When you attend Glory Church on Sunday, look back in the far left corner. In the shadows, you’ll see a man in black we call The Atheist.
His wife Celie was the head pastor there. He clapped with us as she sang glory to God. Though a non-believer, he always believed in her.
Celie died five years ago; he hasn’t clapped since. But he never misses a Sunday.
I asked him why once. He hesitated before he spoke. “The idea that there may be a place where Celie still exists is the only thing that brings me comfort.”