Tom Hatcher sat in the last row. He was alone and throughout the worship portion of the service, he didn’t sing nor did he clap along. Tom barely wanted to stand. The band was loud. The lights were dim. The giant media screens with bursting clouds of lightning and lyrics helped the people follow along like a well-rehearsed choir. They raised their hands. Some wept and others looked to heaven, or the ceiling, depending on whether or not you were an observer or partaker in the melodic offering of the service. The congregation sang with exuberance that Tom wished he had just a small portion of, reassurance that he was capable of an emotion other than anger.

 

It was a contemporary church. It was a church where blue jeans and sneakers outnumbered ties and slacks three to one. It was a casual church in appearance, but in devotion, they were zealots of the usual sort. It was a Pentecostal church, which meant they believed in the active pursuit and movement of the Holy Spirit, part of the big three of the Holy Trinity. As in the days of old recorded in the book of Acts, Pentecostals depended on the power of that spirit to help them as agents of God on Earth. According to the Bible, the Holy Spirit empowered them with signs and wonders, and counseled them in times of need. He gave believers words to speak and wisdom to live.

 

However, as the service went on, there were no tongues of fire resting on the heads of the people, as it was on the day of Pentecost some two thousand years ago, though they did pray fervently. A mighty rushing wind did not sweep down from the heavens, bestowing power from on high, though they eagerly anticipated and expected such an occurrence. What they did have was an air of humility and the overwhelming desire to stand in the presence of God. It was in the way they sang their songs, how they reached to heaven as if almost touching the fingertips of the Almighty reaching back to them. They sang as if God stood among them, tapping his foot to the beat and moving through the crowd, whispering in their ears the answers to their late night prayers. If there was one thing that the Pentecostals did not lack, it was faith and it was the reason Tom had decided to go there on this early Sunday morning.

 

During the greeting time, which someone from the stage called a time of connection, Tom remained planted firmly in his row. He stood rigid and only shaking the hands of those next to him. He was in no mood to hobnob. Two or three fake smiles and firm handshakes was all he was willing to handle then he took his seat and he waited. He waited for God to speak to him. It did not happen during the song service, even though he thought God would have chosen such a dramatic moment. Rarely do people actually get a soundtrack during one of their most desperate hours and God loved to make a theatrical point, or so Tom thought. The Bible was a badly written melodrama, as pretentious as an English play. But it did not happen during the song service, not even a hint, despite the emotions of those around him. So, he waited. Tom was all ears and he still anticipated a miracle. It was all he had left and he was willing to sit through anything to get one.

 

The pastor of the church took center stage. His name was Dan Underwood and he wore ironed blue jeans, a sweater vest, and penny loafers. Dan smiled, his teeth too big for his mouth, and asked everyone to sit.

 

“It’s good to be in the house of the Lord,” Dan said.

 

The people responded with amen and Pastor Dan produced an envelope. He held it up for all to see.

 

“This past Friday, the church was updating its health plan for the staff,” he said. “And for most of you it is a time of worry, not knowing whether the company is going to cut some benefits or ‘tweak’ the plan. As I was sitting there deciding what was best in these hard economic times, I asked God for his help, like many of you do. If you’re like me, you start thinking about all the things that could go wrong with the kids, your wife, or yourself as you get up in age. You start worrying about where you’re going to get the extra money for health costs. And the Lord reminded me by saying, ‘Take a look at your kids.’ And I looked out the window into my backyard and saw my two boys running around, playing and climbing trees, just being boys. And God said to me, ‘Haven’t you come so far? Have faith.’”

 

The people responded with amen and Tom rolled his eyes. He adjusted in his seat. He was anticipating a bad reaction to whatever Pastor Dan was about to say next.

 

“So, I say to you, have faith and continue in that faithfulness,” he continued. Then he prayed, “Father, we are grateful and we look back on our lives and know that you are proven, that you are a faithful God, a miracle worker. We’re going to talk about miracles today and, God, for some of us it’s a real act of faith. And for some of us it doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t add up in our checkbooks and we need you to intervene. We come to you with faith today, believing that you are a miracle worker. And, God, I pray that you begin to spring up in our hearts more and more faith to do the things we talked about last week. Help us to go above and beyond our tithes and offerings, because it’s not just about us. Work in our hearts and our prayers, Lord, so that we can work towards furthering your kingdom. Amen.”

 

“Amen,” the people responded.

 

Tom felt a flash of heat rush to his face. A pit formed in his stomach when Pastor Dan said that God was a miracle worker. Before he knew it, Tom stood and raised his arm, his hand high like a schoolboy wanting the teacher to call on him.      

 

“Yes, friend?”

 

“Where?” Tom asked.

 

“Where what?” Dan said.

 

“Where are the miracles? When will he reach down from his ivory throne and touch the people?”

 

The room fell silent but for the hum of amplifiers from the stage. All eyes were on Tom. He saw the surprise in their eyes. Some of them had awkward smiles. They were probably anticipating a visual lesson of some sort, a dramatic display of a point to help the pastor introduce his message. But there were others that scowled, knowing full well that a somewhat familiar face, they couldn’t quite put their fingers on it, from the back row had the audacity to question the one that blessed them with new cars and abundant square footage for them to throw insatiable holiday parties and celebrations in his name.

 

Tom saw a couple of thick-necked ushers approached him out of the corner of his eye, but he didn’t care. One of them gently placed his hand on his elbow and Tom snapped a look at him then yanked his arm away. The ball was rolling and it was going downhill. There was no stopping it.

 

“I want to know! I want to know where God is! You sing songs! You give money, time, blood, sweat, and tears! You talk about faith and being faithful, but when it comes down to our absolute desperate needs, God is nowhere! So, when and where? When will the Almighty take time out of his busy schedule and actually address our needs?”

 

Tom felt rabid. He wanted to grab Pastor Dan and shake him. He wanted to stand on his chair and scream. He wanted someone to give him a sliver of hope. But mostly he wanted God to assure him that he was there. He did not want to be comforted for comfort’s sake. He wanted to confront the one who held the whole world in his hands. He wanted to look into the eyes of a god who claimed compassion in stories written about men and women who thought the world was flat and stoned people to death when they stepped out of some holy line. The whole thing sounded insane to Tom, but he wanted to see for himself whether God would strike him down for his arrogance. He wanted to see if God would challenge his unbelief. It was a last resort. Life did not need to prove its reality. Its pain was evidence enough. Let the Almighty announce his presence with pain then. At least Tom would know that there was a god, that there was hope for the hopeless. But Tom knew that it wasn’t going to happen. It never did. And the man on the stage would be the one to withstand the worst of it.

 

The congregation turned their eyes from Tom to Dan. He was standing there silently. He held his hands folded tight against his stomach. It was unfair of Tom to take advantage him like that out in the open and Tom knew he had questioned the pastor’s pride as well as his beliefs. But he also knew that the pastor would not miss the opportunity to seize upon a possible Sunday morning miracle. He was sure of it. After all, why would God allow such an outburst, but to test the faithful and the faithless? It was a moment that these types of men romanticized, but rarely found themselves entangled. It was an opportunity to practice before an undivided audience what he had always been preaching. This was a defining moment for him as a leader and for the church and for Tom, the poor sap that was desperate for an answer. Dan stepped down from the stage and made his way up the center aisle to the back row where Tom stood.

 

Tom heard some people praying. He heard them ask God to touch him, to reveal his glory to him, and some asked God to remove this man from their presence. Most, however, continued to watch as their pastor placed his hand upon the stranger’s shoulder.

 

“Friend, I know there are questions and I know there are hurts.”

 

“You have no idea,” Tom said.

 

“It is by faith we are healed. We must have faith.”

 

He heard it all before. The evangelists on the television, the chapel at the hospital, they all said the same thing. They were clanging cymbals, all of them. Their words were nothing but noise to break up the uncomfortable, silent anguish of a man gripping the edge of a crumbling cliff.

 

“Isn’t the very act of prayer faith in itself?” Tom asked. “Talking out loud to an invisible being, hoping he’ll hear you and somehow help you. I’m all out of faith.”

Dan nodded and pulled his lips tight and furrowed his brow as he tried to show Tom he was deeply concerned for him, that he understood the desperation in his voice.

 

“You have to believe that you believe with all of your heart,” Dan said. “There can be no doubt, for doubt is the yeast that spoils the whole loaf.”

 

Tom flexed his jaw and sighed heavily. He shook his head and fought back the words he wanted to scream in the pastor’s face. The last thing he wanted to hear was some Christianese spiritual babble that was meaningful only to some head-in-the- clouds Jesus freak. Tom pulled back from Dan. It was too much for him. He wanted to burst into the very throne room of heaven and grab God by his white robe. He demanded an answer and only received nonsense. So, he settled for the next best thing and slammed his fist into the preacher’s nose, sending him to the ground.

 

“You believe that?” Tom shouted.

 

The ushers grabbed Tom and pulled him back. Women in the congregation screamed, some wept loudly and moaned, “Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!” A man with muttonchops that would have made Elvis cringe helped Dan to his feet and asked if he was okay. Dan wiped away the blood and looked around at the faces staring   back at him. The lily-white suburbanites of the congregation had never witnessed such a thing. No doubt they thought the world, indeed, was full of animals and it was going to hell in a hand-basket.

 

“It’s okay. I’m okay. God is in control.”

 

The ushers held on to Tom tightly. He struggled as Dan wiped away the tears in his eyes and shook off the sting of the punch. It was more than a blow to his nose and to his ego. It could shake the very faith that some of the fence walkers held on to. He had to save face, Tom knew, and he had to capitalize on the moment, but how, Tom didn’t know. Pastor Dan stared at Tom. He was indifferent then compassionate then angry.

 

“Call the police.”

The ushers dragged Tom from the sanctuary. In the foyer, a fellow that went by the name Big Mac threw Tom to the ground and sat on him while another usher called 9-1-1. Now, on top of everything else, Tom was going to jail and he had never felt so alone.