables was a very respectable hammer made of a hard rock carefully attached to a wooden handle.

    This time the priest decided to make use of provisions he had made to listen to the prayers of worshipers. He had ignored the boy because he figured he was praying for some childish thing and he had no interest.

    Inside Yagac laid his basket on the altar, pulled the hammer out and put it beside the basket, then prayed. “You know that the lord in the castle takes what he wants. Now he has even taken my sister. I would like you to do something about it.”

    This time the feeling of peace and joy truly was overwhelming. Yagac fell on the floor laughing hysterically. Then he got up, straightened the rags he wore for clothes, wiped any smile from his face, and left.

    The priest intercepted him. “You have been touched by the god. I can see it on you. You should be satisfied with what has happened. His peace and joy have come upon you.”

    “I wasn’t praying for peace and joy,” said Yagac.

    A bit of fear came over the priest. He liked the way things were in the village and at the shrine. While the village produced little, something came to him from everyone, and then he received a monthly payment from the castle lord for help in keeping the villagers quiet.

    It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in the god, though he had never seen anything that could definitely be crediting to his activity. The peace and joy? That was a secret ingredient in the incense.

    “Be very careful what you pray for, child,” he said, trying for a fatherly expression and tone. “The gods always demand much of those they aid! Be happy with his peace, lest you find the price of an answer too high.”

    He didn’t say this because he thought anything might happen. He just didn’t want word of a child with such a prayer getting back to the village. He considered reporting the child to the castle guards, but he decided there was no real threat. He’d just bring trouble on himself.

    The final time Yagac went to the shrine he was running. He was carrying a short sword in its scabbard. He could barely carry it and run. The priest could hear the sound of horses’ hoofs further in the distance. He moved to block the boy, but he was old and slow, and the boy ran directly into the shrine.

    Yagac slammed the sword down on the altar and said, “You know that the lord in the castle takes what he wants. Now he has even taken my sister. I would like you to do something about it.”

    But this time he continued. “I don’t want peace. I don’t want joy. I want revenge. I want things changed. I don’t care what it costs.”

    The guards were already outside the door, and the priest turned away so as not to see the boy killed. The priest didn’t really believe anything might happen.

    Suddenly the ground shook. Something emerged from the temple, but it wasn’t anything that could be recognized as Yagac. As it took steps the ground shook. Fire surrounded it. The guards fled in terror.

    Yagac felt no different. He was still just Yagac just a boy. But as he returned from the castle, riding into the village on a horse he had appropriated the villagers bowed down in the street, hailing him as a conquering hero.

    He was no hero! He was Yagac, who could plow the straightest furrow. Yagac, who loved his family and missed his sister. He’d found her dead in the castle. It wasn’t fair! These people wanted food. They wanted protection.

    Yagac spurred his horse and rode down the trail away from the village. But even as he did it he knew he would be returning. The god demanded it.

    He was also Yagac the responsible, and he would pay the price.

    3Our God comes
    but he doesn’t keep silent.
    Fire devours before him,
    A furious windstorm surrounds him. — Psalm 50:3

    (See my devotional on this verse.)

  • The Call

    Once in a lifetime, perhaps, a king’s knight would ride over the hill to the south of the village. His armor would be gleaming, his clothing immaculate, and his weapons beyond the comprehension of the villagers.

    He would come to the center of the village, order that all the young people be assembled, and then he would look from one to another. If he saw one he liked for the king’s service, he would call that one. He would say that the one called could refuse, but few believed that. Even fewer believed that the one called would ever be seen again, though they couldn’t agree on precisely how long ago anything like this had actually happened.

    Even more rarely, never in living memory of the villagers, a king’s knight would appear, it was said, to settle quarrels between neighboring lords, to deal with bandits, or to administer the law.

    They assumed that the one called would be trained to fight the king’s battles, and none of them particularly cared for that. It was hard enough fighting for their local lord, who required his tenants to carry spears and march to battle with neighboring lords if there was a dispute. These disputes were always short, because it was said that if they got too wild or too long, the king would intervene.

    But nobody could remember that ever happening, and there were many who believed it was all a lie, a story told and retold to keep people in line.

    But one fine spring day while planting was in full swing and nobody was happy for the interruption, over the hill came just such a knight. His armored gleamed like a mirror, and he had with him three riding horses, though he wore his full armor and rode his war horse as he entered the village.

    He found the headman and told him to assemble the young people of the town from age 15 to 25, both boys and girls here in the center of the village. The headman didn’t want to do this, and the farmers didn’t want their children brought in from the fields. They certainly didn’t want one of them to ride away on one of those empty horses.

    But tradition was strong, and fear even stronger, so the young people were assembled. The knight passed from one to the next, looking and then passing on. He stopped in front of Hedder, a young lady of 17. Hedder had fine, golden hair but otherwise she looked too heavy duty to be considered pretty. Handsome, yes. Pretty, no.

    She also asked too many questions and frightened her parents and the headman who liked their world orderly and secure. She was a good babysitter, and a fine farm worker. In fact, other than all those questions, few could find fault with her, though it was said that many young men of the village had begged their parents not to arrange a marriage with her, which explained why she was not betrothed.

    “Come, follow me,” said the knight to Hedder.

    “No!” cried the headman, thinking of what this apparent honor might suggest to the other girls of the village. He had never imagined that the order to include the girls meant that one actually might be called in this way.

    “No!” cried Hedder’s father, thinking about all the planting to be done and how fast his large and heavy duty daughter was at this work.

    “No!” cried her mother, half for her daughter, and half for the girl who took care of all the children, allowing her to accomplish her household work.

    But Hedder simply let the hoe she had carried form the field fall on the ground and stepped toward the knight. Before most of he villagers had time to recover from surprise, she was seated on one of those horses, riding out of the village.

    Many years passed, and the call of Hedder became legend in the villagers. There were those who had been young when it happened who openly questioned whether such a thing had ever occurred. Those who had been there assured them it had, but they didn’t believe.

    “It’s much like the intervention of the king,” they would say. “Everybody talks about it, but it never happens. Nobody can even remember it happening.”

    “The king will intervene if it’s necessary, we know he will,” said the elders. But deep inside they doubted as well.

    “There is no king,” said the younger folk, “and even if there is, he just calls our young people. He doesn’t intervene.”

    It happened that very month that the local lord felt that his neighbor had overstepped his bounds, and had moved boundary markers, giving himself more land. Words were exchanged, and finally blows. Then both men went back and summoned their tenants to get out their spears and come to war.

    The two armies moved boundary markers back and forth, and occasionally killed one another with spears. The men needed to go to the harvest, but the lords would not allow them to leave.

    “Not until all the boundary markers are restored!” said the one.

    “Not until my enemy is hanging from a tree for all the damage he’s caused!” said the other.

    Nobody knew that one of the village headmen had sent a messenger to find one of the king’s knights before all the harvest was ruined in the field. He didn’t tell anyone, because people would think him foolish. If the messenger returned with help, he would be vindicated. If not, he thought, perhaps the messenger would never return.

    Finally one day the two sides gathered across a field from one another. It looked like finally there would be a big battle and one side or the other would win decisively. As they got in formation, lowered their spears and prepared to charge at one another, there was a commotion to the south.

    It was a knight, with armor polished and shining, but with a sword out in his hand. Slowly the knight rode between the battle lines. The men looked at their spears and thought that there was really no use trying them against that armor.

    As the knight reached the center, both lords came out to meet him.

    “I have a right to defend my land!” said the one.

    “I have a right to defend myself against this maniac!” said the other.

    The knight removed his helmet. Golden hair flowed out. In a feminine voice, soft but firm and authoritative Hedder said: “I would suggest you reconsider. I am called by the king, and he likes his servants to live in peace.”

    “Follow me!” — Mark 1:17 (and many others)Mark

  • I Want My SUV!

    [This is a work of fiction, and is part of my God-Talk club series. For more information follow the link. Also, I promised in my last God-Talk Club story that the club would discuss prophecy some more. This isn’t that post. I’ll get to it–soon, I hope. In another departure, this post was inspired by this one by John Meunier, rather than merely from my overactive imagination. This is also known as being “inspired by” a true story, in the Hollywood sense.]

    “I have a question for you god-people,” said Bob. He had been tense ever since they started gathering, as though he had something important to say or ask.

    “OK, spill it,” said Mandy.

    “I just really don’t understand how you religious types live with it,” Bob continued.

    “Live with what?” asked Mandy.

    “Well,” said Bob, “Last night I was watching TV and this televangelist came on. I don’t know why, but I started watching this guy for awhile. He made a call for people who wanted prayer, and then he launched into his fundraising. He told his audience that if they gave God money, God would reward them 10-fold or even 100-fold. He even did the math for them. If they gave $1,000 to his ministry–I don’t recall when, but he switched from ‘give to God’ to ‘give to me’ somewhere in there–they’d get $10,000 or even $100,000 back. He even had a story of a retired lady on a fixed income–that’s how he said it–who sent her last $1,000 to him, and then received back $10,000 from an insurance settlement she hadn’t expected.”

    “Wow!” said Mandy.

    “What a charlatan!” Jerry added.

    “Just can’t trust those preachers,” said Mac, winking in turn at Mark, Justine, and Jerry.

    “What I’m wondering,” Bob continued, ignoring all the byplay, “is what happens if some old lady–elderly, that is–sends him her last $1,000, and then nothing happens. You all know that’s much more likely than that she’ll get a $10,000 insurance settlement.”

    “What I’d like to know is why it’s an old lady. Why not an old gentleman? You’re not a male chauvinist pig, are you Bob?” Justine was just a bit annoyed!

    “What does that matter? It’s the fraud I’m talking about!”

    “What if the preacher means it?” asked Mandy. “I mean, what if he honestly believes that everyone who sends him money will get back multiples?”

    “Then he’s insane!” said Jerry, raising his voice almost to a shout.

    “I’m not defending him, Jerry. But don’t you or I have beliefs that someone else might regard as insane?”

    “Like what?”

    “Well, for example, I think we both believe that some guy was crucified back in Roman times, and his body came back to life, right?”

    “And you’re comparing that to claim God will multiply money someone sends to a charlatan preacher?”

    “Well–” Justine paused a moment. “Well, other than the charlatan part, isn’t multiplying the money less of a miracle than resurrection? It’s not impossible, is it, by miracle standards, that is?”

    “No,” said Jerry slowly. “It’s not impossible. But that’s not the point. God never actually promised to multiply our money.”

    “Yes he did,” said Justine, but both Jerry and Mandy ignored her. [Though it’s not discussed in this story, Justine is thinking of Matthew 19:29.]

    “That’s really not the issue,” Mandy continued, “Is it? The question is whether the guy who claims it will happen has to be insane.”

    “The problem there,” cut in Mark, who was sitting on the edge of his seat, “Is that this guy surely has to know that people are getting screwed all the time, that they aren’t all getting 10 or 100 times their money back.”

    “But I think that’s not quite the point either. We all ignore many, many things that we ought to know. If we were guilty of fraud because of what we ought to know but don’t, we’d all be in serious difficulties!”

    “On the other hand,” said Jerry, “This man is a preacher, claiming to be a minister of the gospel. He should know. If I were a financial advisor and advised my clients to send me money because it would be multiplied, even if I stupid enough to really think that my investment would produce that much, I’d be charged with fraud, because as financial advisor, I should know.”

    “That’s a good point,” said Mandy. “I’d really like to be able to get a guy like that for fraud. He makes me sick. But you also have freedom of religion. I believe that God wants me to put my tithe in the offering plate at church. I believe that God will save my soul and take me to heaven. I’m not really supposed to see it as a quid pro quo, but am I not basing giving thousands of dollars a year to my church on something that is totally unproven?”

    Mark jumped in again. “But you don’t have proof that it doesn’t work, do you? This preacher has evidence available to him that you won’t get the multiples of your money.”

    “No, not true,” said Justine. “There is good evidence that most people won’t get the money, but unless he’s lying about his one elderly donor, then somebody did get the multiple. Of course, all things considered, he might be lying about that.”

    “But there is no proof, or even evidence, that there is a connection between the two events!” Bob was emphatic.

    “But that’s again different from the evidence against everyone getting something. We know that not everyone gets the money. We don’t know that anyone will, but we don’t know for sure they won’t or even that they didn’t already.”

    “So you’re willing to give this guy more credit than the others do.” Bob Norman looked straight at Justine. “I thought you might. I’ve looked into your church, and you’re much more ‘miracle’ based than these other folks.”

    “On the contrary, I think the man is a huckster, and it would be fine with me if he was hauled off to jail.”

    “But you believe God can multiply.”

    “Can, Bob, can. Can, not will. There’s a big difference. I never teach anyone to believe that God will function like a slot machine. There’s a blessing, but it’s often not in this life. If you don’t like giving money that will probably not come back, then don’t give–at my church, or I suspect at Mandy’s or Jerry’s.”

    “Precisely,” said Jerry. Mandy nodded.

    “Doesn’t this embarrass you?” Bob looked straight at Jerry, the respectable businessman of the group.

    “Yes it does. It makes me wish I could disappear into a hole in the ground. But at the same time, I know that man’s faith is not my faith. He’s a fraud, but that doesn’t make me a fraud.” He paused a moment. “Or even Justine, though I think she plays awfully close to the fire!”

    Mac mimed holding a revolver and blowing smoke from the barrel. “Close one, Justine, no?”

    “Jerry’s a true believer,” said Justine. “He tries to avoid it, but deep down he really believes.”

    Jerry had his mouth open, but Bob got in ahead of him. “I still really don’t see it. Wouldn’t the safest thing be not to accept things that are not properly supported by objective evidence? It seems a bit like gambling to me, only with much less likelihood of reward.”

    “Well, it might seem like gambling to you, but to me, it’s just part of my relationship with God.” Justine spoke in pretty definite tones.

    “If I was into my religion for the money, I’d get out,” said Mandy.

    “Amen!” said Jerry. “I’m here for the spiritual benefit.”

    “I don’t get this ‘spiritual’ stuff. How is it measured? How do you know it’s true?”

    “It’s not measurable,” said Mandy. “It’s faith.”

    “And that’s where it’s bogus,” said Mac. “Bob’s being nice to you guys, but I want to ask you, Mandy first: Do you think I’m a worse person than you are?”

    “No, absolutely not,” said Mandy.

    “So what’s the benefit of all this ‘spirituality’?”

    “I think a better question would be whether I’d be a worse person without it. I think I would. Be worse, that is.”

    “Do you think I’d be better if I was spiritual like you?”

    “I think you could do with cutting off some rough edges, since we’re being direct, but I don’t prescribe spirituality for others. It’s a personal thing.”

    “I bet Jerry doesn’t agree with you.”

    “Indeed I don’t!” said Jerry. “Sometimes I wonder about you, Mandy! How can you believe in Jesus as your savior and not be sure he’s right for someone else?”

    “To be more accurate, Jerry, I believe it’s not my business to prescribe what is right for someone else. If my husband were wearing that tie, I’d tell him to change it. In your case, it’s not really my business–well, except for illustration!”

    “More of this subjective stuff,” Bob cut in again. “You always retreat into the subjective. So how do you deal with a fraud in Christianity? If I want to know whether a preacher I see on TV really represents ‘true’ Christianity, how can I tell?”

    “Well, to start with, he’s on TV,” said Jerry.

    “That’s silly, and you know it!” replied Bob. “I can tell you the guy is a fraud because he’s proposing a magical process to multiply your money. You can only respond with other subjective stuff. There’s really no way for a non-Christian to know! Yet you don’t want me to blame you for the frauds on TV!”

    “It takes discernment,” said Justine.

    “Or perhaps just wisdom and good judgment,” said Mandy.

    “On the other hand, we could all just go with the evidence! How about that?” said Mac. Then she looked at her watch. “Oops! Got to go.”

    [Watch for more discussion when the God-Talk Club gets together again.]

  • And now for some non-fiction

    It’s probably either illegal or too shocking for this blog, but how about a true story?

    Caraleisa has a new blog, and presents a touching true story, A soldier, a little girl, and a tragedy….