Tricked Pt. 01

People's moral standards are changing—remarkably rapidly in some ways. But it's not like the 9,000 members of the New Harvest Church would accept that their pastor is engaged in a long-running sex scam: cheating on his wife of 15 years, putting their three kids in jeopardy of public humiliation and an ugly divorce, exploiting naïve young women who are seeking to get in the porn industry. Forgiveness might be a "Christian" virtue, but it has its limits and I was well outside of them.

Still, I've been doing this for almost two years. I first met the girls in a motel room but then, after I found a way to skim off some of the church funds, I decided to up my game. I got a nice office in an up-scale building and furnished it in a very tasteful way. It lowers the girls' suspicion and raises my success rate.

In a mega-church the size of New Harvest, it isn't difficult so siphon off funds from a few accounts for a slush fund—maybe I should say 'a slut fund'. Of course, the embezzlement wouldn't go over with my parishioners any better than my other offenses. One more unforgiveable sin, though it seems minor in comparison to the others. So be it.

Things are going well at the church. I'm at the top of my game in my sermons. I can preach a real barn burner when I'm moved by the spirit. And, maybe my private sins help to move me. Who knows?

Sometimes I reflect on the similarity of what I do in my public life and what I do in this office. I tell people things they desperately want to believe to be true. I promise them a wonderful future if they will just believe ... believe, and give me something now. I say it with confidence and conviction. And they buy it. They buy it because they want so very much for it to be true.

I'm a con man ... in both lives. The story being sold and the currency exchanged are different, but the game's basically the same. It's not surprising that the skills are transferrable.

On Sunday, I preach one of my more fiery sermons on lies and deceptions—how we are all liars and we begin by lying to ourselves. "You can't lie to God, though," I emphasize to those in the pews and those watching on television. "You can't lie to God."

It's a good sermon. It goes over well. Personally, though, I pay more attention to the rhythm and rhyme of the words than to the content. The content's really fluff—superficial moralizing.

I'm looking forward to Tuesday. I've had my secretary block out the entire afternoon—doing one-on-one counseling at a few of the hospitals, I say. I'm not meeting with parishioners, I note. Just ministering to anyone who needs consolation. "You're so wonderful," she says, echoing a sentiment that I've heard many on my staff and in my flock repeat. "You're not in this just to build a bigger church; you really care about helping people."

I do. And I believe that generosity and benevolence begins at home. First and foremost, I'm going to help myself.

*****

(Continued in Part 2. The story category changes in Part 2, and then again in future parts.)