J Bryan: Dominion

Ruppert entered into the West Narthex, where high glass walls and skylights gave a view of the low, fat sun sinking toward the ocean. Men in suits crowded the room, greeting each other with the hearty handshake-plus-shoulder-grab move, sipping iced teas and juices from the Fishes ‘N Loaves franchise just inside the front door.

“Daniel! Great to see you!”

Ruppert turned to greet a bland-faced, balding man with a toothy smile. For a moment he struggled to remember the man’s name as he shook the offered hand and accepted the obligatory thump on the arm.

“Hi there…” At the last moment, the name popped into his head: Liam O’Shea. “Liam!”

“We’ve missed you in Revelation Review,” the man said, his smile fixed as if determined not to waver. “Where have you been spending your Tuesdays?”

“I’ve only missed…three. I’m sorry.” He struggled to remember what Liam did for a living-something vague for the Church. Child and Family Services, maybe? Welfare distribution? It had to be something bureaucratic, the man reeked of it.

“We’re nearly to the coming of the Beast. You shouldn’t miss that-Pastor John sent down special guidelines for discussion.”

“I’ll be there next week.”

“You should really feel more concerned about preparing for the End Times, Daniel.” O’Shea was leaning in too close, flinging minute drops of spittle precariously close to Ruppert’s face. A bright gleam crept in at the back of his eyes. “Some of the prophecies have already come to pass. It’s not long now, Daniel.”

“I’m very concerned. We’re all concerned. I’ve had a lot of work lately, Liam. There’s a war on, you know. News is an important part of the war effort. Our brave men and women in uniform are counting on us.”

Liam O’Shea’s smile quivered, then reluctantly bent into the grave frown appropriate for any discussion of the soldiers at war. “Of course. We must not forget our brave men and women in uniform.”

Checkmate, Liam, Ruppert thought.

Ruppert shook hands and pounded arms and greeted perhaps a hundred more men, but despite his maneuvering, Liam O’Shea managed to stay close by, taking the occasional furtive glance at Ruppert.

Ruppert hadn’t been playing as much golf as usual, either. His new illegal hobby had eaten into social time; O’Shea had noticed, and now apparently felt obliged to keep an eye on Ruppert-for the good of Ruppert’s soul. If Ruppert failed display sufficient piety and groupiness, O’Shea might even report him to one of the lay pastors for counseling.

Ruppert took the most circuitous route possible to his usual Men’s Meeting seat on the second tier of pews, but O’Shea kept pace and followed him all the way, sitting down in the same row when Ruppert joined up with his current golfing group. The men were like him, in their early thirties, similar suit, same haircut from the Church barbershop. He did remember their names, but generally thought of them as the lawyer, the doctor, the television producer. It was easier that way. He’d be assigned a different group of friends next month.

The sanctuarium was laid out like a Roman circus, encircled by three tiers of seating with a capacity of ninety thousand souls. The golden domed ceiling soared above them, its apex too distant to see, giving an impression of infinite glimmering space overhead (though Ruppert wondered if the Church enhanced this effect with holograms).

He looked down on the stages below, at the center of the sanctuary. An array of giant screens, each four stories high, faced out from the center to replicate the scene below, blown up to immense proportions that dwarfed the viewer. At the moment, the Men’s Blessed Banjo Band played a cover of a current faith-pop hit, “Down on My Knees (For Him).” They wore crosses, painted to resemble the American flag, pinned to the brims of their oversized straw hats, six musicians of uneven skill.

I’m down on my knees,

Ready to receive,

Oh Lord, come into me…

“Daniel!”

“Hi there, Daniel! What’s the news?”

“Good to see you, Daniel.”

Ruppert gripped and grinned and clapped shoulders, repeating the interminable round of rising, smiling, shaking hands, exchanging pleasantries, sitting again. These days, he thought, everyone has to be a fucking politician just to survive.

The men continued to pour in-there might be ten thousand of them tonight. Every man eighteen or older was expected to attend the weekly Men’s Meeting. It was not required, of course. The Church did not explicitly require anything but faith and a willingness to serve.

In practice, New Dominion Church was the "true American faith" promoted by the Department of Faith and Values, and membership was implicitly required for any sort of licensed professional (such as a journalist or historian) and any kind of government-linked job. In the Ninety-Third Amendment to the Constitution, the title "Defender of the Faith" had been added to the duties of the President.

And in practice, everyone had to join a number of groups and clubs. The smaller associations played a vital role in knitting the congregation together, ensuring that every individual sheep could be watched for signs of straying from the flock.

“Daniel!”

“What’s the news there, Daniel?”

I give up my pride,

I spread open wide,

Oh Lord, I feel you inside…

The band finished, drawing a smattering of applause from the audience. A few lay pastors took turns making announcements, usually of people deserving recognition and praise. One man had been made CEO of his firm. Another had purchased a new, larger home, on a higher hill. A third man had donated a large sum to provide Bibles for Muslim children in Palestine, one of Pastor John’s newest programs.

Finally, Pastor John Perrish arrived, drawing applause and stomping feet from the vast mob of men. Ruppert watched him on the screen, the man’s face thirty feet high, his hair a youthful jet black even though he was well past sixty. The New America flag in his lapel bore a glittering diamond Jesus fish in place of the star.

Pastor John favored the crowd with a tight smile, his electric blue eyes piercing, glowing in the stage lights. He remained a step back from the podium, giving the occasional understated wave or nod at men in the front rows. He let the crowd’s enthusiasm roll over and around him, but still he hung back from the microphone, letting the sustained applause run its course.

As the crowd quieted, he stayed where he was, his bright eyes scanning over the crowd. He raised his right hand and spread his fingers. A glowing orb of white light the size of an egg rose from his fingertips and floated above his head. The orb melted and spread into a glowing dove with a golden aura, which orbited over Pastor John like the Holy Spirit in every painting of Christ's baptism.

It was an illusion, of course, an animated hologram provided by hidden projectors. You couldn't trust much you saw in a Dominionist Church. But the illusion was attractive.

The dove turned in wider circles over the crowd, soaring towards the vast emptiness of the golden dome above the sanctuary. It mutated, sprouting long talons, its wingspan swelling, its beak bending into a sharp hook. It metamorphosed into a bald eagle the size of a pterodactyl, turning a wide spiral inside the dome, glaring down at the men's assembly with one flaming eye and up at heaven with the other.

The applause regained momentum, and soon the crowd roared again. Ruppert was among them, overwhelmed by the surging crowd-energy, cheering and yelling like the others. It was easier than sitting it out and drawing attention to yourself.

Pastor John stayed completely silent until the last man had stopped clapping. Only then did he step forward.