Communion (On My Knees Duet 3)

My heart squeezes.

"Five phone calls. Mostly from people I'm on close terms with. You know, ones that have my cell phone number."

"Shit," I murmur.

"It was all sorts of stuff. People saying we should wait till later to be more 'out.' Saying we should take it slow and not go out to dinner and get photographed. Someone saying I should preach more on it first, so people can get used to it...so they'll go along. Like it's some P.R. stunt or something that I'm selling. And the worst thing is...” He exhales loudly. “They're right. Some of my job is P.R. Part of what I do is take this long, old, not always accessible text and break it down and make it feel immediate. And relevant. To other people. It's not a lie, and it's not staged, but there's some presentation involved."

I love how impassioned he looks when he talks about his work. Even when he feels like shit, he likes to talk about his work, and that's the way I know how much it matters—that this works out. It's not the same for him as it is for me. I can work anywhere as long as I've got my materials. But he needs this place—this institution, I guess it is—and he needs the people in the audience. He needs all of this to stay the same, or as close to the same as it can be, for him to still be fulfilled. For him to not feel like he’s losing something. Even though he's not about showbiz or fame, I think to lose a lot of audience would feel like failure, like regression; he's said so, in different words.

"I know there is,” I reply. “How do you feel about that...about what they said?"

He sucks in a breath, then lets it slowly out. "I don't know. It's all about perception, and I hate that, Rayne. I hate that I think they're sort of right. If people think I've changed a bunch...if they think I've turned so ‘liberal’ or I’m ‘going crazy with the rainbow flags' or really anything that scares them, makes them doubt that they know who I really am...then it's almost like a relationship breakdown. Where someone loses trust. So what I need to do is help them see that they still know me. I do need to do some sermons on it. Like this Sunday...some. Not the whole thing, but a little chunk of it, at least a reference or two to this issue. And the next Sunday. Honestly I have one idea...but it's—" He sighs. "It's scary to think about."

"What is it?" I ask. “The idea.”

"I've been wondering if I should do a...kind of like an open Q&A. Just get up there like on a Sunday—but it could never be a Sunday—" He shakes his head.

I know why, at this point. It's because the Sundays are more sacred. They have more of an agenda, and that agenda is set based on the Bible.

"But I don't know, like maybe a Tuesday or a Wednesday evening. I could curate questions. We do that sometimes, to some degree. Not always. I try to be sure it's organic, like I told you before. But sometimes if it's something dicey, we'll curate a little bit, and have a couple people raising hands that I can call on if things are going sideways...just to stop sideways momentum on air."

I nod.

"So maybe we could have a lot of curated questions waiting. But I could take some real ones, too. Or...I don't know...maybe—” He shakes his head. “These details are boring. I'm sorry."

"It's not boring. I like knowing how you do what you do. This is interesting to me. I'm an outsider. 'Unchurched.'"

He smiles, almost slyly.

"I've been reading there's some people who won't do this,” I say.

"Do what?" He's still sort of smirking.

"You know...jump into bed with a heathen like me."

I watch his careful face, absolutely loving how much thought he puts into this sort of thing. It's care and kindness. Conscientiousness. He can be stubborn at times, and he’s damned skittish, but he's a good guy with a good heart.

"Everybody has their own idea...in terms of how...rigid they are,” he offers. “About things like that."

I ignore the obvious crack about how rigid he is and try to stick to the topic. "But you're not just anybody. You’re the king of them all."

He laughs, eyes wide and his head back. "Now that—" He taps me on the jaw. "That's sacrilege, Rayne baby. Can't be saying that stuff."

"Oh, right. Because God and Jesus are the king. Or…king and prince? Am I right?" I wiggle my brows, and he lies back against a pillow on the boat bed, looking truly relaxed for the first time since we left the church.

"That's right, Rayne babe. God and Jesus are the king. Well..." His face twists, and I laugh at how perplexed he looks.