Reading: Evangelism book chapter 1-3

Commentary

BY NIGEL BARRETT

Fellow Londoners, I’d like to petition your help in pushing forward a  new restaurant policy. Similar to the practice of offering sepa- rate seating for smokers and non-smokers, I propose addi- tional  seating  that  would allow me to eat in a special “non-Christian” section.

It seems that no matter where I go lately, there’s a table of a dozen Christians chatting about God and pray- ing together. They have that right, but I also have a right to eat my meal in quiet. In short, I call for a separation of church and steak.

It’s not just the restau- rants that are the problem. Taking a walk through Leicester Square used to be a high point of my afternoon, but now I can’t make it from one side to the other without hearing a cluster of people singing   something   about peace  and  love.  Personally, I’d love to just be left in peace.

At first I thought I was being paranoid, but an infor- mal poll of our office has con- firmed my suspicions: People have seen Christian groups— large and small — gathered at hotels, stadiums, homes, parks, and campuses. Whatever happened to the old days when they just stayed tucked away in their churches?

Let me be clear: I am not against any individuals prac- tising their religion. Whatever people want to believe is fine with me. But where can I go to be among my own kind, the unbelievers? We do not have temples devoted to unbelief. The public sector, the marketplace, is all the temple we have. I just want it to be left that way. Or I will have to start getting a lot of my food for take-away.

 CHAPTER 1: THE RELUCTANT REPORTER

JACK McCLELLAN PRIDED HIMSELF ON HIS INTUITION. He could smell a good story where others could find only mundane facts. It’s how he’d made his reputation as an investigative journalist. But as he handed the clipping back to his editor, he had to shrug his shoulders. “I’m not sure I get it,” he said. “What’s the story?”

“To be honest, I’m glad you don’t see it,” said Lucas Hudson, smiling. “That means it’s likely no one else has taken notice, and we could break an exclusive.”

Hudson got out of his chair and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The offices of The Global Journal were on the thirtieth floor of the Claremont Building, over- looking much of New York City. With the sun low in the sky, his squat body transformed into a striking silhouette.

“You ever go to church, Jack?”

Jack hesitated. It seemed like a rather personal ques- tion for a business meeting. “When I was young,” he answered vaguely. Hudson didn’t really need to hear how he’d lost his taste for Mass after his parents divorced.

“Good,” Hudson said. “Well, not good exactly, but you’re just the reporter I need for this story: someone will- ing to look at the situation with an objective eye.”

Jack would have called his eye untrained rather than objective, but he held his tongue to see where Hudson was going with this lead.

“See, I do go to church. I’ve been to church every Sunday for the past forty years, and the truth is that church in America has stagnated. Sure, there are new books, new programs, and  new  approaches every  year  —  but  no growth. Many church-growth experts would have us believe that the church may rebound if we can just find the right tool, the right campaign, but history doesn't support that.” Hudson walked back toward his desk, picked up a book, and tossed it at Jack. It was titled The Rise and Fall of

Christianity, and this particular copy looked well-read. “History tells us the American church is on the path to

extinction. If you read that book, you’ll find out that wher- ever Christianity has traveled on the globe, it spread like wildfire, then crystallized, stagnated, withered, and died.”

“A pretty grim picture,” Jack said, trying to imagine his reaction if, say, pro sports were being phased out.

“But I think I’ve spotted a reverse in the trend,” Hudson said. “I keep finding these small signs of rejuvena- tion over in Europe, which has been stagnant even longer than America. I’ve collected dozens of offhand references to Christians meeting together in public places and private houses, in large groups and small, both planned and spon- taneous. Most of my clippings are from England, but I’ve collected them from France, Belgium, and Holland, too. I’d like you to investigate further and see what’s behind these reports, and what’s driving this new movement.”

Jack sighed. “If you’re looking for someone to bring back the key to saving the church, I’m not interested.”

Hudson just smiled. “That’s exactly why I want you on the job. If I took the story, I’d trip over my own feet in my rush to believe everything. You can stay objective. I want to know if it actually works — if it’s just another gimmick or if it’s the real deal.”

Jack gave his editor a wry smile. “This isn’t news, you know. It’s tabloid paranormal research.”

Hudson didn’t laugh. “This is a real story waiting to be broken, Jack. I’m talking about an undetected religious revival in Europe that could change the way churches act across the world. The political and social implications alone will make our readership drool. You’ll get a cover story and thirty pages of space. I see at least a month of steady work here — not just on what’s happened, but on how it hap- pened, where it’s going, human-interest angles, the works.” Jack was torn: A steady workload sounded attractive,

and the national exposure would help his career. But it also seemed far too long to be stuck with a dead-end subject. Besides, it was the wrong time for him to be traveling.

“Can I think it over?” he asked.

“Look, if you don’t want it, there’s a dozen other —” “It’s just that it’s a big commitment,” Jack interrupted.

“I want to talk it over with the family.”

“Oh, are you married?” Hudson asked, his voice apologetic. “I was under the impression —”

“I’m divorced,” Jack said uncomfortably. “Two kids.

I’m supposed to fly them out here for spring break, actual- ly — which is only three weeks from now.”

“I see,” Hudson said. “Well, you might be able to crack it in three weeks if you’re diligent. Think about it and let me know first thing tomorrow.”

“I know I made a promise, buddy, but it’ll be fun at Grannie and Grampy’s place, too. You’ll see.”

Jack was trying to console his four-year-old, who was in despair over the likelihood of spending a week with Jack’s parents. “Tell you what: I’ll bring you back something special from England — anything you like.”

Scott sniffed back his tears. “Really?” “Just name it,” Jack agreed quickly.

There was silence on the other end of the line as Scott thought hard. Jack began to worry he’d made another rash promise. “Something green,” Scott said at last.

Jack stifled a laugh. “You got it, buddy. Any particular shade you’d like — forest green, or a lime green?”

“Green green,” came the firm reply.

Jack nearly laughed again. “OK, I’ll do my best. Now find Mommy and put her back on before you go to bed.”

Jack heard Scott’s footsteps trailing away; the bustle of a full house made his heart ache. He looked around his apartment, not much bigger than a hotel room, and thought how lifeless it all looked. Other than a few framed photos of Scott and Bethy, it was about as generic as a hotel room.

“Are you still there?” he heard his ex-wife say. “No, I’ve hung up, Veronica.”

CHAPTER 2: SHORTCOMINGS OF THE SALES PITCH

 

“SIR?” THE FLIGHT ATTENDANT SAID, JOSTLING JACK OUT of his reading. “Would you like to have the chicken salad or the grilled fish this evening?”

“The fish,” he answered by reflex.

“And you, sir?” she asked the man next to him. “I think I’ll have the same as my neighbor here.”

Jack glanced at the man, wondering if perhaps he’d failed to recognize an old friend, but didn’t find the wide smile or the thin nose to be familiar.

“Say, what interested you in that book?” the man asked, taking the glance to be an invitation to converse.

“Research,” Jack said, and turned back to reading. “Then you should know that the author’s view is a

widely contested one,” his seatmate continued.

“I would imagine so,” Jack said indifferently. “There are probably a lot of people who wouldn’t like the idea of Christianity drying up.”

His neighbor pressed on. “And I presume you’re not one of them?” he asked.

Jack set down his book and turned to hold the man’s gaze. “The truth is, Mr. —”

“Call me Leonard.”

“Well, Leonard, the truth is that I don’t much care what the future of Christianity is. It’s not important to me one way or the other.”

“And what about your own future?” Leonard volleyed back. “If you were to die right now, do you know where your soul would go?”

Jack smiled slightly, warming up to the idea of this chat. After all, once he was on the job in London, he would- n’t have the option of rebutting anyone who targeted him like this. “I don’t believe in the soul,” he said simply.

“So what do you believe in?”

Jack took a moment to gather the right words. “I’m a reporter, Leonard. I’m trained to look at things with an objective eye. The ‘soul,’ I’ve found, is a convenient way of saying that the world revolves around myself. To speak of the soul is to say that my big concern in life is what hap- pens to me, to my ‘being.’ Instead, I believe what’s impor- tant is the human race as a whole, that we train each gen- eration to improve on what we’ve done, and eventually we human beings will find peace and harmony as a species.”

“So then you ignore the problem of evil?” Leonard asked.

“No — like I said, I’m a reporter. I’ve seen human beings at their worst, and I have to admit that evil stands just as good a chance as peace of winning out in the end. I would just call evil ‘selfishness,’ and call peace ‘selflessness,’ and leave it at that.”

Leonard smiled broadly. “Then there may be hope for you. Jesus Christ preached about selflessness all the time.” “Of course,” Jack agreed, even though he couldn’t remember much of Jesus’ teachings offhand. “That’s what made Him great. But His followers have said: ‘Believe ... and you will save your soul. Believe ... and you will have spiritual power and heavenly wealth — and probably some of the earthly kind as well. Believe ... and you will find friendship and comfort and healing.’ At every turn, it’s all

about me!”

Jack paused to let the words sink in. He continued more quietly: “I’d rather belong to a religion where mem- bership means you comfort and heal other people, where you serve your community and your world rather than yourself.”

“But,” Leonard said, his brow furrowed, “that’s exactly what Jesus preached. Perhaps you’re focusing too much on the messengers, who are only human, and not enough on the Message.”

Jack gave a skeptical look. “So it’s my fault that your message is unclear? It doesn’t have anything to do with how you share it with people?”

“Well, I suppose there’s always room for improve- ment,” Leonard allowed.

“No, not just room for improvement,” Jack argued, feeling himself grow more heated. “Evangelizing is funda- mentally flawed because you’re trying to push your idea on other people. In the area of religion, where it’s a very per- sonal choice, I think we should just let people figure it out for themselves.”

The flight attendant rolled the dinner cart up to their row, and the two men lowered their trays and took their dinners. Jack took a forkful of his halibut filet before he noticed Leonard praying. He felt slightly uncomfortable as he chewed the bite.

“So what you’re saying,” Leonard continued as soon as he stopped praying, “is that you want an unbiased guide to all belief systems without any push in a certain direc- tion? But why should religion be different from everything else? When you think about it, most of life is spent trying to convince other people — what to buy, what to wear, where to go to school, which person to marry, what to do for a living. Why is it OK for people to push ideas in those arenas, but not in religion?”

“For starters,” Jack said, “most people don’t present jobs or colleges or spouses as ‘the best one.’ Those deci- sions require finding something that fits you as a person, rather than determining that one path is the only path, as religion says. Clothes and cars and junk food are another matter,” he said, holding up his diet cola. “Their advertise- ments usually do position them as the best choice. But I don’t mind it so much with products because they are just trying to sell me a ‘thing’ and not a view on life.”

Leonard gestured pointedly with his fork. “I would dis- agree,” he said. “I think that maybe these non-important things keep us so busy and preoccupied that we never real- ly get around to considering the important stuff. Or worse

— perhaps in a subtle way the little things get sold as big things! I mean, so many commercials promise friendship and happiness and fulfillment from carbonated water!”

“Fine,” Jack said. He swallowed a mouthful of fish. “But just because companies use an ideal to sell their prod- ucts, that’s no reason that religions should sell their ideals as a product! Maybe that’s what really gets me: that most evangelists sell their stuff as if it were no more than a ham- burger. Why rely on the same marketing techniques to sell a way of life that marketers use to sell fries?”

Leonard looked perplexed. “Because it works, that’s why. Marketing is marketing — you can use it to sell a mil- lion hamburgers or save a million souls. It’s effective regardless of your goals.”

“But just a minute ago you complained that advertis- ers over-hype their products,” Jack said. “Advertising is famous for promising more than it delivers. It’s a hustle, a bait-and-switch. Is that really the sort of thing you want associated with your religion?”

“But Christianity delivers what it claims. No false promises.”

“Then you shouldn’t need marketing at all. Let me put it this way: If the big burger joints suddenly stopped adver- tising tomorrow, do you think their sales would hold steady? Most people in America already have a franchise or two nearby — wouldn’t they just continue with their eating habits? No. Because the product they sell isn’t that good. Hamburgers have not changed people’s lives.” Jack absent- mindedly buttered his roll. “If religion is any different — if it does transform people — then it should be like one of those movies that is a word-of-mouth hit — you know, one that plays for months and months and increases its atten- dance each week, because people just have to tell their

friends how moving it was. If Christianity is what it says, all these changed lives should be advertising enough.”

“I see what you’re saying,” Leonard said, chewing his food thoughtfully. “I’ve got a few pamphlets in the over- head bin you might want to take a look at: stories of peo- ple whose lives were changed by Jesus.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “I’m not impressed by a few Christians out of millions who have really cool stories. I’d be more impressed with small stories of change in a vast number of people. Let’s say that among Christians, there was only a five percent divorce rate: That would impress me. But instead, divorce among Christians is about the same as the national average, about thirty-five percent. I might be impressed if Christians were more organized, more creative, more healthy, or more reliable than any other group in America, but I just don’t see it.”

“Christians aren’t perfect,” Leonard said softly, “just forgiven. Learning to love God is a lifelong process with a lot of stumbling blocks.”

Jack thought for a moment. “I’m glad to hear you say that. That sounds more like real life. But I’d still like to see that process. I’d like to witness the two steps forward and the one step back — that’s the only way I’m really going to understand it. Handing me a story of grand transformation from some famous person doesn’t give me any idea of what the day-to-day is like. Advertising just isn’t as con- vincing as a person willing to be honest with me about the journey, on a regular basis, over the years.”

Leonard smiled. “This flight is only eight hours, you know.”

CHAPTER 3: A CHANGE IN THE AIR

JACK’S ALARM SCREAMED IN HIS EAR LIKE A SIREN. HE batted at the snooze button to quiet it, then tried to focus his bleary eyes on the time. Two in the afternoon. His limbs felt like bricks, and he had no desire to get out of bed. But he knew he should if he wanted to beat the jet-lag effect of the eight-hour flight to Europe. Over the years he’d found that a four-hour nap, followed by an afternoon and evening of walking, was the best way to adjust to a new time zone.

He threw water on his face and looked in the mirror. He had a fair amount of stubble, but he decided to let it be. Today wasn’t a workday, after all; it was a day for reaccli- mating himself to the city. It had been more than a decade since he had been in London.

The streets were busy with people, on their own par- ticular missions. Jack was, too. He remembered a little café that served a delicious carrot-coriander soup. He couldn’t remember the name of the café, or even the street it was on, so he navigated by instinct, pushing himself into his memories of his younger days.

Rounding the next corner, he saw a green canopy stretched out over a few white tables. This was it. The smell of buttery pastries drifted through the air. He couldn’t help but feel a touch of emotion, a sense of connection to this place. It was exactly as he remembered it. But wasn’t that the way of things in England? The country held fast to its history, even the little piece of his history.

There was quite a line at the counter, but he didn’t mind. He was here as much for the atmosphere as for the food. It was small, but, as with so much of England, clut- tered with many things. It gave the place a cozy feel. Jack looked around at the other patrons, people from all walks of life enjoying scones and cake. One couple in particular caught his eye; they were talking, laughing. The energy of young love shone on their faces, and they were oblivious to everyone but each other. His analytical reporter’s eye could tell they were traveling on a tight budget: one cup of coffee between them. But he envied them.

He and Veronica had been this young couple once. Perhaps they had even sat where this couple were now sit- ting. Jack couldn’t help but remember the excitement of traveling and exploring together. They were in their own lit- tle universe, just two people against the whole world. All of life was ahead of them. Their mission and purpose togeth- er were still unknown, but they were eager to discover it — together.

Jack shook the memories from his head. Young love, he reminded himself, is just the result of young chemicals coursing through young bodies. Nothing more, nothing less. And those feelings die with age.

But the nostalgia he was feeling, this sense of time standing still, made him wish for more. Was there some-thing more? Was there a purpose beyond biology? Maybe it was their children. Were they the purpose? But they, too, would just grow up and be biologically attracted to some other young person. Was life just some meaningless cycle? If he was honest, that was exactly what he thought. But his heart wanted something else.

“Can I help you?” The elderly woman on the other side of the counter interrupted his train of thought.

“A bowl of carrot-coriander soup, to take away,” Jack said. “And can you send a plate of scones and jam to the couple by the window?” he added on impulse. The woman looked at him a little strangely, but Jack was feeling better about himself already. Maybe being nice to people was what made the world go ’round.

Jack brought his soup to St. James Park. Spring was in the air. People were tossing around a Frisbee, others jogging. He made his way to the lake where kids were feeding the ducks. He saw families enjoying themselves, and older peo- ple holding hands. Maybe he should have moved with his family to England. There was a peace here that he had never seen anywhere else.

As he ate, Jack felt his discontent creep back into him. Maybe it was the jet lag — he was just out of his routine. On the other hand, maybe breaking routine had given him his first chance in a while to look around at the world. He was usually immersed in one story or another, questing after the truth as he saw it. He realized it didn’t matter all that much; it wasn’t much more than an elaborate game.

But at least it was an exciting game. And playing it, keep- ing at it, gave him a sense of purpose. Only — what if there was a purpose beyond just the sense of purpose?

Music began playing from behind Jack. He turned around to see a dozen people sitting on the grass with gui- tars, flutes, and other instruments. Those without wood- winds were singing along. He didn’t recognize the song, but the scene reminded him of his college campus, where people would strum their guitars on the quad. He’d toyed with his roommate’s guitar from time to time but never felt confident enough to play it in front of anyone.

Jack went back to his soup and listened to the music. It wasn’t long before he realized that the group was made of Christians; he kept hearing words like God and glory float his way. Obviously they were out to evangelize the park. Jack smiled as he felt his journalistic impulses kick in; jet lag or not, he was ready to begin work.

He wandered closer to the group and listened as he finished his meal. He was surprised to find that older peo- ple seemed to be involved, and families. He was also sur- prised to hear them sing an old Beatles favorite of his.

“So is this some kind of band you have here?” he asked a few of them as the gathering began to break up.

“Oh, we wish,” answered a forty-something woman holding a guitar. She laughed. “These are just music les- sons.”

“Your church has music lessons?” “Our church?” she asked.

“I’m sorry,” Jack stammered. “You were singing about glory and Jesus, so I assumed ...”

“No, this is just something our neighborhood decided to do. Some of the people here are Christians, but I’m not.” Jack frowned. “But you were singing about Jesus any-

way?”

The woman smiled. “I want to learn how to play music. I want to spend time with my neighbors. What am I going to do, make people sign a ‘no Jesus’ contract?”

Jack laughed. “No, I suppose not.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Jack, by the way.”

“Ingrid,” she said, shaking his hand. “You know, three years ago I spent most of my free time driving to towns twenty miles away to find people I had things in common with. You know what that’s like?”

“I do,” he confessed.

“Then someone came along and pulled us together as a neighborhood,” Ingrid said, “and I found out I have con- nections with people right around me. We have a lot of the same interests, and we learn from each other. I’m sure the Christians could have formed their own little group of musi- cians or organized their own barbecues, but I’m kind of glad to be a part of it all.”

Jack left the conversation intrigued. He had expected to find that this Christian movement was the result of some church program that was growing larger and larger. But it seemed to have spilled over into the neighborhoods. Or maybe it had started in the neighborhoods. The puzzle was starting to intrigue him.

He remembered Westminster Abbey was nearby; it had been a favorite sight of his when he was here last. It was a gateway to history. He could walk where famous kings once walked and where they now lay buried. He loved the symbolism of the two queens who hated each other in life now contained in the same small room. Shakespeare’s statue honored the beauty of poetry and the endurance of art. There was this tangible connection to people whose legacies had shaped today’s world. He could almost believe that the meaningless cycle of biology added up to something, some purpose beyond each individual’s time on earth.

Jack neared the building, the sight of which still took his breath away. Stone block rose from the grass. Thick, massive walls held up heavy spires that stretched into the sky. This structure took some brute strength to raise up so many centuries ago. And although it seemed to Jack more a museum than a church, he couldn’t help but admire the ancient faith of the ancient people who had built it.

However, he was here to investigate something new, something that was perhaps the next chapter in the story of this monument. Walking in, he resisted the temptation just to explore. He moved past a family kneeling and pray- ing together, past a group of young people in their twenties singing together. They sounded pretty good in the old cathedral. Jack spied a man wearing an official-looking robe and angled his way toward him.

“Excuse me,” he said, careful to keep his voice soft. “Are you a priest here?”

The man smiled politely. “A vicar, yes.”

“I have some questions that I’d like to ask about, well, recent developments in the church.” Jack wasn’t sure why he hadn’t mentioned he was a reporter. Maybe he thought the vicar would be more candid talking to someone who appeared genuinely interested.

The vicar gestured for Jack to sit on a pew. “No prob- lem. What would you like to know?”

“I hope this doesn’t sound strange, but is there some- thing new going on in the church? I don’t just mean Westminster Abbey, but in London in general.”

“I believe there is,” the vicar said, smiling, “because people ask me this question every day. I’ve worked here at the cathedral for twenty-five years and have never seen anything like it. People ask me, ‘Is it a fad of some sort? Is it of God?’ and the truth is I just don’t know. All I know is that I used to feel like a curator at a museum and now I feel like” — he laughed — “well, like a vicar at a church.”

“So what is it?” Jack asked eagerly. “What’s changed?” “I wish I knew,” the vicar said, deflating Jack’s hopes

of easy research. “But let me illustrate: Before this past year, do you know what the number-one question was from those visiting the cathedral? It was: ‘Where did Elton John sing at the funeral of Princess Diana?’”

“Really! And now there’s a new question?”

“Well, the American tourists still ask about the piano,” the vicar said, smiling, “but people from England and some from the continent are starting to ask different questions.”

“About God and the Bible?” Jack guessed.

“Well, I’d like to say that,” the vicar said, “but they are asking more practical, logistical questions. Like, ‘Where would be a quiet place for our family to pray?’ Or — and this is really growing — people want to know when they can bring in a group from as small as two people to more than a hundred to sing.” He gestured toward the entrance. “That group over there, for example.”

“Yes, I noticed them,” Jack said. “Is that some school choir or something?”

“No, it is just a neighborhood group that wanted to sing in a cathedral.”

“But they sound so good,” Jack said. “They know har- mony and —”

“I was as surprised as you, at least at first. Now it’s a regular occurrence. People are practicing in their homes and with their families. Friends come over, and they sing. It reminds me of the ’60s and the music movement, except it’s not just young people. Old and young, rich and poor — everyone seems to be singing and learning instruments.”

“So it’s a music thing,” Jack said, almost to himself. “It’s like karaoke, but carried to the next level.”

“But it’s not just music,” the vicar said. “That’s just the tip of the iceberg. People are hanging around, praying, get- ting in small groups and just talking. We have hundreds every day that just come in and read the Bible. Our few services at the cathedral, which had been mainly for show, are now attended by thousands every week. We don’t have the staff to handle it.”

“So where is all this interest coming from?” Jack asked. “Did the Church of England spearhead some new program?”

The vicar looked amused. “The Church of England has been built upon centuries of tradition, not on trying out new fads every ten years like the American churches. No, we have no idea where all this is coming from — and frankly, we are not sure what to think or do.”

He leaned toward Jack and lowered his voice further. “There’s a lot of chaos around here right now. To some degree, this trend is beyond our control. It’s a little discon- certing to be wondering: What’s next?”

Jack left the cathedral feeling a chill of excitement. He had expected to find behind this movement a tidy organization of evangelists armed with a new, methodical approach. Upon first encounter, though, he found it big, sprawling, and messy. As if infectious, it traveled the unpredictable web of human relationships — and left church leaders nervous over its next permutation.

With the sun beginning to set, Jack was eager to head back to his hotel and write up a few notes on his discover- ies. He made his way to the Westminster tube station and snaked his way through hallways decorated with posters for West End plays. He followed signs toward the Jubilee Line and was waiting at the northbound platform when he noticed two familiar faces. The beautiful young couple from the café were standing nearby, arms around each other.

He smiled to himself and wondered if he should tell them he had been their mysterious benefactor this after- noon. He’d just decided against it when the woman looked over and caught him staring at them. He glanced away, embarrassed, but then decided to make the best of it.

“I’m sorry — I didn’t mean to stare,” Jack apologized.

“It’s just that I don’t see many couples as noticeably happy as you two.”

“Thank you,” the woman said, with a trace of a Dutch accent.

“Are you newlyweds?”

The husband shook his head. “We are married since four years ago.”

“Really? That’s inspiring,” Jack said. He smiled at them and they smiled back. “I’m sorry, I haven’t even intro- duced myself. I’m Jack, from New York.”

“Gerrit,” the husband said.

“And I’m Sofie. We’re from Holland.”

Jack looked at his watch, but the train was still a cou- ple minutes away. “So, four years of wedded bliss, huh?”

Sofie and Gerrit looked at each other for a moment. Then Sofie looked up at Jack. “Actually, we are just now get- ting our marriage on track.”

“Really?” Jack said, moving closer. “You seem so ...” He searched for the right words.

“Yes, I know. But a year ago at this time we called it quits.” Sofie drew herself up. “Looking back, we were both in the marriage for ourselves.”

Gerrit looked at his wife and nodded. “Each of us was wanting our own needs satisfied. Just take what we could get and never put anything in. We each knew something is wrong, but did not want to work on improvements.”

Jack was increasingly intrigued. Maybe there was something more here than just hormones and biology.

“So what put you on track?” he asked.

Sofie smiled. “I was doing laundry in our flat, and I started chatting with this older woman — well, in her thirties. I was complaining that Gerrit never helped with the laundry; in fact, I was nearly crying. So she asked me if I would be truly happy if Gerrit helped out with the clothes. In the end, I had to admit I wouldn’t. I told her the real problem is that he’s just so lazy about everything. She nodded and asked if I would be truly happy if Gerrit was just more responsible. I had to admit that wouldn’t be enough. The fact was, I didn’t know what I wanted out of marriage. “But she seemed to know, and that made her intriguing. We talked all afternoon. She shared the story of her marriage; parts of it were just like ours. She invited us over to dinner, and we got to see what she and her husband were like together. We began to see in them what you see in us: life, love, purpose, God.”

“God?” Jack said, drawing back a little.

“I know it sounds a bit weird,” Sofie said, “but this couple had a strong relationship because they both had a strong relationship with God. Gerrit and I were not inter- ested in God, church, and all that. Gerrit was raised with some religion but only casually. My family didn’t bother. But we wanted what this couple had so much that we fig- ured it couldn’t do us any harm.”

Jack didn’t know about that. The last thing that would have helped him and Veronica was to paste on plastic smiles and sit in a pew on Sundays. Yet ... somehow, this God thing seemed to have worked for these people.

A metallic whine interrupted their conversation as the train entered the station, and the doors slid back for board- ing. Jack followed Gerrit and Sofie onto the train. He was curious to know where their story would lead; it might even be relevant to his article.

“So this couple got you into religion?” Jack asked as they found adjacent seats.

“I would not say so,” Gerrit answered. “It was more the little things at first: They show us how to read a Bible with each other. They show us praying. They let us try out that and then see for ourselves.”

“We weren’t sure exactly how it was supposed to work,” Sofie said. “We felt a little silly. But in a few weeks we were talking like we never had before — talking about life, what we believed, what we feared. Our hopes, our expectations. It wasn’t always pleasant. We fought about things we had never fought about before. I was scared. But our marriage became something we were both focused on again. We were thinking about an ‘us’ again, and wonder- ing what our purpose was together.” Sofie grasped her hus- band’s hand and squeezed it. He smiled at her, then at Jack. “Of course we could not have done it alone,” Sofie continued. “Our sponsor couple invited us to meet other couples that were trying to do the same as us. We spent time together. We made meals and went places together. We helped each other. Soon our friends noticed that some- thing had changed and began to ask questions. We just shared the truth. They were as skeptical as we had been — especially about the Bible stuff. We told them it was kind of like our international-cuisine nights: No one would force you to eat anything you don’t like, but at the very least you

have to taste and see.”

Jack’s mind flashed upon his conversation on the