Free Tara Holloway 03 - Death, Taxes, and Extra-Hold Hairspray by Diane Kelly Page B

of housekeeping items, asking the congregants to silence their cell phones and to shift to the inside seats to accommodate late arrivals waiting in the wings for an available place to sit. It was a full house today, a sellout crowd. “A great problem to have,” he acknowledged with what appeared to be a sincere smile.
    Walters led the group in a short, simple prayer, “amens” were murmured, and he left the podium.
    The lights dimmed slightly and a spotlight shined on a man wearing black pants and a sport coat in the same greenish-blue as the choir robes. He made his way to the platform and stepped up to a podium that faced the singers and musicians. As he raised his conductor’s wand, the musicians lifted their instruments into place, the percussion section holding their sticks poised over their drums.
    The music director began moving his wand, mouthed “One, two, three, four,” and the orchestra and choir launched into a modern, quick-tempo version of “Amazing Grace,” the mix of classic and contemporary styles reminiscent of the Trans-Siberian Orchestra. Though the words were familiar, the normally solemn hymn now sounded upbeat, cheerful.
    All around us the crowd rose to their feet, singing and clapping in rhythm to the music. So as not to be conspicuous, Nick and I stood, too. I had to admit, I found myself drawn to the joyful music, and my singing and handclapping were only partly to make sure I blended in.
    The next song, ironically, was “Old-Time Religion.” This megachurch offered anything but old-time religion. But from the size of the crowd, it was undeniable the Ark appealed to a broad market. People had grown tired of the stuffy, uncomfortable church environments of their youth, tired of the fire and brimstone, alienated from a God who’d smite sinners or send them wandering aimlessly around a desert for forty years without benefit of GPS, searching for the promised land. People wanted a more progressive, less regimented religion, a kinder, gentler, less demanding deity.
    Churches across the metroplex had begun to market their services, and the Big Guy Himself, much differently. They offered a new way to worship, a new type of forum, a fresh take on God.
    Some diehard traditionalists frowned upon the watered-down “religion lite” promoted by these churches. Others praised the ministers for keeping religion relevant in a world that posed so many new temptations, new ways to sin. When the popular VeggieTales show launched some years back, there’d been controversy whether cartoon vegetables were qualified to teach children fundamental biblical doctrines, just as there’d been debate whether the rise of Christian rock bands was good or bad. But for right or wrong, the Ark was packed to the rafters with worshippers.
    After a couple more songs, the overhead lights went black, then colored lights began chasing each other over the audience and walls.
    “What is this?” Nick said. “A circus?”
    A booming male voice came from the speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, put your hands together for the Ark Temple of Worship’s very own Pastor Noaaah Fischerrr!” He drew out the last syllables like a cheesy game show announcer.
    Around us, the audience roared with applause. Nick and I exchanged glances. If we didn’t know better, we’d think a rock star was about to take the stage.
    The spotlight followed a fair-haired man making his way up the center aisle, smiling and waving to the crowd, stopping to shake hands with those on the aisle as if he were a glad-handing politician.
    Noah Fischer.
    In the flesh.
    Fischer’s black suit looked pricey and fit him perfectly. My guess was Armani. Underneath he wore a pink dress shirt with a white collar and a black tie with diagonal white stripes. I’d never seen a minister look so fashionable. Although not visible from our distance, a small bald spot on the back of the minister’s head was revealed by the enlarged image on the jumbo screen,