Tag Archives: politics

The Man Who Ran for God (Conclusion)

V. Fight the Good Fight of the Faith

God Don’t Care?”
Six weeks or so after Paris, Gideon Dodd slapped a heavy manuscript onto his pal Ray Wachstetter’s desk.

“Just in time for Christmas,” he said.

Ray repeated himself, his bifocals casting a white glare on the title page. “But, Gid— God Don’t Care? Do you think that’ll play? It’s a bit sacrilegious, not to mention a grammatical nightmare—”

“Someone’s got to stand up to Him,” said Dodd. “Someone’s gotta call Him out on His baloney.”

Wachstetter shuffled a wetted thumb through the paper stack. He grabbed at messy horseshoe-hair tufts and frowned. “You’re the most devoted Christian I’ve ever met. This— This is a declaration of war on God.” Continue reading

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The Man Who Ran for God (pt. 12)

SELAH: IV

It’s been three weeks since the debate at Radio City Music Hall.

And tonight, Benjamin Dunwoodie hugs a beach pail with his thighs and dry heaves into it. Only a thimbleful of bile plops out into the bucket. There isn’t much left in him; he hasn’t been the same since Tanzania.

“I am certain you understand our… disappointment.” Continue reading

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The Man Who Ran for God (pt. 10)

VII. Therefore My Harp Is Tuned to Mourning

“Who died?”

In America, five years before Gideon Dodd would don the very same outfit to honor his deceased wife, he straightened a black tie and practiced a somber punim in the mirror of his grandiose dressing room. A woman at the mahogany door spoke to him as though she didn’t see he was wearing headphones. But she saw.

Most would not have even registered the brief flicker of Dodd’s eyes up, left, and back down to the silky wad in his fumbling hands. But Maria Gutierrez was more observant than most. She knew he saw her. She knew he recognized her. Continue reading

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The Man Who Ran for God (pt. 9)

III. Weep Bitterly for Her Who Goes Away

Six days after Gideon Dodd’s sermon about Truth — and about his wife Tamera’s infamous interview with Maria Gutierrez (not yet Stenson) — he returned home late from an elders’ meeting.

He was hungry. He was thinking about playing catch with his boy, maybe, after dinner. (Not that James had yet caught anything, or thrown much.)

Humming a hymn, he opened the door on an empty house. In houses as big as Gideon Dodd’s, emptiness like that can almost be a punch in the gut.

There was a note. Continue reading

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