“I don’t even know you,” I tell her.
She holds out her hand. “I’m Dana.”
We end up across from each other at a small table next to an even smaller café stall. I wrap my hands around a steaming Styrofoam cup and sip the scalding coffee inside. It’s bitter, strong. Awful. I don’t know where to start this conversation. I try to shed the questions I really want to ask for ones that will arouse less suspicion. I’m also curious; I want to hear what answers could tempt sisters away from sisters, tempt lost boys in front of oncoming trains.
“It’s weird, right?” Dana asks before I can say anything. “The Project? On paper it sounds either too good to be true or just really, really—”
“Crazy.”
“Yeah, crazy. There’s no in-between. But I think there’s hearing about it and there’s being in it and those are actually two very different things. I mean, I wanted to do some good and now that’s all I’m doing, so I’m happy. What interests you about it?”
“Warren’s Theory. I’m looking to be Redeemed.”
It comes out of my mouth with just a little too much derision. She studies me for a long moment then decides to call me on it. “Or are you looking to prove some kind of point? This sermon isn’t weekend entertainment for you to laugh about with your friends on Monday. It means a lot to a lot of people and it deserves to be met with respect.”
“Honestly, Dana, I’m looking for anything better than what I’ve got,” I say, and she relaxes a little. “But I have to admit Warren’s Theory might just be the craziest-sounding part of the whole damn thing.”
“I think it’s the most beautiful. Let me tell you something actually crazy.”
“Okay.”
“I was in the army,” she says, and when I don’t reply: “That’s it, that’s the crazy thing.”
“Thanks for your service.” It ends up sounding like a question.
“You’re welcome. Now let me tell you what that’s like: I did what I was told and I didn’t question it, because you don’t,” she says. “You’re not there to question anything. You’re ultimately there for your brothers and your sisters who are in combat with you. By the time I was honorably discharged, I would’ve died for any of them and I damn near did—damn near tried—on more than one occasion.”
She exhales slowly and I see a story unfolding behind her eyes, one she chooses not to share—or can’t, judging by the amount of pain ghosting across her face.
“I lost … so much. I came back, and I felt lied to. And the places I’d been, the things I’d seen, the things I—the things I did … I lost my faith. No idea how to begin again. And no one was giving me what I needed. No one.
“So I go to one of the public sermons and Lev Warren sat next to me and I said, ‘I don’t know how to start over. I don’t know how to put good things back in the world, when I feel like I’ve been part of so much that’s wrong with it. I don’t know how to atone for the things—the things that I’ve done.’ And he looked at me, and he said, ‘The Unity Project has already atoned for you. This is our gift. All you have to do is accept it.’ And”—she swallows—“and I did. And The Project has been looking after me ever since.”
“‘Its good works will atone for the world’s sins and bring salvation to the ends of the earth,’” I say. “You really believe that?”
She leans forward. “When you become a member, you’re accepting your atonement. You accept Lev as God’s Redeemer and in him, you’re redeemed. Your redemption allows you to participate in giving the gift of atonement. If everyone accepts that gift and works together to make this world a better place, what else could it lead to but our salvation?”
“And you’ve always believed in God?”
“Yes.”
“But what if you didn’t? What would you have done then? What about all the people who want to do the good things you’re doing, but lack that faith? You ever think you could probably save the world sooner just by leaving the God parts out?”
“You think Lev should betray his faith and conceal his calling, his appointment from God, to make others more comfortable? You realize in any other context, asking someone to deny a fundamental part of their identity would be very problematic, right? We’d also lose credibility as an organization if we weren’t fully transparent in all aspects of our mission.”
“Then why haven’t you confirmed or denied that Lev Warren sees the future and brought a girl back from the dead?”
There are whispers about Lev Warren. I’ve heard them all, found them in Reddit threads, comments sections, read between the lines of various write-ups. Most people tend to accept Lev as a good man, but leaked audio of a late 2014 sermon where he seemingly predicted the outcome of the 2016 presidential election had them asking, sincerely, whether or not he could be a holy one. I received revelation, the sermon began, and it traced a path to our miserable present. It tends to resurface every time something new and terrible happens under the Trump administration, which is just about every day, these days.
Lev Warren warned us.
That he’s resurrected the dead feels like it must have been hyperbole at some point, but every year it becomes more and more reclaimed in the whispers between believers and would-be believers alike. The Unity Project refuses to engage with any of it, allowing instead for that faint shimmer of something more to attach itself to them. It’s one less ad they have to take out on Facebook.
“We don’t participate in that kind of rumor or speculation,” Dana says, “because it would begin a conversation that would detract from the work we’re here to do. Where did you first learn about The Project, Gloria?”
“Vice. They think you just might be a cult.”
She sips her coffee. “They do.”
“And?”
“And…” She sets her coffee down and starts ticking it off on her fingers. “The Unity Project has never asked me for more than I was willing to give. They’ve never asked for more from me than was fair to ask for. They’ve never asked me to participate in their cause under false pretenses or used me as a political pawn. I have never once felt unsafe or threatened in The Unity Project and I’ve always felt and have been free to leave, should I ever want to.” She pauses. “I couldn’t say the same for the army.”
Her eyes travel over my scar in a way that makes me brace myself for the gotcha, but it doesn’t come. Instead, her gaze becomes more intent, as though she’s trying to see what might be beyond it. It gets to be too much. I look away.
“I recognize your tone, you know,” she says. “I’ve heard it many times.”
“And what’s my tone?”
“Skeptical. Dismissive.”
“You think you’re chosen by God.”
“I was chosen by God.”
“Just so long as you pay the membership fee.”
“Actually, whether or not you become a member,” Dana says, and the brief look of confusion that crosses my face seems to satisfy her. “See, that’s what many people don’t really understand about The Project, Gloria. We have all been Chosen by God. His sacrifice was our calling. Over time, we lost the ability to access it. That’s the gift God gave to Lev: he sees it in us and enables us to see it in ourselves. That’s what’s going to happen to you today and you may reject your gift. You may embrace it. But it will always be your choice. And if you judge us for ours? That’s not our failing.” She appraises me. “You’re young … still in high school?”