Dead Man Walking (The Fallen Men #6) - Giana Darling Page 0,64
a different theory on faith I would love to discuss. In James 2:20, it is written, ‘But do you want to know, O foolish man, that faith without works is dead?’ What do you think this means?”
Billy stirred, his heavy lids widening with eagerness to prove his worth to pretty Tabitha Linely. “It means you have to prove your faith to God.”
She smiled warmly at him. “Exactly.”
“Why do we have to prove our faith in Him when He doesn’t have to do the same?” Sammy interjected with a frown. “That doesn’t make sense.”
Something flickered across Tabby’s face, a hesitation chased by something darker. I frowned at her, wondering for the first time if those placid waters hid something deeper. “You cannot maintain faith unless it is rewarded. God rewards us with His love, and in return, we show Him our love through action. Why do we pray? Why do we punish sinners?”
Sammy’s eyes went wide as twin coins. “We don’t punish sinners here, do we?”
“We should,” Billy declared, somewhat fiercely.
I wondered if it was Tabby’s good looks or his own association with his father’s condition that made him vehement.
“We don’t punish sinners here,” I agreed, sliding Tabby a side eye to slow her roll. “First Light Church is about acceptance and guidance, not rigorously following a set of rules.”
“Not all people who attend Church will go to Heaven,” Tabby announced. “Prayer is not enough to ensure passage to Heaven. You must pay tribute.”
“Tabby,” I said with a cautionary saccharine smile. She had always been a zealot, a topic we clashed on explosively though respectfully. This was not respect.
“How do you pay tribute?” Billy mused.
“In ancient Greece, they made sacrifices,” Sammy said helpfully.
“We do not sacrifice now,” I said firmly.
But they were young and unruly, puppies let loose in the yard of theological discussion. I’d lost the reins, and the conversation turned over to them.
“My mum told me someone’s killing sinners,” Ethan announced. “Is he paying tribute, Mrs. Linley?”
“No, that’s murder,” Cassie Aston argued. “You can’t murder people for God, that doesn’t even make sense.”
“It doesn’t,” Sammy agreed. “Death is bad.”
“Death is your reward for a life well-lived,” Tabby explained. “You get to go to Heaven.”
“Okay, enough,” I declared, standing up so suddenly my chair scraped against the stone floor in a way that made us all wince. “Mrs. Linley, thank you for your interesting theories, but the Bible group is done for the evening. If you have any questions or concerns about what we discussed today, please stay after to talk to me or seek out Pastor Lafayette, okay?”
The group looked at me for a moment with indecision. They had stumbled upon a sensational topic in an otherwise docile discussion group, and they didn’t want to drop it. Happily, Tabby took my lead and smiled at the group before saying goodbye and leaving our antechamber for the main chapel. After that, the kids dispersed readily.
All but Billy Huxley.
He lingered over the extra candles beside the votive candle stand, flipping a matchstick through his fingers clumsily as he waited for everyone to leave. I went to stand by him, placing a gentle hand on his bony shoulder as we stared at the many flickering flames on the staggered display of candles.
“I light candles for my dad,” he confessed, his voice cracking down the middle. “I know he’s still alive, but…I know it’s not for long.”
My heart trembled for him. “If it makes you feel better to do so, then do it, Billy. Mourning doesn’t have to begin after death. It begins when you start to accept it may be inevitable for someone you love.”
Billy shivered slightly and took a little side step closer to me so our hips brushed. He looked so wane and lonely in the orange candlelight against the dark wall of the church, like a boy anxious for sainthood.
When he looked up at me, it was with dark eyes glazed with exhaustion, both spiritual and physical. “Do you think he’s dying because he didn’t show God he loved Him enough?”
A little whimper of sympathy caught in my throat, but I didn’t release it. Instead, I crouched down so I could be closer to eye level with him, then took his hands in my own, the matchstick caught between our fingers.
“No, Billy,” I said, silk over iron. “That’s not how God works, okay. In fact, that’s not how science works. Sometimes, we just get sick because of defects in our body.”