Read Online Consequence by Eric Fair - Free Book Online Page A

budget cuts. They say, “Be patient, things will pick up soon.”
    Don is no longer the youth pastor at First Presbyterian in Bethlehem. He has taken another position, at a Presbyterian church in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Lancaster isn’t far, but there’s no direct route. You have to drive through towns like Reading and travel on roads like 222 that go from being highways to residential streets in a matter of miles. It’s an awkward drive. Or at least this is what I say to Don when I apologize for not visiting.
    I take a job as a security guard at KidsPeace. KidsPeace is a kids’ prison. It houses kids who can’t live with other kids. The kids have been abused or raped or abandoned. There are buildings for sexual trauma, physical trauma, and substance abuse where the kids are locked inside. I patrol the grounds to make sure they don’t escape. When the kids attack staff, I arrive on scene and hold the kids down. I wear khaki pants and a white polo shirt with “KidsPeace” embroidered over the graphic of a kid’s handprint.
    At Christmas I reconnect with an old friend from Liberty High School. Karin Sawyers is a chemical engineer with a car, a house, a 401k, and runner’s legs. She attended church as a kid, but doesn’t go as frequently as she once did. She wants to find a way to get back. So on Sundays we attend the early service at First Presbyterian in Bethlehem.
    First Presbyterian offers a contemporary worship service now; it takes place in the church gym, where a praise band belts out songs with drums and guitars. But the early service is still held in the sanctuary, with hymns and an organ. The pastor still wears a robe and stole, and the congregants wear suits and ties and dresses. Like me, Karin is more comfortable at this service. We sit next to my grandmother, who asks Karin questions about her family and learns things about her that I didn’t know. After church, my grandmother pulls me aside and tells me how much she likes Karin. And she says, “I’m so happy she comes to church.”
    The kind, handsome pastor from my youth is retired now. The new senior pastor is known as a good preacher, but he doesn’t walk through the pews and greet us by name. My grandmother doesn’t say much about him. She would never admit to it, but I know this means she doesn’t like him.
    The new senior pastor preaches a sermon designed to address the issue of how the Presbyterian Church should respond to the issue of homosexuality. The General Assembly, the governing body of the church, is considering changes in the church’s ordination standards, which would allow gay men and women to become pastors. Karin and I sit next to my grandmother and listen as the new pastor insists that First Presbyterian is a “big tent church.” This means that people from all walks of life, including gays, are welcome at our church. He says that God welcomes all sinners, including gays, into his tent. But sinners—rapists, thieves, murderers, gays—must first confess and repent before being called to leadership. When he says this, there is applause in the sanctuary. It is not tepid and reserved. It is thunderous and aggressive. And instead of the church I remember, a church where someone might be made to feel ashamed for applauding, there’s a sense of shame for those who don’t. My grandmother, Karin, and I are the only ones in our pew who do not applaud.
    On the way home, Karin says, “Does everyone in your church think of homosexuals as rapists and thieves?” Karin and I talk about a close friend from high school who is gay. I mention the murder of Barry Winchell at Fort Campbell and the things they said at the church in Clarksville. We agree that our gay friends are not rapists, thieves, or addicts. We agree that we may no longer feel welcome at First Presbyterian Church.
    We both love watching minor league baseball games in Reading. We both