The Savvy Demon's Guide to Godly Living

By Brad Francis

Poor Melchior.

Oh, sure, being a demon sounds like lots of fun: tempting, deceiving, distracting and all that. But what if the church you're assigned to never does anything? Compton Baptist Church has about as much impact on their community as a bag of moldy tangerines--which means this fallen angel is bored out of his mind! In an attempt to alleviate the dull monotony of his life, Melchior pays a drunken visit to the pastor he's assigned to.

Despite the unlikely source, the visit changes Pastor Doug Pinkerton's life. When his eyes are opened to the truths of following Christ with all that he is, Compton, New Jersey will never be the same again. Disciples are made, souls are won and lives are changed in this satirical novel about denying yourself, picking up your cross and following Jesus Christ.

Please note: This story is intended for mature audiences. It is absolutely written to glorify God, but it deals with people at all stages of faith. Sometimes their language and behavior are sinful. The Narrator makes every attempt to censor naughty words, but characters in this book who are far from God act and speak in a manner consistent with the darkness in their lives. But don't worry. When the Light comes, the darkness will not be able to stand.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brad Francis
• Release date: Sep 16, 2013
• ISBN: 9781497759688

Book preview

Chapter One

A Demon Walks Into a Bar…

To think it all happened because a demon got drunk.

Demons aren’t allowed to drink alcohol, of course. It’s distinctly against the rules. But it should come as no surprise that, as a whole, they’re really a notoriously disobedient bunch. It’s lack of effective discipline, sure, but that’s just the problem, isn’t it? Effective discipline. When you’ve got a group of underlings that already find themselves damned for all eternity, what precisely are you going to hold over their heads? Seriously, are you going to beat them? Whip them? Spank them? How’s that going to work against eternal torment? Gonna send them to bed without their supper? They’re spiritual beings. They don’t need to eat or sleep. How’re you going to discipline these guys?

Seriously, if you have any ideas, I know a certain Prince of Darkness who would love to know. He’d probably offer quite a bit of money, fame and power for the info, too. Of course, just bear in mind that he’s also the Father of Lies when you’re negotiating the price, so...well, I’m just saying it might do well to have a notary public standing by to witness things.

So, anyway, rules or not, this demon drank. His name was Melchior and the scene of the crime was this little dive in Jersey that the majority of readers will really want to avoid. The demon entered the bar in human form, of course, although the greasy, mostly-stoned bartender—a man who looked remarkably like Elvis if Elvis had a huge, tangled beard and greasy black hair down to his shoulders—probably wouldn’t have missed a beat either way. In fact there were a number of times (sixteen or seventeen) during the session Melchior spent on the barstool when he would, in a fit of angry political vitriol, accidentally let his wings appear. They were black and red, leathery like a bat’s, and nobody noticed.

So Melchior got drunk. Plastered, really. Then he got laid behind a dumpster in the alley out back. He couldn’t really remember with whom or what, but, then, he couldn’t really remember getting laid at all. Plus, even amongst dumpsters and alleys, this coupling was particularly unromantic.

He returned from the alley alone and announced loudly to the noisy bar that he was bored. Might as well pour another shot, barkeep—and one for yourself, too. Hairy Elvis was nothing if not obedient—particularly when someone wanted to buy him a shot—so he did as he was told. Both drained their glasses promptly. When Melchior set his down much harder than necessary, he noticed out of the corner of his eye that the barstool next to his was no longer vacant.

Pour us two more, barkeep, the stranger said. As Greasy Elvis hurried to obey, Melchior turned to look at his new drinking buddy. It seemed like there was something familiar there, but when your vision’s this blurry, everyone sorta starts to look alike.

Thanks, muttered Melchior.

Cheers, said the stranger. He tipped the shot glass toward the demon, threw back his head and downed the contents.

The demon snorted. Thanks for the drink, he said again, not fully cognizant that he was repeating himself. I dunno what your aim is, stranger. If you’re trying to get into my pants, I should mention that I just had sexual intercourse—at least, I think I did—and also that I think that I may be at the point of inebriation at which there may be issues with performance. Y’know. Full disclosure.

I just don’t like to drink alone, that’s all, replied the stranger with a shrug. What good is loosening your tongue if you’ve got no one to gripe to?

Melchior nodded so vigorously that he almost fell right off his barstool. True, he said. "So very true. Well, so long as you’re buying, you can gripe to me. I think you’ll find me delightfully empathetic. Here, listen to this: man, your ex-wife is such a whore! See? I’m playing my part already."

Very nice, but I don’t have an ex-wife.

This revelation struck the demon into a brief, dumb silence. It seemed so utterly implausible that any particular drunk might not have an ex-wife—but Melchior had been around for a while (a long while) and had seen it all. He quickly recovered.

Well, maybe your boss is the whore then. Or your sister-in-law. Or your eighth grade math teacher. Whatever, whatever—go ahead and vent and I’ll be here to back you up with appropriate name-calling, guaranteed.

The stranger shrugged. Tell you the truth, he said, I don’t have a great deal to complain about. Except for my job, of course.

They were back on familiar territory now and Melchior attacked it with vigor. Oh, tell me about it! Jobs suck, don’t they? Utterly pointless and what’d’ya get—? More in debt and older by—no, wait. ‘Nother day older and—oh, I know this...

The stranger did not wait, but pressed on. It’s just so exhausting. Day in, day out—working my fingers to the bone. There’s never a moment’s rest. There’s always more to do.

Melchior took the opportunity to widen his eyes, aiming broadly for drunken incredulity. "You really complaining about being too busy?"

Well, yeah.

Naw, man—you got no idea. Then, much to the horror of everyone still semi-conscious in the bar (an illustrious group that did not currently include Barkeep Elvis), Melchior broke into song. And not a drinking song, either. Not even something by Lynyrd Skynyrd or Guns and Roses or something. No, the demon started to sing a hymn.

"Count your blessings, name them one by one! Count your blessings, see what God has done—!" The solo was mercifully cut short as, somewhere in his drunken stupor, Melchior seemed to realize what he was doing. He sank back onto his stool (as he had gotten, unsteadily, to his feet before) and fixed the stranger with a somber (not to be confused with sober) look. Ya get me, man?

It took the stranger several moments to find his tongue.

I think, he allowed cautiously, "that you might be telling me that being busy at work all the time is actually a good thing?"

That’s exactly it. I know everyone loves to whine about being busy, but the time flies by when you’ve got something to do. Plus, it’s good for a guy—y’know—to feel a sense of accomplishment or whatever. It’s sitting around doing nothing, just watching weeds grow...hating the boredom, hating the endless time, but dreading when it’s over...man, that’s when it really sucks.

Does it at least pay well?

Melchior actually laughed at this. This was never a pleasant sound by any standard, but, filtered as it was through way too much alcohol, it sounded more pathetic than anything else.

I’m so sick of this, the demon moaned. I mean, this should be the best time of my life, right? It’s all downhill from here. I should be raising havoc and whispering half-truths but instead it’s got to be hands-off all the time. Don’t interfere. I sit back, I watch, I go out of my f—ing mind!

Let us pause just briefly to address the fact that Melchior, as a demon, is not always disposed toward the most noble and polite of language. Since the readership may well be of mixed company, and since good Christians are so sensible as to be quite offended by profanity, we will make every effort to shield you from these unfortunate worldly sensibilities.

That’s all you do? the stranger asked. Just sit and watch? Are you a security guard or something?

Melchior opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again, then opened it a second time and said, Or something. I’ll use a metaphor. Let’s say that it is my job to shoot the enemy in the foot—

The enemy?

Competition. The competition. It’s a metaphor, remember? My job to shoot the competition in the foot, metaphorically speaking—but then here they come ‘round the corner, and look at that! They’re already bleeding profusely from their sneakers and the gun is still there, still in their hand, still smoking! You get what I’m saying?

The stranger paused to consider this, determined that he did not at all get what the demon was saying, so decided to guess. Your coworker is doing your work for you?

"What? No! No, the enemy has taken the initiative and blown off both of his own feet before I even get a chance! What do I do? Do I shoot him in the eye? In the head? Do I maybe graze ‘im? Or just leave well enough alone?"

Do you play a lot of violent video games, buddy?

Why? Would that be a good way to fill my time?

Don’t worry about it, muttered the stranger. I know what you need to do. You need to march right on up to your boss and let him have it! Tell him you’re fed up and you’re not going to take it anymore. If he tries to fire you, flip him the bird and tell him he can’t fire you because you quit! Then storm out of there and don’t look back.

Oh gosh, I’d love to be fired, said Melchior, or quit—but it’s not really an option.

You can’t be fired? How does that work?

Melchior paused, considered and then shrugged. We’ve got a hell of a union.

Well, even better then. You get to say your piece and keep your job! What have you got to lose? Hey, barkeep, what do you say? Nothin’ to lose, right?

Stoned, greasy, hairy Elvis had suddenly been roused from his stupor and spent several moments squinting—at Melchior, at the stranger, at the room and at the bar, all through a confused haze, as if seeing them for the first time. He then decided, apparently, that all this squinting was exhausting, so collapsed on the floor behind the bar for some much needed beauty sleep.

He agrees with me, declared the stranger.

Naw, replied Melchior. "You don’t know my boss. The guy gets told off like this a minimum of two, three times a week. In fact, I think I may have even done it once or twice myself...I think—it’s been like eighty years or something, and things are actually a little foggy right now."

The stranger accepted this truth without debate. The reader will probably concur that eighty plus years in almost any job would be enough to leave one with a fairly persistent headache. Excepting, perhaps, working as one of the actors on Sesame Street. Like a fine wine (the type that a certain dive in New Jersey has never and will never serve), that must only get sweeter with age.

Both Melchior and the stranger fell into silent contemplation as to what dramatic gesture the former could make to adequately protest his current state of displeasure at work, which was decidedly unlike hanging out with Muppets. The demon decided that another drink would help facilitate his creative thought processes (which was highly unlikely) so loudly asked the barkeep for more booze. Unfortunately, at least from a mental standpoint, Elvis had left the building, so Melchior ended up reaching across the counter and grabbing the first bottle he was able to reach. Whatever it was, it was green. He poured generous servings for both himself and his new comrade.

I’ve got it! the stranger exclaimed, just as Melchior decided the shot glass was completely unnecessary and took a sizeable swig from the bottle.

Of course you do, the fallen angel agreed. This is brain juice.

I would like to explain my solution, the stranger continued, by using a hypothetical metaphor. Let’s say that you work at McDonald’s—some very bizarre little golden arches somewhere that you can’t be fired from and you’ve worked there for eighty years and the boss gets told off a lot and there’s a generous amount of bullets piercing the lower extremities.

I’m with you so far.

If you really want to stick it to the man—

He’s a clown and his name is Ronald.

Yeah, that’s the one, said the stranger. If you really want to get Ronald’s goat, you don’t go whining to the Hamburglar or that giant purple blob thing—no, Sir. What you need to do is make like a chicken and cross the road—metaphorically speaking.

Why would a chicken do that?

"Never mind that right now. You cross the road and you go to Burger King—you go to the competition. Or I think you called them the enemy earlier."

I may have done, allowed Melchior.

Well, you go to them and you tell them exactly what’s in that special sauce.

I don’t need to eat for sustenance or anything, but I’m pretty sure it’s Thousand Island dressing. Actually, I think everyone knows that.

It’s a metaphor.

And a d— fine one at that! Melchior hoisted the bottle of green stuff in the air as a tribute to his friend and his complex literary devices, and then took a few more chugs.

So, the stranger pressed, are you gonna do it?

The Thousand Island thing?

"No, forget the Big Mac for a second. You need to go to the enemy and tell them all about the foot-shooting and about your job and about how it’s not going well and how they can improve and—well, wouldn’t that just get your manager’s goat? Wouldn’t that just drive him crazy?"

It took Melchior several moments to run this less metaphorical and more practical plan through his booze-soaked head. As the particulars began to percolate, he began to see that the stranger was on to something. He stood from his barstool and tried to show his appreciation by initiating a dramatic slow clap. His coordination was pretty off and he soon fell back onto the stool, but it’s really the thought that counts.

I go and share intel with the enemy, he said. You, Sir, are a genius!

The stranger shrugged modestly. It’s always easier when it’s someone else’s problem, isn’t it?

"Do you know—if it works, if it’s successful...it could actually result in some solid work for me to do, too! This could really piss off my boss and give me something to do on the job! It’s a win-win-win-win!"

That seems like too many wins.

I was rounding up.

Inspired and eager to start progressing immediately, Melchior stood once more from his barstool. He took a step toward the stranger, grabbed him by the shoulders, and planted two sloppy kisses, one on each cheek.

A genius, he said again. A f—ing genius is what you are, friend. I am so sorry about what I called your ex-wife.

Without waiting for a response, and without even attempting to rouse Hairy Elvis to pay the bill, Melchior zigged and zagged his way directly into a table where a man in a cowboy hat was making out with a woman who might have been a particularly inexpensive prostitute. He apologized profusely to one of the empty chairs, took another drink of the green stuff, which he had not returned to its place behind the bar, and made once more for the door. This time, he was successful.

Stepping outside into the chilly air seemed to have a sobering effect, but really its only work was in making the demon cold and drunk, instead of warm and drunk. He looked around for witnesses and, not seeing any, deliberately let his black and red wings unfurl. He flapped twice and began to rise into the air. He knew precisely where he was going: to have a little chat with the Rev. Doug Pinkerton.

It was 2:18 am.

Chapter Two

In Which the Pastor Makes a Desperate Trip to the Liquor Store

On the flight to Rev. Pinkerton’s house, Melchior managed to collide with two streetlights, three trees, the side of a building, and to crash right through a billboard for a law firm that encouraged passersby to call them first for all their legal needs. If a police officer had observed any of this, there is little doubt that the demon would have been charged with flying while intoxicated and levied a hefty fine.

Despite these minor delays, less than fifteen minutes after he had left the bar, Melchior touched down far too quickly on the street right in front of the Pinkertons’ suburban home. His legs crumpled beneath him and he slammed into the asphalt. Swearing loudly, he managed to recover his feet and started staggering toward Rev. Pinkerton’s front door.

He was looking much more demonic than human now, but did nothing to hide it. This unauthorized mission was not going to be completed incognito. He was going to tell Doug Pinkerton precisely who he was and the bat wings, the black horns protruding from his head, the yellow eyes and rich purple skin were going to help make his case. Yes, purple skin. When someone describes a demon or even the devil himself with red skin, you can be quite confident that they have no clue what they are talking about.

When Melchior walked up to the front door and pressed the doorbell, Rev. and Mrs. Pinkerton were doing precisely what good Christians should be doing at 2:34 am: they were sleeping. After a couple of persistent dings and dongs, however, Rev. Pinkerton forced himself out of bed, marched straight downstairs and opened the front door. Pastors are always on call, of course, and this was no doubt some parishioner in great need.

Except, as the reader will be well aware, the visitor was actually a purple, horned beast with scaly bat wings and yellow eyes. This was not what Rev. Pinkerton was expecting.

Melchior, for his part, did not wait to be greeted by the speechless parson, but brushed directly past him and into the house, saying, We need to have a little chat, preacher.

Doug Pinkerton was an overweight, balding and completely rational man in his mid-fifties. I don’t know whether you are familiar with many overweight, balding and completely rational men in their mid-fifties who have encountered demons in their natural state, but I can assure you that Rev. Pinkerton’s reaction was almost entirely textbook for this particular demographic.

First, he did a double-take; then he blinked his eyes rapidly to dismiss the sleep and make sure the creature was still there; noting that the creature was still there, he opened his mouth to scream but no sound came out, since the shock rendered his vocal cords temporarily useless; he silently told himself to calm down and insisted that he must be seeing someone dressed up for Halloween; he silently responded to himself that it was not October; he insisted that this was a Halloween costume regardless of the month because what else could it possibly be; finding the return of his vocal cords, he called up in a shaky voice for his wife to please come down and look at something and tell him whether she could see it too; Joan Pinkerton called down to remind her husband that it was after 2:30 in the morning and she really didn’t think it necessary for her to also get out of bed; Doug responded that, yes, it was quite necessary in this case, because he really wanted her input on whether he was going crazy; Joan replied that if he thought she was going to get out of bed and come downstairs in the middle of the night, then yes, yes, he was crazy; this discussion went back and forth for several moments and Melchior rolled his eyes and considered just curling up on the couch and forgetting this whole thing because he was really pretty tired; finally, the preacher’s wife relented and came downstairs and looked where her husband pointed, at the demon that had recently curled up for a nice lie-down on their couch; when Joan opened her mouth to scream, her vocal cords found themselves more than up to the task.

Like I said, it was pretty much textbook.

The scream, in addition to curdling the blood of all within earshot, woke Melchior just as he was beginning to drift off. He lost his balance on the couch and promptly fell onto the floor. He recovered and looked up to see Joan, who was significantly more overweight than her husband, pointing a shaking finger at him and, based on her facial expression, very much threatening to scream again. Both pastor and demon sincerely hoped that she wouldn’t.

Please don’t do that again, Melchior begged. Things are still a little foggy but I’m fairly sure that I’m about to have a splitting headache.

Anyway, it’s just a Halloween costume, right? suggested Doug, hope abounding in his voice. Tell my wife that you’re just wearing a Halloween costume.

Joan looked at her husband with a great deal of skepticism, but whatever she saw on his face seemed to spark some hope in her as well. Maybe it really was just a great costume.

It’s not a Halloween costume, said Melchior. It’s not even October. Anyway, I went as Ronald Reagan.

Doug nodded gravely: a nod that indicated that he knew his hopes were too good to be true. He turned to his wife and dutifully reported, It’s not a Halloween costume. He went as Ronald Reagan.

Joan turned not to the demon, but back to her husband to ask, Then what in the world is it? Is it supposed to be the devil? It’s purple.

The pastor turned from his wife to the creature that was once again sitting on his sofa and repeated his wife’s query.

I’m not the devil himself, although he’s just as purple as I am. I’m just one of his angels. My name is Melchior.

You’re an angel? Joan asked, taking a tentative step forward.

"Well...of sorts. I am an angel, just of the fallen variety."

You’re a demon, said Doug.

Melchior hesitated, considered the statement, and nodded. Yep. I am.

Doug glanced over at Joan to see if she was going to scream again, but she appeared to be past that particular danger at the moment. Actually, if anything, his wife seemed intrigued by their unexpected guest. Instead of stepping back, she actually took another step into the living room.

Have you come to torment us? she asked. We belong to Jesus Christ—you understand that?

Melchior winced. Please don’t use that name.

Jesus Christ?

"F—! Come on! Cut it out, lady!"

Now it was Joan’s turn to wince. I don’t think it’s very polite to come into the house of a minister and use that type of language.

"Well, I’m a f—ing demon, aren’t I? We’re not actually known for our manners."

What if we commanded you not to swear in the name of Jesus Christ? Would that work? Doug said.

Melchior winced now and rolled his eyes at almost the same time. "I’ll cut you a deal. You don’t say that name, and I’ll try not to use bad words. Okay?"

We already established in the previous chapter how good Christians do not appreciate colorful outbursts of profanity, excepting when they stub their toes or hit their thumbs with a hammer. One rather ironic item is that the one bit of foul language that you’ll never hear uttered by a fallen angel—no, not even by Satan himself—is probably the most common to hear on any given Sunday in churches across the United States. It’s the one that the Lord actually mentions specifically in Scripture; the one that He took the time to carve into stone. Really, listen to how many f-bombs you hear the next time you go to a worship service and compare that to how many use the name of God as an expletive, or as casual filler. It’s the complete opposite if you spend much time in demonic circles; of course, they have experienced God Almighty and know better than to treat Him with anything other than reverence and respect.

See? Ironic, isn’t it?

Doug and Joan briefly discussed Melchior’s proposition and decided to accept. They had both moved fully into the living room by this point, and had taken positions in chairs opposite the couch, the better to interact with and converse with the newly speech-sanitized demon.

Now that we’ve laid the ground rules, Melchior said, I did come here for a reason. As the demon personally assigned to the two of you, and to Compton Baptist Church, I simply must object to the lack of—

Hold on, hold on, said Joan, holding up a hand. Could you repeat that?

Melchior rolled his eyes. Seriously?

"You said that you’re assigned to the two of us and to our church?" asked Doug.

"That’s what I said. Now, I realize that this might seem a bit poorly staffed. Well, that’s part of the point. Back in the day, you’d have at least one demon—at least—attached to each of you and a whole team attached to the church itself, with individual assignments also handed out based on the most fruitful members of the congregation. Of course, there’s no need for that sort of coverage over here for the most part. I guess that’s still the standard model for a lot of the churches in China, North Korea, Iran and over in those parts. Well, at Compton Baptist, you’ve got me and only me, and I’m bored out of my mind."

The demon paused. Doug and Joan exchanged looks, but neither seemed to have anything to say. It soon became clear, however, that Melchior was not waiting for a response, but rather rethinking his entire strategy.

I don’t suppose you have anything to drink? he asked.

Doug looked to Joan who, even at nearly three in the morning and dressed in a nightgown and robe, was the hostess of the house. The corners of her mouth turned up in a phony smile appropriate to the role (incidentally, it was the same smile with which she greeted most of the congregation each Sunday).

We have filtered water, of course, she said, grinning the way they do in the finer mental health institutions. There’s juice, milk, soda and diet soda. I could put the kettle on if you’d like tea, and I could always brew some coffee. It’s imported from Colombia.

Melchior’s fingers were rubbing his temples where that predicted headache was beginning to form. He sighed, and muttered something about wishing he were assigned to Methodists. That’s not exactly what I meant, he said. Listen, as much as I hate to say it, I think I’m starting to sober up enough to see that maybe this isn’t the best plan in the world.

No! Doug cried out in alarm. The demon and the hostess both looked at him. All I mean is, he said, what sort of hosts would we be if we didn’t do our best to provide for our guest? If—Melchior, was it?—if Melchior needs a little alcoholic pick-me-up, then I think we can oblige. I’ll just pop on down to the nearest gas station and pick something up, shall I? Would that be okay?

Anything to postpone this headache, Melchior thought. He said, A good guest would never turn down a gracious offer like that.

All right then! Let me just grab my coat and the car keys and—oh. Rev. Pinkerton had stood up to get going when he noticed the way the fallen angel was leering at his rather large wife. He stopped abruptly. Perhaps you’d better go, dear.

Joan’s first impulse, as it usually was when her husband asked her to do something, was to refuse. However, something in his tone made her actually rise to her feet to run the errand, but then she noticed the rather lusty way in which the fallen angel was leering at her rather plump husband. Maybe we all ought to go, she said.

So it was that, minutes later, the preacher, the demon and the wife all found themselves jammed together on the bench seat of the Pinkertons’ pickup truck. If that image right there doesn’t make you start crossing you fingers that someone will option the movie rights for this story, I really don’t know what will.

The nearest gas station was close, so it wasn’t long at all before they were parking in the poorly-lit lot. It was agreed to unanimously that Melchior might be best suited by staying in the truck and Joan absolutely refused to go into the store in her current state of bedtime attire, so it fell to the preacher himself. Melchior gave specific instructions that contained the word hard and the word liquor and in that order and so Doug ended up going alone into the gas station.

He hurried about his errand, both because he wanted to get the demon good and drunk as quickly as possible (a life goal he had never before anticipated) and also, although he was a man, he was also a community leader and didn’t relish the thought of being spotted out in his jammies. He grabbed three or four large bottles that seemed to fit the bill and brought them up to the front counter, where the pimply-faced, greasy-haired twentysomething apologetically informed him that hard liquor could not be sold between the hours of 10 pm and 9 am in the Garden State.

What’s the matter? I’m certainly old enough, Rev. Doug Pinkerton said.

It’s not your age, Sir, the clerk replied. It’s state law. We could lose our liquor license.

Doug sighed. It’s 3 am. I seriously doubt there are representatives of the state liquor licensing board here doing surprise checks.

The clerk wasn’t so sure. He glanced at the only other customer in the store: a seventy-year-old woman with bluish hair clutching a bottle of Pepto-Bismol. She quickly stepped behind a rack of cheap DVD’s so that, when Doug followed the clerk’s gaze, he saw no one.

Please, Doug begged, I need this booze. I need it really bad.

I could get in trouble.

Oh, for crying out loud... The preacher lined the bottles up on the counter and pulled out his wallet from a pocket in his robe. "Let’s say you were allowed to sell these to me. How much would they be?"

Although suspicious, the clerk added the bottles up and answered, $58.46...if you come back during the daytime.

I can’t wait until the daytime. I need this now. I just need it now, said Doug. He took four twenty dollar bills out of his wallet and laid them side-by-side on the counter. Then he grabbed the bottles and cradled them to his chest. Please understand that I just can’t wait until 9 am. This is too important. I’m going to leave the money on the counter, and I’m going to take these with me. Is that all right?

It really wasn’t all right. It wasn’t all right at all. But the kid behind the counter didn’t really know what to do about it. It seemed wrong to take the extra money, but he would get in trouble if he put it in the till. He supposed he could call the police, but then he might get in trouble. He might even lose his job. The preacher took his booze and he left the store and the clerk, unsure of what to do, did nothing.

A few moments after the bell over the door had stopped ringing, the blue-haired woman came out from behind the DVD rack and approached the counter. The $80 in cash was still lying there, and the clerk was looking down at it, trying to decide what to do. He looked up at the woman as if for help.

I’m sorry you had to deal with an unruly customer like that, she said, setting her antacid on the counter. Some people think the rules don’t apply to them.

He gave me too much money, the clerk said. I think he meant it as a bribe, but I don’t think I’m supposed to take that money. It doesn’t seem right.

The woman smiled at him kindly. I’ll tell you what, she said. Why not make the change and give the extra money away? I’m the financial secretary for the Compton Baptist Church a couple of blocks away. If you’d like, I could take the money and give it to the church for you. That way, you wouldn’t be accepting the bribe—you’d be giving it to God.

This suggestion seemed to please the clerk. He slid one of the bills to the woman, explaining that he wouldn’t be able to actually ring in the sale until morning. That seems like a better use of the money, he said, smiling again. Is the church going through hard times?

The woman looked back at the door that Doug had exited through just a couple of minutes ago. I’m afraid it seems likely that they’ll be looking for a new pastor soon. That’s always difficult on a church.

Speaking of Compton Baptist Church, that’s precisely where Doug Pinkerton was as the blue-haired woman was exiting the gas station with her little bottle of pink liquid. After whining a bit about the cheapness of the selected brands, Melchior was happily alternating swigs from two of the bottles; Joan was waiting impatiently for her husband to emerge, which he soon did, carrying a black backpack.

Before long, the three were once again in the living room of the Pinkerton residence. Melchior sat on the couch with his liquid bribe while Doug set up the tripod and camcorder he had retrieved from the church. He didn’t ask the demon whether it was okay to shoot video of the conversation, but Melchior seemed quite content at the moment and not in the least concerned about the recording equipment. Doug focused the lens on his guest and began recording before retaking the seat next to his wife.

All right then, Melchior, he said, now that you have your liquor, we’d be very interested to know what you wanted to tell us.

The demon hiccupped. Man, he said, "did I mention how much I hate my job? I mean, I’m bored out of my mind!"

And your job is to target myself, my wife and the people of Compton Baptist Church—and do what exactly?

Melchior shrugged. "Whatever it takes. Stop you from really growing closer to Him. Stop you from making a difference in your community or in the world. Doesn’t matter how. Distraction, guilt, sin, shame, lies, apathy. Whatever. That’s what it’s s’posed to be, anyway."

So the entire church of one hundred and fifty people are all assigned to you?

That’s right. It’s just me.

I don’t get it, Doug said. What’s the problem? If you’ve got a hundred and fifty followers of Christ—sorry—but if you’re responsible for that many, um, churchgoers, then how can you be bored?

It was at this point that Rev. Pinkerton was favored with an expression that clearly suggested that he might be the densest man to ever walk the face of the earth. Well, that’s just it, isn’t it, Sherlock? Melchior said. "If they’re nothing but churchgoers, there’s nothing for me to do. Churchgoers don’t grow in faith and character. Churchgoers don’t love and serve others like they love themselves. Churchgoers aren’t winning the world for the Kingdom of Heaven. It’s the true followers of You-Know-Who that are the threat. It’s the ones who are denying themselves, picking up their cross daily and following Him. If you gave me a hundred and fifty of them, I’d be drowning in work. Heck, give me ten of them and I’d have a pretty full schedule."

Silence reigned supreme as both pastor and wife took the time to try to comprehend what the demon had said. The more they understood, the more offended they were.

Now, wait just one minute— Joan began to say, but Melchior’s cerebral wheels had been turning at the same time that the other two were processing, and he decided that he was on a roll and wasn’t done yet.

"Do you think that churchgoers make the gates of hell tremble with fear? Ha! Spectators are spectators, Rev. and Mrs. Pinkerton, and we don’t care whether they’re the audience at a production of Hamlet, a Ben Folds concert or one of those forty-minute snoozefests that you call a sermon. So long as they stay in the audience, they’re not going to change the world. They’re barely going to change their underwear! Actually—you know what?—I misspoke. The average audience at the concert is actually much more involved and passionate than the spectators who file into your pews three or four Sundays a month. They sing the gibberish trumpet sound backing noises with more intensity and zeal than most of your congregants offer praises to their Savior and Creator!"

Melchior decided that the concert analogy was pretty compelling, so he decided to run with it.

"Let me ask you something. You ever seen video of a Beatles concert? You want to compare the crowd singing the na-na-na-na’s of Hey Jude to your church full of redeemed sinners singing about love and grace so amazing? Want to know the difference? The difference is that those Beatlemaniacs truly believe what they’re saying. Sure, na-na-na-na-na-na-na is nonsensical gibberish that has less meaning than the back of a cereal box, but boy do those fangirls and boys believe it. But all this about being released from chains, about amazing love, about a Savior and Lord, about mountains bowing down and how great He is? Most of ‘em can’t convince me they have any idea what they’re repeating off a screen, and their lives bear it out. The truly batsh— crazy thing is that I know it’s all true but I’m still more inclined to believe in the power of the na-na-na based on its followers. Whatever that means."

Doug and Joan exchanged frowny looks, looked back at Melchior and then exchanged looks again. The pastor opened his mouth to speak but, out of the three in the Pinkerton living room, none were quite confident about whether or not the demon was really done with his speech yet.

He was, in fact, done.

But, still, he said, I realize I kinda got off on kinda a tangent with that whole Beatles thing. But you get the point.

It’s not a fair comparison, Joan said. "Hey Jude is extremely catchy."

Melchior shrugged. "Touché. My personal favorite is Eleanor Rigby."

Let’s not miss the real issue here, Doug said. You’re clearly suggesting that our church is made up of a bunch of mediocre Christians.

Hey! We had a deal!

And you cursed during your little rant. But I want to be clear on precisely what it is you’re alleging. Are you telling me that my flock is lukewarm? Or that they’re not where they ought to be? Are you trying to suggest that they’re not even really, truly going to heaven?

Hey, I’m not the judge of that, Melchior said. "I’m not the Lord and I’m extremely clear on that point. Do I think that all the members of your little religious social club are walking the Narrow Road? Of course not. But, come on, the Son of Man Himself said that many were going to think they’re okay but then find out suddenly that they’re not; there’s probably no church on the face of the earth that’s going to have a 100% passing grade."

"That’s your opinion," Joan said.

Sure, Melchior allowed. But some of us have a much better view than you do.

Fine, said Doug. "Let’s say I believe you. Let’s say that our congregation is having so little impact on our world that you literally sit around twiddling your lavender thumbs all day and whistling Dixie."

That’s not what I whistle, but go on.

You really want to get back to gainful employment? Tell us what we’re doing wrong. Tell us how to fix it, and then you can have something to do again. How’s that sound?

Once again, Melchior’s expression permits us to know that he does not hold with the old adage that there is no such thing as a dumb question.

Well? said Joan. Spit it out! I mean—that’s why you came here, isn’t it? You’re bored and you want to have something to do.

Yeah, yeah, I know, said Melchior. "I’m just kinda astounded, that’s all. I mean, do you guys even own a Bible?"

Quite a few, actually!

And, even if we didn’t, there’s always BibleGateway.com, added Doug.

"Then why in the world ask me what you’re doing wrong?! Isn’t it mind-numbingly obvious?" asked Melchior.

Since we are so good at reading facial expressions and body language, we will deduce from the pastor and his beaming, buoyant bride that no, no, the answer was not mind-numbingly obvious. To them, anyway.

Melchior sighed. Let’s look at it this way. I’ll assume that you’re familiar with a few Bible characters such as Paul, Peter, James, John, Philip, Silas...I could go on. You’ve heard of these guys, right?

Of course we have, said Doug.

"Fine, good. And I believe—but correct me if I’m wrong—I believe that in the majority of churches, these are generally thought to be pretty respectable dudes. They really got it, right? They’ve got big footsteps, following right in the shadow of a certain Carpenter from Nazareth—is that fair to say? I mean, they were just men, of course, so they weren’t perfect or anything but, on the whole, they loved God and their fellow man, they ran the race in such a way as to get the prize, they went all out to reach their world for the Kingdom. Fair enough?"

Fair enough.

Great. So can you explain to me, please, why the Church of the United States, for the most part, thinks that they’ve discovered a secret that those early leaders of the faith hadn’t figured out?

Doug looked at Joan and Joan looked back at Doug. Then they both looked at the demon.

What?

Melchior sighed again. He did this in a very theatrical manner so as to ensure that his hosts did not miss the point. Let’s go down the list, he said. "Paul had his head chopped off. Peter was crucified—upside-down, too. James, the half-brother of the Son? Stoned to death. And don’t think that any of these guys had a cushy life as a witness to the Light until the sudden, dramatic end. They were thrown in jail, they were whipped, they were beat, they were mocked...the list goes on and on. They’re your spiritual ancestors, and clearly saw the Gospel as something that they were to dedicate their entire lives to and they suffered greatly for that decision. You say the church reveres them, and yet Compton Baptist Church believes that they have found the great secret that this special calling is really a life of comfort and complacency, broken up by attending church meetings once or twice a week and reposting religious pictures on Facebook. And you’re going to sit there and tell me you have no idea what you’re doing wrong?"

At some point in that last paragraph, Doug had started nodding and looking at Melchior with an expression of pity mixed with bemusement. Now that the demon had finished, he favored him with a sympathetic smile. I see where you’re coming from now, he said. The Early Church was formed in an environment that was extremely hostile to the Gospel. Persecution like that still happens in a number of countries around the world, and that’s why we give to Open Doors every month to help support our suffering brothers and sisters.

Every other month, said Joan.

I see much more than you think I do, Melchior said. You gave to them twice last year. Twice in twelve months.

We were only guesstimating, said Joan.

Anyway, Doug continued, I won’t argue with you that we’re very blessed to live in the US of A. It’s something that we take for granted far too often. The Early Church leaders deserve our thanks and respect, but it’s not our fault that we live in a society that’s much more tolerant of the Bible and the Church. It’s apples and oranges.

So you think, said Melchior, if the Apostle Paul were living in the United States in modern times, that he would live a comfortable life mostly free of suffering for his faith?

He wouldn’t need to suffer for his faith here.

We are talking about the Apostle Paul here, right? Not Paul McCartney or Paul Newman or whatever. We’re talking about the apostle formerly known as Saul.

That’s who we’re talking about.

The same one who wrote to his disciple Timothy to share in the Son’s suffering like a good soldier?

Where—?

2 Timothy, Melchior said. "Do you know what he said immediately afterward? That soldiers don’t get weighed down in ‘civilian pursuits’ because their only goal is to please their commander. But you think that Paul would live a comfortable life, skip the suffering, turn the TV on to American Idol and relax?"

"I didn’t say anything about American Idol."

Of course, it was the Son of God Himself who said the world will hate all of His followers because they aren’t of this world. What do you say, preacher? That fit you? This world hates you, does it?

You’re really being unfair, cut in Joan, but Melchior ignored her.

"I’ll go ahead and answer for you, because I see a lot more than you think I do while I’m busy twiddling my lavender thumbs. The world doesn’t hate you. Why would it? You belong to it. This has nothing to do with how tolerant your society is. If you truly start following Him, even your precious blessed nation will turn on you."

You don’t know that, said Doug.

Well, how about this? If you live the way that Paul and Peter lived, you’ll suffer even if your neighbors never call you a mean name. You’ll suffer because you will give your life to the lost, to the helpless, to the needy, to the desperate, to the billions in this world who need a Savior.

"What do you think he’s doing? He’s a pastor," said Joan. She rose to her feet as she said this and glared down at the demon on the couch. He stood up too.

It’s a job, he said. "He doesn’t give all he has. He writes and rehearses a 40-minute speech each week, visits a few people in the hospital and plans a Sunday school lesson. You think this life takes forty hours a week? People are lost without the Savior and when they die they go to hell for eternity, but you’re gonna clock in forty hours a week and then rush home to your comfortable life to watch NASCAR on your plasma TV? Seriously!"

Feeling perhaps a bit left out, Doug also struggled to his feet at this point, but Joan replied before he could say anything. Pastors don’t work forty hours a week for your information. My husband is always on call. He always has to be willing to drop everything if a member of the church is in trouble. He works fifty hours easy some weeks.

Melchior scoffed at this. So? Billions are currently facing an eternity in hell, but sometimes Rev. Pinkerton works fifty hours a week! Woo f—ing doo!

HOW MUCH DO YOU EXPECT ME TO GIVE?! bellowed Doug. Startled, Joan looked with concern at her husband. His face was red and he was breathing heavily. He glared at the demon.

All of it, said Melchior simply.

You can’t be serious, said Joan.

"All of it."

There has to be a limit, said Doug.

"Aren’t you glad your Savior didn’t have a limit? Because it probably would have been reached long before the cross. Aren’t you glad Paul didn’t have a limit, that he gave all he had and was poured out like a drink offering? What in the world do you think you’re here for, preacher? You are here to grow closer to God and to reach people for Him. Period. Everything else is excess. If everything you have is a gift from the Lord and if He gave you a very explicit task to do—to go and make disciples of all nations—then how do you not see that He wants you to spend every drop of energy, every last resource, every last cent to try to get that job done? Seriously, preacher. When’s the last time you deliberately tried to make a disciple at all, much less went out to reach the entire world?"

We make disciples, argued Joan. It’s one of the missions of our church. It’s a main goal.

Melchior let out a groan of frustration. His arms went to his purple scalp and it seems that he would have started pulling out hair, had there been any there. "No, you preach at one hundred and fifty people in the audience each Sunday, and then offer various other studies where they can be spectators in smaller groups. The One who gave you that command poured His life into twelve men. They literally lived life together for a few years and discipleship was happening the entire time. Delivering a speech once a week is easy. Investing personally in someone’s life and personally modeling a godly life is hard. Guess which one makes spectators and which one makes fishers of men?"

Doug was shaking his head. He seemed to be getting a headache, which may well have been the lack of sleep. "You can’t just do that today, he said. You can’t just give everything. You’d have nothing left."

"When you have nothing left, your Savior welcomes you into His rest as a good and faithful servant. Do you have the slightest idea how much every single one of us wishes we could be back there? There isn’t a demon alive that wouldn’t do anything, wouldn’t give anything to be able to live in His presence again. Listen to me, preacher: if you give absolutely everything you have and literally work yourself to death building His Kingdom, it will be so worth it the moment you step into glory."

The interview was over. They all knew it. Melchior had said what he came to say and there was nothing else, on either side, to add to it. A million questions roared through Doug Pinkerton’s head, but it was like the demon had said: this way of living was written all over the pages of Scripture. Surely, God’s Word should be sufficient without the drunken ramblings of a fallen angel to bring crucial truths to light.

If a passage threatens our comfort, we re-interpret and justify it away, Doug muttered. Nobody heard him; if they did, they gave no indication.

The parting was awkward. Melchior considered thanking the Pinkertons for their hospitality, but that really seemed quite out of character for any self-respecting demon, so he simply left with the words, Well, that’s that.

It was nearly four in the morning and both Doug and Joan suddenly felt it. With hardly a word between the two of them, they turned off the lights, locked the door and trudged upstairs, both collapsing on the bed in pure exhaustion, ready to drift off as soon as their heads hit the pillows.

But they didn’t sleep.

Neither one could. Melchior’s words kept rambling through their heads and, no matter how tired they were, both the pastor and his wife tossed and turned for over an hour before finally passing out.

Rev. Doug Pinkerton dreamed of sheep and goats.

Chapter Three

The Sacking of Doug Pinkerton

The name of the blue-haired woman with the indigestion was Edith Nonnymeyer and she was a busy little bee. Her gastrointestinal issues had been keeping her up that night—hence the 3 am gas station run—but even as the discomfort gave way to chalky, pink relief, she found herself too excited to sleep.

Edith was one of those essential pillars of local church life known as a busybody. One can only guess why the spiritual gifts of gossip and rumormongering are not listed amongst teaching and prophesying and all the rest, but one should bear in mind that a/v techs get not a single shout-out in all of the Holy Scriptures; neither do ushers or pianists or youth pastors or so many other worship service stalwarts. Busybodies? They’re biblical. 1 Timothy 5:13. So take that.

Now, Edith Nonnymeyer was a giant among busybodies. With all the mediocrity that seems to permeate many organizations, it should be a comfort to know that here was a woman who performed her sacred duty with an air of excellence. Nothing invigorated Edith nearly so much as having a juicy bit of intel that she could effectively mold and massage into a major scandal. Her latest scoop was a doozy and the woman with the blue hair was quite confident that none of the lesser gossips in Compton Baptist Church had beaten her to it.

Oh, how she relished that fact!

She had been the first to break wide open the stories about little Madie Heinlen’s leukemia, Ross and Rachel’s nasty divorce and Tommy Bengal’s homosexual leanings. Now she was a firsthand eyewitness to the fact that Rev. Pinkerton was a raging alcoholic, and this little truth bomb was being dropped none too soon. Trudy Beaker would absolutely not stop lording over her the fact that she had known first about Milton Despins’ son-in-law’s suicide and this would wipe the smug smirk right off her wrinkled face.

Of course, Edith Nonnymeyer did not see herself as a busybody. Neither did Trudy Beaker, for that matter. As a general rule, nobody tends to actually own up to that particular title. They considered themselves prayer warriors, and were quite keen to encourage everyone else to see them as such. The fact that both rarely prayed (and when they did, those prayers consisted almost entirely of selfish requests) was a mere technicality.

When it came to collecting requests, to promising prayer and to passing along juicy little requests to others who would also promise but not pray, there was none better than Edith Nonnymeyer.

She had finally gotten to sleep that night after endless tossing and turning, albeit for very different reasons than those which kept Doug and Joan awake, but she was still up at 6:45 on the button. Edith got out of bed and started her morning routine: bathroom, breakfast, shower and patiently wait for the clock to read 8 am. Trudy’s husband was still alive—something else she had over Edith—so 8 was the absolute earliest that she could call and start the prayer chain in motion.

Time slowed to a crawl as she sat in the recliner in the living room and waited beside the phone, watching the large number digital clock march slowly forward. Eleven minutes to go and they might as well have been an eternity but that’s okay. Edith was patient, and while she waited she was able to go over her story again and again in her head.

Oh, Trudy dear. I’m so glad I caught you. You see, I’ve got this prayer request and it’s really rather urgent. What is it? Oh, well, dear, first you need to understand that it’s a very sensitive issue. I really need to insist that you be willing to keep this confidential—for us prayer warriors only. We wouldn’t want nasty rumors to start circling around town, no matter how true they might be.

See the confidentiality agreement? That was good. That was real good. That’d get Trudy Beaker salivating. It also allowed for at least a sliver of possibility that Trudy would take the promise to heart and then Edith would have the privilege of passing this along to the rest of Compton Baptist’s most diligent prayer chain.

"Oh, I know you won’t blab, Trudy. Please don’t be offended, sweetie. It’s just the sort of request that needs a bit of special sensitivity. You see, it involves the pastor. Well, I’m afraid it is rather serious. No, no, it’s not health-related. Well, not directly. See, it turns out that our dear Rev. Pinkerton has been struggling for some time with a secret sin. Now, Trudy, you know full well that no one’s perfect except the good Lord. Our beloved pastor is struggling and we need to pray for him and we need to be gracious, that’s what I think."

It’s all about pacing. Trudy would be chomping at the proverbial bit at this point but she couldn’t press Edith to get to the point or she’d sound like she was only interested in the salacious details. Which, of course, she was. They both were. But that wouldn’t stop Edith from a bit of well-earned self righteousness that she almost actually believed herself. After all, somebody had to keep Trudy Beaker humble.

"Poor man. He’s not the first to succumb to the dangers of alcoholism and he won’t be the last. Oh yes, I’m afraid it is true. I saw him feeding his addiction myself, and I’m afraid that it was quite clear that he’s been hiding this for a long time. When the clerk at the gas station told him that state law prohibited the sale of hard liquor at that time of night, dear Rev. Pinkerton flipped out at the poor boy. He finally left a bribe and walked out with the booze anyway. It’s such a sad, sad truth to face about such a beloved and respected man. And just think of poor Joan! She must be so distraught. Well, I don’t know how much of a surprise it is. He stumbled three or four times in one sermon just a few Sundays ago and I wondered then and there if the man might have been a little tipsy, if not worse. Now, I fear we know the truth."

Edith didn’t feel particularly malicious toward Rev. Pinkerton, although she wasn’t particularly fond of the man either. It was quite clear to her that a man harboring secret sins like this had no business leading a church, but it was the appeal of the secret that called to her now. It never occurred to her in the least to go to the pastor and confirm the story with him, or to wonder if this was the proper course if it might result in a man’s reputation being destroyed. If he was harboring sins of this magnitude, his reputation should be destroyed. It was only right.

The numbers on the digital clock had been resting on 7:59 for what seemed an eternity. The moment it changed, Edith’s hand shot out and grabbed the phone receiver. Trudy Beaker was speed dial #2 and answered on the third ring.

Oh, Trudy dear, I’m so glad I caught you...

While Edith Nonnymeyer was initiating her phone call with her best frenemy, the alarm was going off in the Pinkerton house and waking the pastor and his wife from far too little sleep. The alarm clock was on Doug’s side of the bed; Joan turned over and ignored it until her husband managed to turn it off. He strongly considered going back to sleep as well, but all the thoughts that had kept him awake after Melchior had left recurred with a vengeance, and he knew that it was a lost cause.

His brain was foggy as he got up and got around. He had a cup of coffee before his shower and both the caffeine and the hot water hit at about the same time. That was really when Doug started to wrestle—not with God like Jacob, but with spiritual matters that made him question his entire life in the pastorate. He would be wrestling with these things for quite a