sense of right and wrong — on the other. Absently, he wondered just how long a man could be squeezed before he burst.
“Look at me when I speak to you, Hugh.”
Hugh’s head popped up. “Yes, sir,” he mumbled. He was nearly sixty years old, yet something about the look in his father’s eyes always shrank his self-confidence to the size of a pea. “I’ll talk to her.”
“Good. Very good. Now. I just received information about a serious matter, something that needs our immediate attention.” He removed a pack of papers from his suit-coat pocket. “The report I’ve been waiting for was delivered to me a few minutes ago.”
“What report?” said Hugh, shuffling into the bathroom. Bracing his arms on the sink, he gazed up at his aging face, raking a hand through his gray hair. He didn’t look much like his dad. He knew that in some odd way, his father held him responsible for that. Fathers and sons should look alike. The spirit of the boy came from his father, or at least that’s what Howell Purdis taught. And the firstborn spirit was the strongest, the most holy. That’s why God used only firstborn males as ministers.
Hugh couldn’t help but think of his own son, a remarkable young man whom he loved inordinately. One day Joshua Purdis would lead the Church of the Firstborn. Hugh believed with all his heart that Joshua was the best of them all. If there was hope for the church, it rested with him. Joshua had none of Hugh’s weaknesses. He didn’t see the world in confusing, infinitely frustrating shades of gray. Perhaps, even more important, Joshua wasn’t always second-guessing himself, forever uncertain. “For he that wavereth is like a wave of the sea driven with the wind and tossed,” whispered Hugh, quoting a favorite scripture. He had complete faith that one day that verse would be his epitaph.
“Quit mumbling to yourself and get out here,” called Howell. “I don’t have all day. We have to discuss this report, and we have to do it now.”
Hugh splashed some cold water into his face and then grabbed a towel. Returning to the bedroom, he said, “I’m sorry, Father. I don’t know what report you’re talking about.”
“Of course you don’t. Nobody does — except the man I commissioned to write it. Do you remember Arthur Lebrasseur?”
“Sure. He worked in the Canadian office for several years. You ordered me to send him to St. Louis a couple of months ago to help Isaac Knox. You said it was about time Arthur got some firsthand field experience.”
“Exactly. Isaac’s been in St. Louis now, for what? Four years? In that time he’s developed a tiny congregation into the largest local church area in the country.”
“He’s done a wonderful job.”
“Has he?”
“Of course he has, Father.”
Howell nodded to the chair opposite him. “You’re supposed to be the man monitoring the local church areas for problems. I put you in charge of the field ministry because that position is vital. I needed a man I could trust.”
“And I’ve done my best. You know that.”
“I know nothing of the kind. And Isaac Knox is living proof!”
“Look,” said Hugh, sinking into the chair. “I told you from the first that I refused to use my authority within the church to conduct witch-hunts. It’s bad for morale.”
“Making sure the ministry remains doctrinally pure is not a witch-hunt. Now, I’ve heard rumblings about Isaac for nearly six months, but never from you. Why is that?”
“Rumblings about what?”
“Heresy!”
“Oh, Father, please. Isaac is one of our best ministers.”
“What have I always told you, Hugh? Satan is wily. He appears as the angel of light. Perhaps in this case, he’s even taken
you
in. I want you to look at the report Arthur Lebrasseur prepared for me. You may be surprised.”
Hugh had no stomach for this conversation right now, but sat back in his
“Look at me when I speak to you, Hugh.”
Hugh’s head popped up. “Yes, sir,” he mumbled. He was nearly sixty years old, yet something about the look in his father’s eyes always shrank his self-confidence to the size of a pea. “I’ll talk to her.”
“Good. Very good. Now. I just received information about a serious matter, something that needs our immediate attention.” He removed a pack of papers from his suit-coat pocket. “The report I’ve been waiting for was delivered to me a few minutes ago.”
“What report?” said Hugh, shuffling into the bathroom. Bracing his arms on the sink, he gazed up at his aging face, raking a hand through his gray hair. He didn’t look much like his dad. He knew that in some odd way, his father held him responsible for that. Fathers and sons should look alike. The spirit of the boy came from his father, or at least that’s what Howell Purdis taught. And the firstborn spirit was the strongest, the most holy. That’s why God used only firstborn males as ministers.
Hugh couldn’t help but think of his own son, a remarkable young man whom he loved inordinately. One day Joshua Purdis would lead the Church of the Firstborn. Hugh believed with all his heart that Joshua was the best of them all. If there was hope for the church, it rested with him. Joshua had none of Hugh’s weaknesses. He didn’t see the world in confusing, infinitely frustrating shades of gray. Perhaps, even more important, Joshua wasn’t always second-guessing himself, forever uncertain. “For he that wavereth is like a wave of the sea driven with the wind and tossed,” whispered Hugh, quoting a favorite scripture. He had complete faith that one day that verse would be his epitaph.
“Quit mumbling to yourself and get out here,” called Howell. “I don’t have all day. We have to discuss this report, and we have to do it now.”
Hugh splashed some cold water into his face and then grabbed a towel. Returning to the bedroom, he said, “I’m sorry, Father. I don’t know what report you’re talking about.”
“Of course you don’t. Nobody does — except the man I commissioned to write it. Do you remember Arthur Lebrasseur?”
“Sure. He worked in the Canadian office for several years. You ordered me to send him to St. Louis a couple of months ago to help Isaac Knox. You said it was about time Arthur got some firsthand field experience.”
“Exactly. Isaac’s been in St. Louis now, for what? Four years? In that time he’s developed a tiny congregation into the largest local church area in the country.”
“He’s done a wonderful job.”
“Has he?”
“Of course he has, Father.”
Howell nodded to the chair opposite him. “You’re supposed to be the man monitoring the local church areas for problems. I put you in charge of the field ministry because that position is vital. I needed a man I could trust.”
“And I’ve done my best. You know that.”
“I know nothing of the kind. And Isaac Knox is living proof!”
“Look,” said Hugh, sinking into the chair. “I told you from the first that I refused to use my authority within the church to conduct witch-hunts. It’s bad for morale.”
“Making sure the ministry remains doctrinally pure is not a witch-hunt. Now, I’ve heard rumblings about Isaac for nearly six months, but never from you. Why is that?”
“Rumblings about what?”
“Heresy!”
“Oh, Father, please. Isaac is one of our best ministers.”
“What have I always told you, Hugh? Satan is wily. He appears as the angel of light. Perhaps in this case, he’s even taken
you
in. I want you to look at the report Arthur Lebrasseur prepared for me. You may be surprised.”
Hugh had no stomach for this conversation right now, but sat back in his
Similar Books
