Chapter 2: The Rival

At the banquet celebrating our return from the cross-country mission, I realized I wasn't the only guest of honor that day.

The fellowship hall was decked out in blue and gold streamers, the folding tables pushed together to form a long, L-shaped feast under the glowing lights. A crockpot of cheesy potatoes sat next to a tray of Jell-O salad, and someone had set out a bowl of candy corn by the punch. Platters of fried chicken, sweet potato casserole, and a homemade lemon meringue pie (already missing a slice) lined the tables. People in their Sunday best milled around, laughter bouncing off the stained-glass windows. It smelled like coffee, cologne, and autumn leaves drifting in from the open doors.

Across the room stood a young man in a crisp white suit, surrounded by a small crowd.

He seemed oddly at ease among all the chaos, his posture just a bit too perfect, smile unwavering even as someone spilled sweet tea near his shoes. A couple of the older parishioners were already asking for his autograph, while a group of teens angled their phones, whispering about going viral as they caught Aaron’s smile on camera.

Curious, I asked, "Who is that?"

Pastor Lawrence stroked his beard and replied, "Like you, he's just been named a Saint of Good Works. So your celebration banquets are being held together."

He spoke as if announcing the winner at a high school awards night—shoulders relaxed, eyes twinkling with a mix of pride and mischief, tapping the side of his glass for attention. For a split second, Thomas felt his stomach tighten—was he being replaced before he’d even had a chance to sit down? He shrugged it off. In our small Midwestern town, it wasn’t unusual for people to double up on celebrations. Times were tough; it made sense to bring everyone together, to share both joy and casseroles.

I was a bit surprised, but didn't think it inappropriate. The world is tough for ordinary people; if someone of great ability sacrifices himself for righteousness, completes a difficult mission, and helps others, then he is truly a great soul.

A hush fell over me as I realized—maybe this young man and I weren’t so different. We’d both walked our own rocky roads. Maybe tonight was about honoring that, no matter how the journey looked.

Holding a crystal glass, I walked over and finally got a good look at the man's face. He looked about twenty-seven or twenty-eight, dressed in a spotless white suit, a silver cross at his lapel. At first glance, he looked every bit the young preacher.

There was something almost cinematic about his appearance: hair perfectly parted, skin unblemished, eyes clear and focused. As he noticed me approach, he straightened, projecting a mix of humility and quiet confidence—like someone who’d practiced handshakes in a mirror, ready to greet the world.

"You must be Father Thomas?" He spoke first, his voice gentle as silk. "I've heard so much about you."

His handshake was warm and surprisingly firm, his accent just a trace of upstate New York, maybe—enough to mark him as not quite local. The room seemed to hush around us for a moment, as if everyone was waiting to see how we’d size each other up.

I clasped his hand in greeting. "And you are?"

"My name's Aaron Sinclair." He smiled slightly.

The way he said his name, drawing it out just a little, made it sound almost musical. I nodded, trying to place it. Sinclair. That name—there was something about it.

—Aaron Sinclair.

The name sounded familiar, but for the moment, I couldn't recall where I'd heard it before.

I stood there for a heartbeat, the name echoing in my mind like a distant hymn. Was it from the regional news, or maybe an alumni newsletter? The sense of recognition nagged at me, but faded as quickly as it came, swallowed by the clatter of dishes and the soft hum of conversation.

As I was pondering, I suddenly heard a loud "clang" behind me—

A crash so sharp it made me jump, silverware rattling on the nearby tables. I spun around, heart leaping into my throat, my hand tightening reflexively around the stem of my glass.

It turned out Michael had accidentally knocked over a wine pitcher.

Wine pooled across the white tablecloth, staining it a deep burgundy. Michael, ever the klutz, stood frozen, cheeks burning red as everyone nearby tried not to stare. Someone handed him a wad of paper napkins, but he just shook his head, muttering under his breath.

"What's wrong, Michael?" Aaron was still smiling, but his gaze sharpened a little.

His tone was gentle, but there was a new edge to it—like a manager asking why you were late, pretending it was no big deal. His eyes flickered, assessing, and for a second, the whole room seemed to hold its breath.

Michael bared his teeth, lowered his voice, and whispered in my ear, "Father, something about this guy gives me the creeps. He’s too perfect, you know?"

I could smell the faint tang of cheap red wine on Michael’s breath as he leaned in, his hand gripping my sleeve just a little too tightly. He was always suspicious of newcomers, but the tension in his voice sent a small shiver down my spine.

After the banquet ended, Michael dragged me straight out to the church garden.

We slipped out the side doors, past the pumpkin display and the little bonfire someone had started for s’mores. The night air was crisp, the leaves crunching beneath our feet as we found a quiet spot beneath the old oak tree, away from the glow of the party. The bonfire crackled behind us, sending up sparks that glowed against the darkening sky.

"Father, do you know who Aaron Sinclair is?"

I shook my head. "He was born in Maple Heights. His father is the mayor, his mother is the chief administrator at the county hospital. His uncle and aunt are both on the city council. His paternal aunt is—"

Michael rattled off the family tree like he’d memorized it for a civics quiz. Thomas blinked, trying to keep up. It sounded like half the town council was related to this kid. His voice grew faster, more urgent, as if by speaking it aloud, he could prove something no one else saw. I frowned, trying to follow the long line of city officials and council members, feeling like I’d wandered into a local history class I’d forgotten to study for.

"Enough! Why are you telling me all this? He's the new Saint of Good Works—why should I care about his family tree?"

My frustration leaked out, maybe a little too sharp. In this town, everyone knew everyone else’s business, but pedigree never guaranteed character—or sainthood.

"Ah, Father, you misunderstood me. What I mean is, this Aaron Sinclair was only born twenty years ago."

Michael leaned in, his voice low and conspiratorial, eyes darting as if someone might be listening from behind the hydrangeas. The words hung between us, heavy as a church bell tolling at midnight—impossible to ignore.

"How is that possible?"

I could hear the disbelief in my own words, echoing back from the dark. The requirements for sainthood were as old as the church itself—years, even decades of service, the kind that left scars and built wisdom. Twenty years? It didn’t add up.

To become a saint requires a lifetime of service; even a prodigy must endure hardship. In just twenty years, how could he have accumulated enough merit to be named a saint?

The logic just wasn’t there. Even the brightest young preacher needed time to prove himself. I thought of my own calluses, the aches in my knees from nights spent in prayer, the mistakes and small victories of a long ministry. Aaron Sinclair’s story felt like skipping straight to graduation without taking the tests.