The last lines of “Lord of All Power” resounded against the stained glass as the stranger marched down the center aisle of Ascension Lutheran Church. He was dressed in a mechanic’s jumpsuit, the name patch on his breast pocket obscured from view. Some of us believed we’d seen him at the Lions Club Barbecue. Others were certain he was the man who passed out the free circular in Harriot Park. None of us had seen him in our church.
“I’ve been washed in the blood of Jesus Christ,” he shouted as he approached the ushers gathered around Rev. Simms. His words reverberated against the marble floor of the chancel. “That is why,” he continued, “I know that He’ll forgive me this trespass.” With that, he removed a gleaming pistol from his hip pocket. “I am in need of that offering.”
We looked around, wondering if this was another of the Reverend’s attempts at shaking up the service, like the retractable television screens he installed to show clips from The Matrix. Perhaps it was a secular version of the Passion plays the reverend had commissioned for Lent. We were all still reeling from Paula Laurent’s Mary Magdalene.
“I pray y’all will see this as a blessing.” He pointed the gun, so small it was almost lost in his broad hand, at each of the four ushers one by one. From behind, we could see a stain in the shape of Florida running down the back of his left thigh. “I know that you will come together to heal after this time of tribulation.”
Bob Armbruster, the head usher, loomed above him and muttered something none of us could make out. His cheeks burned beneath the spotlights trained on the altar. Bob was known for his fierce play during weekly volleyball matches in Fellowship Hall, but even he seemed helpless under the circumstances.
The man flapped the gun in his direction. “I come before you a God-fearing man in need of mammon to see me through the current challenges of this earthly existence.” He half-turned to take in those closest to the chancel. “I wouldn’t condescend to face my fellow believers with an unloaded weapon.”
A murmur went up among those in the back. Trey Gephardt—first lieutenant, retired, in the United States Navy—had arisen from his seat and begun making his way up the side aisle. Trey was third-generation military, his grandfather commemorated on the World War II monument at the heart of the town square, his father a troubled Vietnam veteran. Trey, himself, had been in Afghanistan and Iraq, though he declined to discuss what he’d seen and done. Before he could reach the chancel, the man opened a velvet sack embroidered with the Crown Royal logo and urged the ushers to collect the bills from the offering plates. “I’ll leave you the checks,” he said.
Trey strode along the edge of the communion railing, staying in the man’s blind-spot. He’d been living with his mother ever since shrapnel from an IED had implanted itself in his throat. Anything louder than a whisper caused him to cough as loudly as Dr. Krauss did at the hint of cigarette smoke. None of us moved, not even to fan our faces. Sweat gathered in our collars and bosoms.
“Now that I have gathered your tithings, allow me to leave you with this benediction—”
Before the stranger could continue, Trey was upon him, pinning the man’s arms behind his back. They both fell to the ground as the gun clattered against the marble, the bag landing with a sound no louder than that of a single leaf.
“May God bless you and keep you—” he said, straining within Trey’s headlock. The ushers piled on top, the man almost buried beneath their humanity. “Aw, shit. I forget the rest.”
