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Philippe sat in his office above the gallery, his reference books on shelves around him, his computer running. The table that functioned as his desk took up most of the room.
He was so angry right now, it was impossible to write the sermon he had to give on Sunday.
Philippe saw that he had expected his service to God to give him an insider’s advantage, a chip he could cash in to get a special dispensation when life got tough. He had made investments of good works, and he wanted them to add up to a tool that prodded God into wielding his power on Philippe’s behalf, NOW, before anything more happened to Meredith.
He had started out doing good solely for love of God, but somewhere that had morphed into doing good to win points, and he hadn’t noticed the change in the busyness of his life.
He saw it, but he couldn’t apologize for it. Not while Meredith was out there at risk of disease, abuse, and death, and God wasn’t helping.
Oh, this sermon! Based on what Elodie had said she experienced during her three pregnancies, it seemed to him that writing one every week was akin to being nine-months pregnant fifty-two times a year. And in his anger with God, it was worse. What could he tell his congregation?
I’ll tell them I’m angry with God, so they know it’s okay when their turn comes. I’ll tell them it’s not a quid pro quo arrangement with God, my good outweighing the bad, that’s not how it works. But, with all I’ve done for people, for God, I sure do wish that was the way it worked.
He sighed. He found his short story in his computer and poured his anguish into it.
