to take in as much oxygen as he needed at that moment. Afraid of what might come out of his mouth if he spoke, he merely nodded and let Kinley lead them toward the sunlight pouring through the open temple door.
“And Kinley,” the lama called across the temple when they reached the door. Every monk young and old watched. “If I were you, I would be careful about who you spend time with.” He pointed his staff at Kristin. “You wouldn’t want your brothers to get the wrong idea. Talk can spread quickly in the goemba.”
Once they were outside in the warm afternoon sun, Grant said, “How could you let—”
“To continue the discussion would have served no purpose other than to cause more conflict and to feed my own pride.”
“His insinuations don’t affect you?” Kristin asked.
Kinley shrugged. “I felt frustration, but I didn’t fight it. Instead I let it take its course, flowing through my body. I watched it as I might watch a log float down a river until it disappeared around a bend.”
Grant shook his head. Kinley had explained this technique of watching one’s emotions and destructive thoughts like one might watch a movie playing inside one’s body, but he’d dismissed it as quaint. Such a practice might bring temporary relief, but then he would be resigning himself to a life of always surrendering to other people.
Kinley continued, “Lama Dorji means well. He wants the best for our young monks, just as I do, but he and I have had different life experiences: his life has been shaped by the insular monastic environment, while mine has been influenced by my travels and education. I realized that I was not going to change his opinion today. Further debating my position would only inflate my own ego and bring suffering to us both.”
Kinley stopped walking when they reached the tree in the center of the courtyard. He glanced at its bare branches. A smile passed across his lips and his eyes crinkled in the corners. “Anyway, I had already made my decision. This conversation merely solidified it. We can no longer give in to the isolationism that religion often fosters. It is time that the story of Issa becomes public. Tomorrow morning we shall go to the library.”
“You’re serious?” Grant asked.
“And, Ms. Misaki, please join us, if you can. Your camera will be useful. We won’t have much time.”
CHAPTER 10
BIRMINGHAM, ALABAMA
REVEREND BRIAN BRADY PORED over the construction plans spread out on the cherry table that could seat twelve comfortably. At the opposite end of the dining room that Brady’s wife had decorated in a sea green Venetian plaster, William Jennings, director of operations of New Hope, and Carla Healy, the church’s new controller, huddled over a stack of financial spreadsheets. Brady admired the brilliance of his design. The New Hope Community would be his crowning glory, his testament to the power of God’s will to accomplish the difficult. The project had brought him the spotlight of recognition from his evangelical brethren. Brady was now one of the leading candidates in the upcoming election for the presidency of the NAE, the National Association of Evangelicals.
Brady had known since the day he had given his first sermon in a small church on the outskirts of Mobile that he was meant for something greater than Alabama. Most men would have been content with the success he’d already experienced as the pastor of Birmingham’s largest megachurch, but as the head of the NAE, Brady would rise to national prominence. He could become the next Billy Graham, ministering to presidents and tending to the faith of millions. Eighteen months ago such a goal seemed a distant fantasy, but then he had announced the ambitious plans for the New Hope Community, and now his book, Why Is God So Angry?, was the number one best seller in the country.
The current NAE president, Jimmy Jeffries, had not had an auspicious term. The country had further declined under his leadership, and the power that the evangelical movement used to wield in politics had waned to its weakest point in thirty years. Brady would change all that. Rarely was an incumbent president challenged, much less defeated, but Brady knew that his momentum in the organization was building, and Jennings was working to ensure that it would peak right before the April election.
Brady admired the architectural drawings on the large sheet before him: the New Hope Community. What began three years ago as a search for land to build a larger and more modern church had morphed into a six-hundred acre mixed-use development. The current master plan included not only the new church, which had grown from its current 100,000 square feet to over 250,000, but also a community center, athletic facilities, a new seminary for 650 students, an eighteen-hole golf course, over 200 single-family residences, 350 apartments, and 300 town homes. A retail center with a grocery store, shops, and restaurants completed the development.
For years Brady had dreamed of building a community of the faithful. A community that would literally be centered around the church that he’d placed in the middle of the town square. His architects had visited Charleston and Savannah for inspiration from old southern architecture.
In the New Hope Community, the faithful would gain strength and support from each other, as well as worship, shop, and dine together—all without the corrupting influences so rampant in society today. The development would have its own cable TV system and movie theaters, playing only appropriate inspirational programming. Likewise, the Christian bookstore would carry titles similar to Brady’s book that would strengthen rather than confuse the people. Jennings had referred to the concept as Christian Urbanism, a take on the popular New Urbanism developments springing up around the country. Brady loved the term and immediately adopted it as his own. New Hope would be the model for how to turn around the problems of the country. Once Brady unseated Jimmy Jeffries, he would be in position to bring his vision to the nation.
Brady peered across the table at Jennings. His number two was dressed in a gray pinstriped suit that hung loosely from his limbs and a white dress shirt that had stray threads showing around the neck and cuffs from being laundered too many times. A long, sharp nose protruding from a pale face combined with an even longer neck gave him the appearance of an ostrich outfitted in Brooks Brothers. Brady shook his head and then brushed a fleck of lint from the sleeve of his own midnight black Armani suit. He then adjusted the French cuffs on his pale pink shirt so that they peeked out from his jacket sleeve just the right amount. He’d tried to tell Jennings that a low-budget appearance invited low-budget offerings, but his number two just didn’t have the flair for style that he had.
Brady tapped his fingers on the table. Jennings and Carla still had their heads stuck in spreadsheets. Brady couldn’t tolerate those things. Fortunately, he had Jennings. The growth the church had experienced under the Brady-Jennings partnership surpassed even Brady’s lofty expectations: a few hundred members twenty years ago to over ten thousand today. The combination of Brady’s charisma and passion for the scripture and Jennings’s organizational abilities and attention to detail, along with God’s blessing, had worked a miracle.
“These delays are getting annoying. Do we start grading for the town square next month as planned?” Brady asked. They could finish the accounting later.
Jennings looked up. “The bank’s attorneys have agreed to the final changes in the loan documents. We should close next month on the first hundred million. Then we’ll be able to pay down the line of credit we used to buy the land and fund our initial construction.”
“Good. Everything’s going according to God’s will.” Brady gestured to the site plan in front of him. “Let’s talk about the layout of the retail center. I was thinking that maybe we should move these restaurants—”
