Cary Shelton met his gaze directly. “What minister, what priest, what rabbi, works for free? They all get paid. Besides, we provide a service. It’s a religious service, but legally it’s not much different from the dentist, the hair-dressers, and the optometrist in this building—and it’s almost exactly the same as the astrologer across the street. Why shouldn’t religion be marketed electronically just like astrology is?”
Dave opened his mouth, closed it. He looked at Kathy. She was still stunned.
“Wait a minute, these phony visits—” Dave sat up earnestly. “You say the Reverend’s a computer simulation—I mean, I know they can do the pictures, but—he spoke to us! And answered our questions!”
“Yes, we have a real good program; worked most of it up right here,” Cary said patiently. “The phone visits bring in a good bit of our revenue. He’s really good; quotes the Bible lavishly, visits the sick and those in need of aid, prays for anybody, acts sympathetic, and behaves like a minister. He’s developing a big repeat following; some talk to him every day.”
“But how can a computer act so—so real? I mean, a holorec just talks business, it’s only got a limited rep—rep—”
“Repertoire. Yes. The Reverend Program is about thirty times as complex as a holorec, but that’s not as hard as it looks. I mean, there are still some psychologists around who use the old twentieth century Freudian psychoanalysis. Lots of them used Doctor Programs like this. They all work by association. You say certain key words or phrases, like ‘medical problems,’ ‘losing faith in God’ or ‘unemployed,’ and the computer searches for an apt response from the Bible or other inspirational works. The Reverend really does respond to your actual words, so it sounds to you just like a regular conversation.”
Dave stared at him, letting this sink in.
Cary Shelton smiled faintly. “In fact, that’s the way most people talk—responding to key words or phrases, and then often going off about themselves with no regard to what you meant.”
“Wait a minute.” Kathy came back to life. “The Rev’ren’ said he’d pray for Davey! How can he, if he ain’t real?”
“Well, we can’t be prosecuted for that—we don’t think. In fact, he really does pray for everybody he says he will. We compare it to burning candles in front of saints or crucifixes, in the Catholic and Orthodox churches. Look.”
He tapped his keyboard again. Now they were looking into the sacristy of the First New Testament Gospel World Fellowship Church, where the Reverend Jason Matthew Wayne knelt before the altar beneath the stained glass windows. They heard his resonant baritone voice, as with deep humility and faith he prayed to God. They heard him mentioning the names of people he had promised to pray for—not gabbling them off hastily, but delivering them in full orotund solemnity.
The view pulled back, and they saw two First New Testament Gospel World Fellowship Churches, with two Reverend Jasons praying but saying different names. As the scene continued to pull back, now there were four, then eight, then ten Reverend Jasons, and the ten Reverends were about the size of fingers in ten Churches a meter high.
“We’re currently running ten chapels for three to four hours a day. So we can expand by a factor of six, minimum, before we lay on the second program of ten chapels,” said Cary. “If you call the Reverend and he promises to pray for you, you get a free mention, once a day, for a week. If you ask for prayer, and make a love offering, you can extend that, week by week. And you can ask more than once. Some people are being prayed for three or four times a day.”
For a moment Dave and Kathy were silent, shocked, staring at the ten Reverends praying before ten altars.
“Does God listen to prayers from people who aren’t real?” Kathy whispered, still watching the ten Reverends.
“I don’t know,” Cary admitted. “The Reverends speak aloud with a human voice. Beyond that, I don’t presume to know.”
“So it’s just a business with you?” Dave asked, hushed. “You don’t feel this is dishonest? That you’re misleading people? Who knows what kind of advice that computer is giving them!”
Cary Shelton stiffened. “I have as much right to feel proud of what I do as the average service professional does. As for dishonest, we constantly run disclaimers and explanations; as for advice, we don’t give it. The computer will quote appropriate bits of Scripture, and we research those bits carefully, to key them to the proper words and phrases. I have a degree in comparative religions. I studied Greek, Hebrew, and Latin, and also evangelical texts; likely I know more about the origin of your beliefs than you do, Mr. Kiefer.”
Dave tensed, not sure how to respond.
“And I’m not irreligious. I’m a good Methodist, myself. But, you see, there are two kinds of believers. Some require an established church with structure, like me. But I take it you’re evangelical, possibly Baptist?”
“Our family church is pretty similar to our Baptist friends’,” said Dave. “Not that we’re too particular, so long as they preach the Bible.”
“Our program is directed toward such people; few Methodists would stay tuned in if they happened across the show while channel surfing. It appeals to people who require a charismatic, more openly emotional religion. And our show has a definite advantage over most charismatic broadcasts.”
“What’s that?” Dave asked suspiciously.
“Our minister can’t get caught with someone’s wife or daughter, or a prostitute, or with his hand in the till; he has no past to hide. He’ll only age, or modify his religion, if we learn that his followers want him to. And he won’t die. The death of the founder can devastate charismatic churches.”
Dave nodded uncertainly, not understanding all of this. “What happens to those churches when the founder dies?”
“The founders usually have a supporting structure in place. But that structure is naturally made of people who excel at organization, not charismatic leadership, so they institutionalize the church. It begins to convert to the other kind of church—becomes dogmatic, hierarchical, and less responsive to the emotions of the people it once attracted. Then it finds another congregation, or it dies. Joseph Smith, Mary Baker Eddy, Aimee Semple McPherson, L. Ron Hubbard—the list is long. Some make it, some don’t.”
Dave felt baffled; he’d been out-argued, but he wasn’t convinced. It still felt dishonest to him. Maybe, he thought, because I feel cheated.
“So the Rev’ren’ can’t help us?” Kathy asked meekly. “All he can do is just quote Scripture at us, and do that prayer thing? He can’t tell us what we should do about poor Trippy?”
Dave looked at their host in silence.
“No, as I say, giving advice could be bad for business.” Cary Shelton spread his hands. “What if the advice was bad, and you sued? We’re just on the brink of major success with the Reverend Wayne; we’re in over two hundred markets now and we’re even thinking about opening a local church, and maybe doing a location shoot.”
“But the miracles,” Kathy said hopelessly. “Then the Rev’ren’ can’t heal Trippy. Don’t you feel wrong about fooling people like that?”
Cary Shelton looked unhappily at her. “We have to have them; our market demands it. People must have miracles. The Catholic Church used to stage them regularly, even after scientists had figured most of them out. Even after the Shroud of Turin was shown to have been a beautiful fake done in a.d. 200, people still believed it was the shroud of Christ. Some still do.”
“No miracles here,” Dave said cynically, getting up. “I suppose you want us to keep your secret.”
“I told you without conditions because of your son. Others know, obviously, including everyone who works here. Rumors are already circulating. If we’re asked by the press or public at large, we’ll tell the whole truth. We’re ready any time for exposure. It can’t be kept a secret forever. In fact, we expect an upsurge in interest when the truth comes out, but we want a firm base of followers first.” “Won’t they stop following you, when they know?” Kathy’s fingertips were nearly white with pressure on her Bible.