Dust motes dance angelic in the light of the projector, giving a mosaic quality to the gospel on screen. Dark fingers shadow it occasionally as our minister gestures to make a point, and I glance at her hands. They glow, tips pink with polish, as they flicker over the little halo of light.
Sales figures are our Numbers, clickthrough our Deuteronomy. Case studies for tie-ins are Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. Maybe Editorial's the gospel of Thomas, grudgingly mentioned and done away with when unnecessary.
We watch it all with rapt attention and greasy fingers; our Communion of pizza grows cold upon the table. I look from screen to Preacher to middle-aged, hardworking flock; Sales guys, Managers, Interns, pressed together tight in this too-small Church of the Lunch Meeting. Some are enraptured, two powerpoint slides away from speaking in tongues; others blink rapidly with that practiced half-sleep you only see in corporate offices. None speak save Her; none smile, none stretch, none whisper.
And pressed in with them, clutching at my notepad and my pizza, I want to scream and scream and scream.