Come Sunday Morning. Terry E. Hill

wall with a thud.

      “Catherine, get me the most recent construction figures,” he said, peering directly at the doors ahead as if a face were looking back at him. “How much we’ve spent and how much we’ve raised. I want to be ready for Lance.”

      Catherine scribbled the pastor’s instructions and answered, “Yes, Pastor Cleaveland,” as the elevator doors slid open.

      Hezekiah, Catherine, and Naomi exited the elevator and walked directly toward the pastor’s suite of offices. Floor-to-ceiling glass double doors stood before them. Naomi took a double step ahead of the pastor and opened the door. Hezekiah entered the suite without altering his stride as she stepped aside.

      The outer office now held many of the same faces from the staff meeting. Attractive young women shuttled important-looking documents from one side of the room to the other. Handsome men wearing cheap suits and expensive neckties huddled in various corners of the office as they conferred on urgent church business.

      Lush burgundy carpets muffled the sound of multiple conversations. Mahogany panels covered the walls from which architectural renderings of the new towering 25,000-seat glass cathedral hung.

      Hezekiah scanned the room. His eyes rested on no one in particular. They were all just bodies. Empty faces serving at his whim. The people he and Samantha surrounded themselves with were there simply to do their bidding—not to think, analyze, or make decisions.

      A lanky man with wavy black hair approached him. Associate Pastor, Rev. Kenneth Davis was the only staff member brave enough to break bad news to Hezekiah so early in the morning.

      “Good morning, Pastor Cleaveland,” Kenneth said as Hezekiah looked up from a stack of telephone messages.

      “Sorry to start your week like this but there is another protest going on in front of the church.” Kenneth pointed toward open French doors along the rear wall.

      “What is it now?” Hezekiah asked sharply.

      “It seems another group of homeless advocates are angry about the amount of money we’re spending on the construction of the new cathedral. They think we should be spending the money on the homeless instead.”

      The sound of a man speaking through a megaphone met Hezekiah’s ears as he looked from the third floor onto the grounds of New Testament Cathedral.

      A group of over 200 people waved protest signs that read: LOS ANGELES NEEDS MORE AFFORDABLE HOUSING, NOT SHRINES TO GREEDY PASTORS AND HEZEKIAH CLEAVELAND DOESN’T CARE ABOUT POOR PEOPLE.

      New Testament Cathedral was a two-block-long, five-story stucco structure with a row of stained-glass windows lining each side of the building. Park like settings wrapped around its perimeter. Cobblestone paths dotted with benches, curved brick walls, gurgling rock fountains, and lush greenery provided parishioners with aesthetic justification for the millions of dollars they gave to the Cleavelands each year.

      Worshippers were greeted by a sweeping flight of steps that spanned the width of the building and led up to a two-story-high glass wall containing six sets of double doors. Through the windows a massive crystal chandelier could be seen dangling in the sun-drenched lobby. A twenty-foot sapphire blue cross was the centerpiece of the stained-glass window that dominated much of the front of the building. Massive birds were on each side of the cross. Their outstretched glass wings were made of blue, red, yellow, lavender, and white opaque panels, and they held olive branches in their powerful beaks. Visual proclamations proudly declaring the edifice to be the home of New Testament Cathedral and presided over by Dr. Hezekiah T. Cleaveland, pastor sat above the stained-glass centerpiece.

      “Hezekiah Cleaveland is spending forty-five million dollars to build a shrine to himself while homeless people, sick people, and mentally ill people are living and dying on the streets all around him,” the megaphone-toting man below shouted to the crowd. “New Testament Cathedral and Hezekiah Cleaveland should be spending that money to build affordable housing, shelters, and clinics for the poor in this community!”

      The crowd cheered and the grounds of New Testament Cathedral were alive with the sounds of boos, whistles, and clapping hands. Burly men hoisting television cameras on their shoulders captured the scenes for the evening news.

      Hezekiah could see the construction site of the new cathedral directly across the street, on Imperial Highway. Bulldozers kicked up dust as they moved dirt to clear a space for the new parking structure. Men in yellow hard hats and wagging tool belts walked around the site carrying blueprints, lumber, and power tools. Cranes carefully positioned steel beams onto the rising structure. The new site was twice the size of the one the church now occupied. It included a 25,000-seat sanctuary to hold even more generous congregants each Sunday morning, three thirty-two-by-eighteen-foot JumboTron screens, the Hezekiah T. Cleaveland elementary, middle, and high schools, a theological seminary complete with dorms to house future missionaries, a sprawling park with two restaurants, a bookstore and gift shop, and a 5,000-seat amphitheater for outdoor summer concerts. The new campus also included a fitness center and an automotive repair complex.

      Hezekiah spotted the Los Angeles Chronicle reporter Lance Savage talking to a man wrapped in a trench coat that looked like he had slept in it for months.

      “Maybe you should go down there and address them,” Naomi said, walking up behind Hezekiah and Kenneth. “Since there are so many reporters, maybe this would be a good opportunity to tell the public how we already help the homeless.”

      Hezekiah’s smile quickly vanished. His shoulders tensed as he stared directly into her eyes.

      “Are you crazy? Do you want me to be on the six o’clock news, being yelled at by a bunch of bums?”

      “I didn’t mean…”

      “That’s your problem. You don’t seem to know what you mean most of the time.”

      Hezekiah spun on his heels and stormed through the door leading to his private office suite.

      Everyone present pretended not to have heard the lashing Naomi had just received. Nervous hands throughout the office frantically groped for telephones on the first ring; papers were shuffled and feet darted toward the nearest exits when she turned from the window.

      Kenneth looked at Naomi with a sympathetic eye and said, “He’s in one of his moods today. What is going on?”

      “He’s been like this for weeks now and it seems to be getting worse,” replied Naomi as the crimson hue slowly drained from her face.

      Hezekiah retrieved more telephone messages from an assistant positioned outside his office.

      The scheduling secretary greeted Hezekiah as he approached.

      “Good morning, Pastor Cleaveland,” she said. “Senator Swanson’s office is on the line. The senator will be in town next week and wants to know if you’re available for lunch.”

      Hezekiah looked unimpressed as he retrieved more telephone messages from her neatly appointed desk. “That’s fine,” he said. “Go ahead and set it up.”

      When he entered his office, the private telephone rang. After dropping the stack of telephone messages on the desk, he picked up the receiver.

      “Hello. This is Hezekiah Cleaveland.”

      “Good morning, handsome,” said the voice on the line.

      The tension in Hezekiah’s shoulders slowly dissolved. “Good morning, baby,” he said in a whisper.

      “I’m driving down Imperial Highway past your church. I’m on my way to give out condoms and socks to a group of homeless guys at an encampment under the freeway near your church and I just wanted to hear your voice.”

      “Condoms?” Hezekiah asked, laughing. “Why do homeless people need condoms? They shouldn’t be having sex under the freeways.”

      The voice on the phone laughed with him.

      Hezekiah lowered his body into his huge black leather chair and said, “I loved being