IT DOESN'T MATTER

By the time the visiting preacher arrived at "That Church By the Check-Cashing Place and the Questionable Vape Emporium," the neighborhood already knew something unusual was happening.

Brother Clancy's church usually advertised revivals with a hand-painted plywood sign and maybe a balloon zip-tied to a folding chair if Sister Velma was feeling festive, but tonight there were fireworks — and not the legal kind. These were the kind that come out of a duffel bag sold by a man behind a flea market, the kind whose boom shakes storefront windows and rattles the fillings of anyone within a block.

Inside, the congregation looked up from their Styrofoam cups of coffee as fog rolled dramatically across the sanctuary floor.

"Is the baptism heater on fire again?" Sister Velma asked.

"No ma'am," said Deacon Rufus. "That's entrance smoke."

The music hit — late-90s arena wrestling intro guitar music, the kind that makes reasonable adults want to leap through a paper banner — and through the fog stepped a massive bald man in a black silk shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, gold chain glistening under fluorescent lighting that had once illuminated a pawn shop liquidation sale. He wore expensive sunglasses indoors. He carried a wireless microphone despite the church already owning three perfectly functional wired ones.

He paused in the center aisle, raised one eyebrow, and the entire youth group lost their minds.

"FINALLY…" he thundered, "THE REVEREND ROCKWELL… HAS COME BACK… TO WEST MEMPHIS!"

Half the congregation applauded. The other half looked concerned.

Velma leaned toward Brother Clancy. "Did we background-check this fella?"

"He quoted Romans in the parking lot," Clancy replied. "Good enough for me."

The preacher climbed onto the platform with the confidence of a man who had once elbow-dropped a folding chair for Jesus. He pointed dramatically at the congregation.

"Tonight," he declared, "we are talking about ECCLESIASTES."

A confused silence fell over the room, broken only when little Cody whispered, "Is that one of Paul's cousins?"

The preacher slammed a hand on the pulpit.

"SOLOMON had money!"

"Amen!"

"SOLOMON had wisdom!"

"Amen!"

"SOLOMON had gardens!"

"Amen!"

"SOLOMON had one THOUSAND women!"

The church collectively inhaled like a vacuum cleaner sucking up a Lego.

Sister Denise muttered, "Lord have mercy."

The preacher nodded with great solemnity and removed his sunglasses with theatrical intensity. "And Solomon looked at all of it… and said…"

He paused for what felt like a geological age.

"IT DOESN'T MATTER!"

The congregation jumped.

"THAT'S what Ecclesiastes is about!" He paced like a motivational speaker who had accidentally wandered into an apocalyptic philosophy department.

"You get the money—"

"IT DOESN'T MATTER!"

"You get the house—"

"IT DOESN'T MATTER!"

"You get the bass boat with the depth finder and the little seat that swivels—"

"IT DOESN'T MATTER!"

"You finally pay off the Dodge Ram with the mismatched passenger door—"

"IT DOESN'T MATTER!"

Old Brother Dale stood up involuntarily and yelled, "THAT NOTE WAS USURY ANYWAY!"

"Amen," shouted Sister Velma.

The preacher pointed approvingly. "Ecclesiastes says life is HEVEL! A vapor! A breath! You're here one minute, gone the next!" He snapped his fingers. "Like your stimulus check! Like that leftover Chinese food you SWORE was still good! Like your Uncle Gary's landscaping business after the incident with the county ostrich!"

Nobody knew what he meant, but several people nodded knowingly.

The preacher leaned close to the front row. "Solomon tried EVERYTHING." He counted on his fingers. "Pleasure. Wisdom. Wine. Building projects. Gardens. Gold. Horses. Women. Probably one of them massage chairs at the mall."

"Amen," said someone sadly.

"And after all that, Solomon says it's chasing the wind!" He spread his arms dramatically. "You know what Solomon discovered? WITHOUT GOD…" — he paused long enough for two people to glance at the exits — "…your midlife crisis just gets EXPENSIVE."

A woman in the back fell into hysterical laughter and had to be handed a church fan.

The preacher set his watch on the pulpit like a man preparing for mortal combat. "See, Solomon looked at life under the sun — earthly life, temporary life, fallen-world life — and under the sun, EVERYBODY dies."

Silence settled across the room. Even the teenagers looked up from their phones.

"The wise die. The fools die. The rich die. The poor die. The man with three PhDs dies. The man who thinks Facebook memes count as research dies."

Brother Earl slowly lowered his phone.

"And Solomon says that realization drives people crazy." The preacher's voice softened. "That's why teenagers act wild sometimes." Several parents turned immediately toward the youth section. "They learn they're gonna die someday, and they're trying to live it up, trying to distance themselves from the people they love most, shielding themselves from the pain of watching them go first."

He nodded slowly.

"Some people drown the thought of death in pleasure. Some in work. Some in religion. Some in politics. Some in buying things. Some in pretending they're gods." He grinned. "And some people buy jet skis they absolutely cannot afford."

A man in the back crossed his arms defensively.

Then the preacher exploded back to full volume. "BUT HERE'S THE GOOD NEWS! IT DOESN'T MATTER THAT IT DOESN'T MATTER!"

The congregation erupted, because now he was sweating and pacing and fully entering that mysterious spiritual zone where a sermon becomes equal parts theology, motivational seminar, and wrestling promo.

"You know why? Because JESUS matters! Because grace matters! Because LOVE matters! Because if works are futile, then GRACE is EVERYTHING!"

The little storefront church shook with shouting.

The preacher grabbed a folding chair from beside the drum set, and Brother Clancy immediately looked alarmed — but instead of hitting anybody with it, the preacher sat down backward on it like every youth pastor from 1998.

"Ecclesiastes says enjoy your meal." He pointed toward the fellowship hall. "Eat the spaghetti. Enjoy your wife whom you love. Sharpen your tools so you don't have to work so hard. Diversify your investments."

One guy in the back whispered, "Now we're talking."

"Work hard. Laugh. Thank God. Love people. Stop pretending everything's gonna be hunky-dory this side of Glory."

Then he stood again, and his voice dropped to something almost gentle. "But if you're IN CHRIST… you already crossed from death into life. You died with Him. You were raised with Him. You've already got eternal life." He smiled. "So now? You're FREE TO ENJOY THE RIDE."

A long silence followed — the good kind, the kind that means something landed.

Then Sister Iphigenia rose slowly from the front pew. She adjusted her glasses, pointed one deliberate finger at the preacher, and in the gravelly voice of a woman who had survived six pastors, three church splits, two embezzlement scandals, and a raccoon infestation in the baptistry, she declared:

"CAN YOU SMELLLLLLLLLL…"

The entire church held its breath.

"…WHAT THE ROCK OF AGES IS COOKIN'?"

The place detonated. Teenagers screamed. Deacon Rufus slapped a tambourine against his knee so hard it bent. Brother Clancy nearly fell into the offering plates laughing. And somewhere outside, a confused pit bull barked into the Crittenden County night while the little storefront church shouted about grace, eternity, and the meaninglessness of everything except Christ.

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