“But the deputy … you say he was hurting and I imagine he was. Maybe he shouldn’t even be a cop. Maybe it’s the weight of that responsibility that gives him pain … the gun, the uniform, the authority. It should have made him strong, but it was just the opposite. He probably wished before that it would all change, but it didn’t until he met you.”

“He just happened to be looking at me when he realized.”

“Realized what?”

“That the greatest strength comes from simply letting go.”

“So your baptism didn’t put that knowledge in him?”

“No, it just celebrated the change.”

She laughed with an assumed bravado, leaning back in her chair. “Well that’s good to know, for a second there I was afraid I might ask you to baptize me right here on this stage.”

“Now that’s footage that would go coast-to-coast,” I said.

“24-7.”

We both laughed and I thought this would be her chance to end the interview. It felt like a good place to end it. But she went on.

“And how do you know the deputy had some special injury inside him that needed healing?”

“The same way I know there’s something you want to let go of.”

“Just the stress of my job, I think?”

“What fed your passion for this story? Something more than wanting to defend mainstream religion.”

“I really think my problems are just life’s usual wear and tear. You said yourself most of us are walking around wounded in some way.”

“In this case it’s something more.”

“Today, I was just doing my duty as a journal--”

“--You don‘t have to talk about it now if you don’t want.”

Now for sure, I thought, she would stand up, smile and thank me for coming on. Let go, not of her hurt, but of me. Move on to her next segment. But she couldn’t seem to do it. And yet, she couldn’t stand any more dead air. She couldn’t just sit there.

“You’re right,” she sighed. “My sister was at Waco. She was a Branch Davidian.

“And now she’s …”

“Dead.”

“I’m so sorry. I think you can see I‘m no David Koresh.”

“My sister was a sick woman …”

“And easy prey for a sicker man -- unfortunately a sick and evil man.”

“Why doesn’t God step in to stop people like him?”

“Strike them down, you mean?”

“Yes,” she growled, “give the bastards what they deserve!”

“Part of letting go is believing that God’s goodness flows with such force that whatever impurities do appear will be washed away.”

“I’m not sure that’s true.”

“It’s been promised to us ever since God first looked on creation and called it good. Since then, all the great prophets have affirmed it: Jesus said ‘those who hunger will be filled,’ Paul said ‘love never fails,’ Martin Luther King Jr. said ‘the arc of history is long but it bends toward justice,’ and Lao Tsu wrote, “Heaven’s net casts wide. Though its meshes are course, nothing slips through.”

“Nice sayings, but with all the pain in the world how can I believe they’re true?”

“Start by wishing them true; the way will appear.”

The moment became personal, eye-to-eye, both of us forgetting we were being watched by the nation. Her eyes glistened with a hint of tears and through them I could see the fire in her heart.

“Tell me, specifically, what should I do?”

“Do not fear, only believe,” I said. “The way will come to you.”

“My therapist says first I have to deal with my anger.”

“A therapist focuses on emptying the inside of injury; but the problem isn’t what’s there, the problem is what’s not there. We depend on the spirit of truth to surge in and flush out the evil. It’s a natural process. What’s foul is pushed out by the fresh and pure. Jesus said it’s useless to drive out dark spirits unless you replace them with the spirit of light. If you don’t, the darkness will return.”

Ms. Collins was crying, the audience dead silent until one person began a slow rhythmic clapping. Another joined and soon loud applause filled the studio. The producer was signaling frantically. Finally, Ms. Collins rose to her feet, hugged me and said, “thank you pastor.”

As we embraced, I whispered in her ear words meant for her alone, but our microphones picked them up: “God’s wish for you is a wish for the whole world.”

After my magazine interview I returned to the hotel room with just an hour before the car service would haul me to the airport for my flight back to Florida. I had been told not to bother checking out, that it was all taken care of, but as I crossed the lobby with my bag, I heard a desk clerk calling my name and hurrying across the marble floor.

“I saw you on the morning show today,” she said. “You were wonderful. I was late for work because I stopped to watch, but it was worth it.” I returned her smile and turned to leave.

“Wait,” she said, grabbing my arm. “I have a message for you. We rang your phone but you didn’t answer.” She handed me a small envelope with the hotel’s insignia. I wasn’t sure if I should tip her, but as I fished for a dollar she noticed and said, “oh no, this is totally my pleasure.”

“Thank you,” I said. “If you’re ever in Florida, come and worship with us.”

The note was from Ms. Collins -- “Krissy,” she had them sign it. She thanked me for not taking offense at her aggressive questioning. “I didn’t know,” she said, “but now I do.” She added that for three years after every show she had taken medication for an irritated stomach. “Today I was alright. I think I’ll be alright. I’m wishing for it.” She apparently told the clerk to put a smiley face by her name. Or maybe the clerk added that flourish herself. Either way, I was happy.

The day had flown by, moment to moment, but flying home on the plane I was finally able to get my bearings. It had been a curious day. I had started out just taking it as it came, nice and easy does it, assuming the best as I always do. I guess that’s not how they do it in New York -- at least not in the media. Always ready to see the worst, to play the cynic. What’s with that? A defense mechanism? I’d never been to Los Angeles, but I started to think it remarkable that faith survived anywhere with so little of it in our big media centers.

A culture ruled by skeptics. It came to me as I sat with the magazine reporter. He had all these ready-made angles for his story, little boxes he wanted to squeeze me into that would be familiar to his readers. Then he saw me on the morning show and realized they wouldn’t work. I’m not Koresh -- my God, our little gathering doesn’t even have a name. We’re not waiting for a space ship to take us home, or for the rapture to begin. We don’t practice polygamy and I’m not sleeping with all the women in the group. We’re not separatists in the usual way although it’s clear we’re out of the mainstream. And I don’t claim to be the new Christ. He had spotted an Asian flavor in some things I said to Ms. Collins, so maybe “east meets west” could be the theme. But I disappointed him again by saying I saw myself clearly in the Christian tradition.

Finally, I could see he was leaning toward an “enigma” story line, which I didn’t like, so I decided to make it easy for him and sum up my beliefs:

“There is a force for good in the world and most of the world’s problems come from ignoring it. When we lose sight of it and forget how to use it, darkness results and God sends a prophet to shine a light which reawakens our ability to make the spiritual real in our lives. That’s why Jesus was sent, and Buddha too. In Christianity the force is called the Holy Spirit; in Taoism it is called Tao, which means the way. To live in the spirit is to live in what Jesus called the Kingdom of heaven. It is a very real dimension here on earth. But giving it a name is a false task. Finding it, feeling it, giving in to it, and letting it become real in our lives … that is our true purpose … that is how we can heal the world. My role is to shine a light and help people find the way. Last Sunday the way became real for Deputy Jericho and all of heaven rejoiced.”

At that, the reporter smiled. Now he had an angle. So, I did see myself in the tradition of Christ after all. Not the second coming but a second coming. Those were his words and his headline. What the heck, I’d tried to tell him I was just following Wesley, trying to do as much good as I can, for as many as I can, in as many ways as I can. But if God is going to do amazing things with me, I guess I’d better accept people looking on me with amazement. In a world as dark as ours, anyone able to shine even a little light must seem like a magician.

I was expecting John-John to meet me at baggage claim in the Orlando airport but I didn’t see him anywhere. I wondered if he was in the bathroom. I checked my cell phone for messages and saw it was still on vibrate. I had three voicemails, all from Carolyn. Before I could call her I heard my name spoken.

“Dietrich Waymire?”

I turned to see a man in his fifties, about John-John’s age, approaching me with his hand out. “You don’t know me, but my name is Beau McCarthy. I’m an old friend of John Johnson -- and your father.“

He was casually dressed in white tropical linen. Expensive stuff, I thought. A far cry from John-John’s beachside casual.

“Yes,” I said. “I know who you are. I had heard you were coming for a visit.”

He smiled with the ease of handsome man accustomed to being liked. “It turned out that John-John couldn’t make it, and since my flight was due in shortly before yours, I volunteered. Your wife …”

“Carolyn.”

“Yes, Carolyn was supposed to call and let you know.”

I saw my bag drop onto the conveyor. “I have a voicemail from her,” I said. “Had my ringer off. Which way?”

He led us toward the escalator. “I have a rental car waiting.”

“Is John-John alright?”

“Well … it depends on what you call alright. You may know more about this than me, but I’m told there was some accident a little while back …”

“A car accident.”

“Yes. I guess the police are bringing charges against him.”

“What charges?”

“Manslaughter. He’s in jail right now.”