settled his two-hundred-pound frame into the chair, alone in the center of the stage. He straightened the lapel on his Armani suit, black with a fine blue pinstripe. The band Rapture stood behind him stage right; opposite them the thirty-member choir stood on risers, their crimson robes blowing from the powerful fans hidden offstage. Surveying the audience as they anticipated the topic of this Sunday’s sermon, Reverend Brady spoke in the disarming tone he used to connect with his people, as if he were sharing iced tea with each of them alone in their living rooms.
“I am troubled, my friends. I’m troubled with the corruption of our once great nation.” He paused, allowing the thought to sink in. When he spoke, he did so deliberately, enunciating each syllable so that the echo in the cavernous New Hope Church of God wouldn’t muffle his words.
“Corruption in our country takes many forms: the eradication of religion from our schools, our children’s fascination with the occult in the Harry Potter and Twilight books, sex and violence in our television shows, politicians who care more about saving their elections than saving their constituents.”
Leaning forward on the edge of his seat, he continued, “But today, we will talk about Satan’s more subtle temptations. My friends, I’m here to warn you that sin targets not just the unfaithful. It targets you as well.”
Murmurs spread through the congregation. Brady immediately noticed the man in the front row who sat ramrod straight, perched on his seat like a cobra waiting to strike. His crew cut was sprinkled with signs of premature gray, the deep crease between his eyes adding to the illusion of age beyond his years. The stage lights brought out the worst of the man’s eczema: the top layer of skin on his face was flaking away, exposing the red flesh underneath. Brady paused to give thanks to the Lord for his own flawless complexion.
“Now, I don’t wish to cast stones at anyone ...”
Brady rose from his chair, descended the marble steps to the front row, and placed a hand on the shoulder of a midthirties blonde in a pastel cotton dress that complemented her athletic physique. Brady scanned the aisle to see where his camera guy was kneeling and turned his body to block any shot of the eczema man sitting two seats away. He was always conscious of who was being projected onto the giant screen suspended over the stage.
“But last Thursday evening, when I was picking up some groceries, I noticed Barbara Howell here coming out of the yoga studio in the shopping center off Montevallo Road.”
Barbara gazed up at the reverend as a child might look at a parent, knowing she was in trouble but unsure of the nature of her infraction. Brady smiled at her indulgently. “First Corinthians instructs us that our bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit. By exercising, we honor God, who created us in his image. Now, I know Barbara strives to live according to the ways of our Savior, but”—he paused, holding his index finger in the air—“even well-intentioned activities can be fraught with sinfulness, if we are not vigilant.”
At the word sinfulness Barbara’s expression grew more concerned. The entire congregation watched her, as Brady knew they would. “You may think that yoga, with its stretching and breathing techniques, is a peaceful way to exercise and relax after a hard day’s work. But don’t be fooled. Yoga is not Christian. Yoga is Hindu in origin and practice. Of course, these teachers won’t portray it as religious at first, but one day you’re touching your toes, and then before you know it, you’re chanting in Sanskrit, trying to find God within yourself.”
Reverend Brady’s grip tightened on Barbara’s shoulder. He looked from her to the vaulted ceiling forty feet above them, increasing the volume of his voice. “God, our Father almighty, creator of the universe, and judge over all mankind: these so-called yogis would have you believe that the supreme being is located in a breath or in a flower.” He shook his head in disgust. “But we know better, don’t we?”
“We do,” the congregation replied in unison.
“You tell me, what is the one and only path to God?” he shouted.
“Through our Lord Jesus Christ,” they responded.
Brady lowered his voice again. “If it were possible to reach God through self-discovery, then why would he have sent Jesus to us?”
The reverend looked into Barbara’s reddened eyes and brushed her tearstreaked cheek. “I don’t fault you, dear. The devil comes in many disguises. In Second Corinthians, chapter eleven, verse fourteen, Paul writes, ‘Satan himself masquerades as an angel of light.’” Brady prided himself on his facility with the holy scripture and his ability to come up with a verse to fit any occasion.
“From the beginning of time, Satan has targeted the fairer gender. Just as Eve succumbed to the temptation of eating the forbidden fruit from the tree of knowledge, women today flock to these yoga centers, seeking to find themselves through meditation and other Eastern practices that promote selfknowledge. But hasn’t that fruit been tasted before? These practices will not lead you to God; they will not erase your sins. They will only open your hearts and your minds to dark influences. Our apostle John says in chapter one, verse ten, ‘If they come any to you and bring not this doctrine, receive him not into your house.’ Whose house do you want to be in, Barbara?”
In a whisper she replied, “God’s house.”
Pulling her out of her chair and to her feet, he asked, “Are you ready today, Barbara, to reaffirm your belief in Jesus as the only way to everlasting life?”
“I am.”
Brady raised his hands in the air palms up, and Barbara mimicked him. “In the name of our Savior Jesus Christ, you are forgiven, Barbara Howell. Follow in the Lord’s path, and you shall receive his grace.” Relieved and drained, she collapsed back into her seat as a runner might fall to the curb in exhaustion after crossing the finish line of a race.
Climbing back onstage, the reverend addressed the whole congregation. “Today we have witnessed the courage of one woman. Do you also have the courage to accept Jesus?”
“We do!” they shouted.
“These are precisely the dangers I discuss in my humble little book.” Brady glanced at the giant screen above the stage that displayed a ten-foot-tall projection of the cover of his recently published book, Why Is God So Angry? Under the bold lettering of the title, and the even larger type of his name, was a picture of Brady gazing upward at a wooden cross suspended in a dark, foreboding sky. “Thanks to your support, we now have over three hundred thousand copies of the book in print.” The crowd erupted in cheers. “And that’s only four months after being published!”
Brady paused to allow the applause to die down. Then he began to quote from the first chapter of his book: “The calamities our country has faced in recent times—the hurricanes along our coast, terrorism on our soil, the collapse of our economy—are punishments directed at our formerly Christian nation, which, like the Jewish people in the Old Testament, has lost its way from God. The evils of our permissive society have turned us into a modern-day Sodom and Gomorrah: drugs, abortion, promiscuity, and”—he raised his voice—“our so-called tolerance of other religions that encourage the worship of false idols that have polluted the minds of our citizens.” Brady lowered the pitch of his voice but increased the volume even more. “We have forgotten the warning of First Timothy, chapter two, verse five: ‘For there is one God, and one mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus.’”
The screen above Brady flashed from his book cover to a three-dimensional computer rendering of a town square centered around a huge church. “This lesson today underscores
