Thomas Corkery arrived at the Bentham Avenue Unitarian Church early enough for a seat in a pew very near the rear. While the congregation gradually filled the seats, the organ played music unfamiliar to him. Before long the place was packed, with people standing in the outer aisles. The fire warden, Corkery told himself, would be unhappy when he learned of it. As he soon would; the climax assured it.
Television cameramen stood in a back corner and at both sides in front, as well as in a balcony overlooking the pulpit. They have no idea, he told himself, what a spectacle they're in for.
He looked forward to the service with curiosity. The pastor wore black jeans and a thick baggy sweater, and there were no kneelers for the praying. If, in fact, these people prayed. When the service began, there was little he identified with. No altar boys, nor any other celebrants than the pastor, the choir in its loft, and the organist at her keyboard. When the congregation stood to sing, he stood too, his hymnal open to the indicated page, but no sound issued from his lips.
Ngunda Aran sat a bit to the pastor's right, standing when the congregation stood, but otherwise taking no part in the service, such as it was. There was a prayer, a reading and a unison readingneither from Scriptureand announcements. Then, accompanied by organ music, the ushers passed the plates; that part Corkery found familiar. Afterward another unfamiliar hymn was sung, and the pastor introduced Ngunda Aran.
"As most of you know," the pastor said, "Roberta Gunnel of our congregation suggested last June that we invite Mr. Aran to speak to us. After several discussions and a certain amount of heat, it was decided we would, and we got in touch with him."
Corkery wondered amusedly what they'd think of that decision-making procedure back in Ireland. Or for that matter, what they thought of the Holy Father meeting with the guru. At least Aran's last name was Irish. He put a hand in the right pocket of the warm jacket he wore, briefly fondling the detonator, the size of a pack of cigarettes.
The pastor continued. "Mr. Aran graciously agreed, and suggested we compile a list of written questions, to be presented to him on his arrival. A number of you suggested questions, from which the senior deacons and myself selected fifteen that we felt covered a suitable spectrum."
He turned. "Mr. Aran," he said, "the pulpit is yours."
A sheet of paper in one hand, Ngunda Aran stepped to the pulpit and stood beside it. Not behind it. To explode the bomb now, Corkery thought, might not kill him. Quite likely cripple him, but the man might well survive.
"Thank you for inviting me to speak," Ngunda said. His deep rich voice filled the sanctuary without need of a microphone. "The first question asks my view of God. God is the universal creative power, which is all there is. I generally prefer the word 'Tao'; it carries far less extraneous baggage. But those are labels. The reality behind them I perceive only vaguely. Incarnate souls, like you and me, comprehend only limited aspects of the Tao, and those imperfectly."
To Corkery it didn't seem like much of an answer. I wonder, he thought, how much they're paying him? Maybe they'll be satisfied with the voice.
"The next question is, 'Will humankind ever become spiritually enlightened?' " He scanned the crowd. "It will, but step by step. We evolve as individuals, and in the process our species evolves collectively. That is as true spiritually as it is biologically. From time to time, however, our spiritual evolution bogs down. Then that aspect of the Tao which you might think of as the Infinite Soul, comes among us in human form, resulting in a new level of awareness, a new point of view, a new social and religious paradigm. Jump-starting us, so to speak.
"But God does not coerce. We make our own choices, and evolve our own enlightenment."
The answer bemused Corkery. The language was unfamiliar, but some Jesuits would be comfortable with it. Near the front, he saw a hand stabbing the air. Aran pointed.
"The lady in the indigo coat," he said. "Speak loudly, please, so the congregation can hear you."
"Are you talking about a messiah?"
"The question is, am I talking about a messiah. Yes, I am. But let me clarify. A messiah, in the way we usually use the term, is exemplified by the Christ. Jesus of Nazareth didn't start life as the Christ. He was conceived by the usual sex act between two not terribly exceptional human beings. Like you and me, he was human, a soul occupying a primate body. . . ."
An image appeared in Corkery's mind, of the parish priest of his childhood, and he almost laughed aloud. Wouldn't Father Malachy love to hear that! he thought.
"For some thirty years, Jesus continued to be a human being, a messenger of extraordinary wisdom, compassion and enlightenment, with significant paranormal powersbut a human being. A few weeks before the crucifixion, the soul of Jesus left the body to join the . . . angels, so to speak. That is, he returned to the astral plane."
Corkery's eyebrows raised. Astral plane? Bald-faced New Age-ism, he told himself.
"At that point the Infinite Soul assumed the body of Jesus, and became the Christ. Or in Hindu terminology, an avatar, an incarnation of God."
The tall black figure paused behind the pulpit and leaned his forearms on it. In the congregation, more hands thrust upward. Straightening, he pointed. "The man in the plaid jacket."
Corkery's thumb found the trigger and pressed it.
Nothing happened. He pressed again. Still nothing. He resisted the impulse to take the detonator out and look at it. This would never do! Could the batteries be bad? He'd put them in this morning, fresh from the package, and tested the device with the apparatus the Iraqi had provided.
"Are you implying that there's been more than one messiah?" the man asked.
Aran stepped around beside the pulpit again. "On Earth, Jesus was the fourth. At last count we have twice that many living claimants or third-party appointees right now. You'll have to wait and see whether any of them are genuine."
Tentative laughter rippled through the congregation.
"But there will be another avatar," Aran went on. "In the near future. It is time."
He paused, then pointed again. "The young lady with red hair."
"What will this avatar teach that Jesus didn't?"
"The man Jesus was born to Galilean peasants, and of course was raised a Jew. And it was the Jews of his time that he taught, speaking in terms and images they understood. At the end, however, Christ, the manifestation of the Infinite Soul, did not teach very much, except to instruct his disciples. He simply manifested by his presence the love and power of Godwhich is beyond words, deeper and more powerful than any teaching. In that era it was more than many people could deal with, but it was needed."
Several listeners had gotten to their feet, apparently unhappy with their speaker, and pushed their way out through the crowd standing in the rear. Corkery pressed the trigger one more time, to no avail. Exasperated, he too got up, following them out of the church and into the winter sunlight.
With the taste of bile in his mouth, Corkery walked toward the bus stop two blocks away. To clear his mind and senses, he looked at the world about him. Winter-naked trees, gray shovel piles of old snow, and large, faded, nineteenth-century houses.
His eyes stopped on one of them, a rundown place with a room to let sign in the yard. They paused on a second-story window, holding there briefly. Someone was peering through the pane. He almost stopped, then thought better of it. Security perhaps? He looked again and saw nothing. Either he'd been mistaken before, or the watcher had moved back from the glass.
Thomas, he told himself, don't get delusional just because a hit's misfired.