Commemoration of St. Ambrose: An Excerpt from WARRIOR MONK

On the Commemoration of St. Ambrose of Milan (December 6), an excerpt from WARRIOR MONK: A PASTOR STEPHEN GRANT NOVEL. A good deal of the story in this thriller takes place at the St. Ambrose Retreat House on Long Island…

Stephen could, well, feel it. He wondered when the last time such unity existed among so many Christian leaders gathered in one place.

And this nearly euphoric feeling continued throughout the pope’s historic press conference. The questions, though politely put, reflected the usual ignorance and bias Grant had come to expect from so much of the media. 

Theocracy? 

Imposing your religious views on others?

Doesn’t the church have enough problems of its own? 

Given the Crusades, Inquisition and pedophilia scandals, why should anyone listen? 

And so on.

But this pope – no, Stephen reflected – this man, flawed and sinful like any of us, answered each question calmly, thoughtfully, and with disarming kindness. And with a mix of principle, faith and humor, Pope Augustine gained a kind of attentiveness among members of the media that few, if any, in public life could have even hoped for, and many politicians would have killed for. Congressman Ted Brees came to Stephen’s mind.

Grant was now following the pope, his aides and security entourage up the staircase in the castle’s main lobby.

Augustine stopped at the statue of St. Ambrose, and gazed at it. As this continued for several seconds, a silence descended in the large chamber. The pope said, “He was interesting, St. Ambrose. During a tumultuous time of disagreement in the latter part of the fourth century, he tried to keep peace among Christians in Milan. And he was not even baptized when clergy and the people called for him to become the bishop. He did not want the job, but finally acquiesced, was baptized, and eight days later became the bishop. He would be one of the great Latin Doctors of the Church. And as we talk about the Church’s role in the public arena now, it is worth recalling that Ambrose previously was a lawyer and politician who came to be a powerful voice in the Church for celibacy and voluntary poverty. If that happened today, few, I think, would doubt the transformative power of faith in our Lord.” The pope smiled, and most everyone else joined in with his infectious laugh.

  

“Vatican Shadows” is the New Riveting Read from Award-Winning Novelist Ray Keating

 Facing Threats and Murder, a Pope Calls on a Lutheran Pastor and Former CIA Operative for Help

 

Long Island, NY – Ray Keating returns with his latest page-turning thriller titled Vatican Shadows: A Pastor Stephen Grant Novel. 

More than 500 years ago, two men – Jan Hus and Martin Luther – tried to bring about change in the Catholic Church. They suffered, with one burned at the stake. Could a modern-day pope transform these reformers from heretics to heroes in the eyes of the Catholic Church? Shadowy figures inside and outside the Vatican oppose Pope Paul VII’s efforts, and stand willing to do anything to stop him. For help, the pope turns to Stephen Grant, a Lutheran pastor, former Navy SEAL and onetime CIA operative. 

 

The action is intense and unrelenting. The characters and relationships are captivating and filled with complexity, commitment and betrayal. The twists and turns are fun. The dialogue is lively. And the story serves up reflections about faith, love, conflict, history, and friendship that are thought-provoking. 

 

Ray Keating said, “First and foremost, I hope readers – whether they be longtime or new Pastor Grant readers – enjoy Vatican Shadows as a page-turning thriller. In addition, I think Vatican Shadows could serve as an ideal book for all kinds of book clubs and discussion groups.”

 

Paperbacks and the Kindle edition of Vatican Shadows: A Pastor Stephen Grant Novel are at Amazon via https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08P1S5R26 and signed books are at https://raykeatingonline.com/products/vaticanshadows.  

 

About Keating and his Pastor Stephen Grant thrillers and mysteries, Kirkus Reviews simply says “exhilarating.” Lutheran Book Review says, “I miss Tom Clancy. Keating fills that void for me.” The retired host of KFUO radio’s BookTalk declares, “Ray Keating is a great novelist.” David Keene of The Washington Times calls these novels “great reads.”  And another reviewer observes, “How I'd love to see Pastor Grant on Netflix!”

 

Keating’s previous Pastor Stephen Grant thrillers/mysteries – The Traitor (2019), Deep Rough (2019), Shifting Sands (2018), Heroes and Villains (2018), Reagan Country (2018), Lionhearts (2017), Wine Into Water (2016), Murderer’s Row (2015), The River (2014), An Advent For Religious Liberty (2012), Root of All Evil? (Second Edition 2020), and Warrior Monk (Second Edition 2019) – have received widespread praise from all kinds of readers. 

 

Review copies, and author interviews and appearances are available upon request. 

 

Contact: Ray Keating

E-mail: raykeating@keatingreports.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/PastorStephenGrantNovels

Twitter: @KeatingNovels

PastorStephenGrant.com

RayKeatingOnline.com

Talking James Bond with the Mid-Modcasters

 I was fortunate to be a guest on The Mid-Modcast Podcast with Craig, Paula and Dave to chat about James Bond. This episode was recorded before we lost Sean Connery, and was posted today. I had a swell time being on with the Mid-Modcasters to talk cool spy stuff. Hope you have a terrific time tuning in!

Hey! For Less Than 6 Bucks Enjoy the Weekend with a Great Read!

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New thumbs-up review of THE TRAITOR from Kirkus Reviews

On THE TRAITOR, Kirkus Reviews says, 

“A clergyman of action tries to capture a former U.S. government agent on the run in this latest installment of a thriller series… Keating, the author of Deep Rough (2019), delivers a relatively brief adventure, but as in the author’s earlier books, it’s a swiftly paced one... Exciting, tightly written action scenes comprise the final act, but there’s humor sprinkled throughout the narrative, as well... Keating’s series is often grim, but this installment seems a bit darker than others, featuring a particularly violent death and a surprisingly bleak moment involving a series regular. A short but kinetic tale featuring a consistently entertaining hero.”

Grab the Kindle or paperback editions at https://www.amazon.com/dp/1709209771

Perfect Reading for Postseason Baseball – Excerpt from MURDERER’S ROW: A PASTOR STEPHEN GRANT NOVEL

 

Prologue

 

 

Casey Granger peered at two fingers just over 60 feet and six inches away. Ty Beachamp called for the hook. 

Granger nodded, and offered the faintest of smiles that few would have noticed.

Beachamp shifted his crouch behind home plate slightly to his left, moving away from the left-handed batter.

With his glove just inches from his face, Granger set a curveball grip on the cowhide with his left hand. He pivoted on the rubber while kicking his right leg in the air, and pushed forward off his left leg and let the baseball go.

The 89-mile-per-hour rotating white sphere seemed headed for the batter’s head. In 0.45 seconds, the man in the batter’s box leaned back as his knees buckled, while the pitch broke down and across the plate. It snapped into Beachamp’s mitt, and the umpire called, “Strike three!”

As the batter turned and headed back to the bench shaking his head, Beachamp pointed at Granger approvingly, and then fired the ball down to the third baseman.

As the ball was tossed to the shortstop, the second baseman, and back to third, a rumble erupted from the darkening, late-afternoon July sky.

Granger looked at third baseman Brodie Blue, and said, “Come on, you’ve got to be kidding.”

Blue tossed Granger the ball, and said, “Don’t worry about it, Casey. Stay focused.”

Granger took a deep breath. “Right.”

Brodie smiled broadly and tugged on his cap, which featured the team logo of a king’s crown sitting on a surfboard riding a wave.

But before Granger could return to the mound, another rumble in the sky unleashed a torrent of water in the form of large raindrops falling in unrelenting sheets.

After five-and-one-third innings of pitching perfect baseball, Granger’s shoulders slumped ever so slightly as the home plate umpire took off his mask and waved his arms, indicating a delay in the game and signaling that the grounds crew should roll out the tarp.

Members of the South Shore Surf Kings sprinted off the field. The 1,350 fans remained in place, shielded by a metal roof.

Since the grounds crew consisted of only three people, Surf Kings’ manager Sam “Salty” Waters, coach Johnny Garcia, and two players – Brodie Blue and Jackson Quick – joined the unrolling and unfurling process of the tarp.

While pushing the long tube from foul territory and across the first and second base side of the field, Quick’s feet periodically shifted and turned due to unevenness in the tarp, almost tripping once. He glanced down, but kept on pushing.

Once unrolled, the seven men ran to grab handles on the cover, in order to unfold and pull it across the rest of the infield as the rain actually managed to intensify.

They moved quickly and in unison amidst the large raindrops. None of the men took note of the bumps in the tarp as they pulled.

While the seven forged ahead, the sources of the bumps in the tarp were exposed. 

Eyes focused on the third base line, the men continued tugging.

But then screams and shouts could be heard over the rain pelting the tarp. Jackson Quick and one of the official members of the grounds crew looked back first. They immediately stopped, and dropped the tarp handles as their mouths fell open.

Waters, Blue, Garcia and the other grounds workers then stopped and turned.

The Surf Kings’ manager, followed closely by Quick, stepped onto the tarp and approached the items now uncovered. As he slowly advanced, Waters managed to utter, “What the hell?”

Quick blessed himself, and whispered, “Jesus.”

Blood-crusted parts of a human body – portions of legs and arms, a torso and a head – were strewn across the tarp.

Pastor Stephen Grant had risen from his seat next to the Kings’ bench. As he looked out on what had unfolded, Grant said, “Dear Lord, please, not another one.”

 

Book Excerpt from The River: A Pastor Stephen Grant Novel by Ray Keating

 

Chapter 6

 

 

The taxi ride from McCarran International Airport to The Twenties was less than eight miles. It took a few minutes longer than normal, though, as Jennifer asked the driver to take the Strip – or Las Vegas Boulevard South – rather than scooting along the Las Vegas Freeway.

As they drove past the landmark “Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas Nevada” sign, Jennifer squeezed Stephen’s hand. “I love that sign.”

Stephen was a bit surprised. “Really?”

“It’s one of the very few things around here that hasn’t changed since I was a kid.”

“Isn’t Vegas all about change, my economist wife?”

She nodded. “The change here just since I was growing up is incredible. I don’t think people from many other parts of the country fully get it. But when you live it, it’s actually kind of natural. In fact, living it was one of the things that led me into economics.” She turned from her husband, and looked out the window. “Still, no one ever said change was always easy.”

Stephen joined Jennifer in looking out at casinos and hotels of wildly different shapes and sizes – from the Luxor’s Great Sphinx and pyramid to the MGM Grand’s golden lion, along with the “Eiffel Tower Experience” at Paris Las Vegas. While Stephen had been to Las Vegas a few times, the last visit had come more than fifteen years ago – long predating Jennifer, his becoming a pastor, and a chunk of what he was now seeing. 

Stephen turned to Jennifer. “Can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

“I’ve never been able to fully fit you and Las Vegas together. And now that you and I are here, I still really can’t.”

Jennifer smiled. “There’s more to Vegas than the Strip and gambling. While I was growing up, even with my father in the casino business, my parents, especially my mom, tried to keep me away from much of it. Many people here have little to do with gambling, and only wind up on the Strip when giving the tour to relatives visiting from out of town. At the same time, though, it’s hard not to be influenced. So much of recreational and cultural life occurs at or around the casinos. And let’s face it, few would be here without gambling. But all in all, my childhood was pretty normal, at least until I hit late high school.”

“I know…”

“And there’s still a good deal of Las Vegas in this girl of yours.” She leaned over and kissed him. “That includes some Vegas heat.”

“One of my favorite parts.”

The taxi pulled up to the front doors of The Twenties Club and Casino. The massive building was an amalgamation of 1920s-era architecture. At the street level, the building offered large, two-story arches, red brick, and clear windows. Above the arches, a huge retro-neon sign proclaimed “The Twenties Club and Casino.” As one’s eyes ascended further, the red brick gave way to an art-deco look, with stainless steel, chrome, and stained glass arranged in symmetrical, geometric forms. Crowning the top of the building was a replica of the upper floors and spear of New York City’s Chrysler Building.

The door of the taxi was opened by a young man dressed in a burgundy, white-striped blazer, white oxford shirt with a blue bow tie, pleated, ivory trousers, and white buck wingtips. “Welcome to The Twenties,” he announced with a smile.

After Jennifer and Stephen got out of the taxi, Lou Hammett stepped forward, and said, “Pastor and Dr. Grant, I’m so pleased to meet you. I’m Lou Hammett, the executive director here at The Twenties.” After exchanging quick pleasantries, Hammett turned and gave instructions to his staff to take care of the Grants’ luggage.

Following Hammett down the stairs was Dixon Shaw. “Jenny, I’m so happy to see you.”

As Shaw gave Jennifer a hug, Stephen could see his wife tense up. He also heard the unease in her voice, when she said, “Hi, Dad, how are you?”

Stephen understood how out of character this was. It was the most rare of occasions when Jennifer failed to be engaging and welcoming. She was adept at making others feel at ease. Watching Dixon Shaw, Stephen actually saw the same traits in her father. I guess you’d need that running a casino.

Jennifer’s father turned to Stephen, “Pastor, it’s about time we met face to face.”

Stephen said, “Mr. Shaw, it’s a pleasure…”

Shaw interrupted with a laugh. “‘Mr. Shaw’? Come on. It’s Dix.”

“Of course, Dix, and it’s Stephen.”

Shaw replied, “If you don’t mind, can I stick with ‘Pastor’? It makes me feel better when I worry about my Jenny, knowing that she is being taken care of not only by a man of the cloth, but one who knows how to handle himself in a time of danger.” Stephen knew that Dix was referring to the shooting that occurred at St. Mary’s before Jen and Stephen were married. Dix lowered his voice. “And former CIA to boot. You sure as hell are a vast improvement over that asshole politician Ted Brees. How did that sleazy bastard become a U.S. senator? But then again, it’s politics, right? After I found out what he did, I was going to…”

Jennifer, with a hint of daughter-like scolding in her voice, said, “Dad, please.”

Stephen pondered what Dixon Shaw might do to Ted Brees, and part of him was okay with it. He also picked up the slight shrug of the shoulders and pleading eyes directed his way by Jennifer.

Shaw’s smile broadened a bit more. “Sorry, Jenny.”

Stephen saw Dix enjoying his daughter, and thought it appeared genuine. Stephen even picked up a bit of tension draining from Jennifer.

A small, gentle clearing of the throat came from behind Shaw.

He turned, “Baby, I’m so sorry.” He took Candy Welles’ hand and brought her forward. “Jenny and Pastor, this is Candy Welles, the beautiful light in my life.”

Stephen extended his hand. “Of course, we’ve met Ms. Welles before. It’s good to see you.”

Jennifer seemed taken off guard. “Well, yes, hello, Ms. Welles.”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me,” Candy replied.

“As the flight attendant on Dix’s Casino Beach jet on our wedding night, it would be hard to forget,” answered Stephen.

“You certainly had more interesting things to be focused on that night, but that’s so nice. And please, call me Candy. It’s like we’re almost family.”

Jennifer replied, “Um, family? Yes, well, Candy it is.”

Dix added, “It was shortly after that flight that we started seeing each other.”

Jennifer observed, “How nice.”

Stephen could see Jennifer’s emotional conflict. Move things in a different direction, Grant, and quickly. He looked around, and said, “The Twenties looks like an intriguing resort.”

As he slid his arm around Candy’s waist, Dix replied, “I’m very proud of it, and of the work being done by Lou. How about a quick tour, then you two can settle in a bit and we’ll have dinner later?” Looking at Stephen, Dix added, “I thought you could meet my business partners.” 

“That sounds great to me,” answered Stephen. “How about you, Jen?”

She answered slowly, “Yes, of course. But I already know Nicky and Chet.”

Dix commented, “But you’ve never seen The Twenties, have you, Jenny?”

“No, Dad, I haven’t.”

Dix nodded at Hammett, who was standing off to the side. “Lou, give us the grand tour.”

“Yes, sir, Dix,” said Hammett. He signaled over a waitress, who was wearing a short flapper dress with sequins and dangling fringes, a long strand of pearls, bobbed hair, and a cloche hat. She presented a tray of champagne flutes. Jennifer was the first to take a glass, followed by Candy, Stephen and Dix.

Dix toasted the arrival of his daughter and son-in-law, and they all took a sip of the 1995 Krug Clos d’Ambonnay.

As the small group turned to follow Lou, Jennifer whispered in Stephen’s ear, “I’ll be needing a few more of these, I think.”

Lou, along with Dix and Candy, took Stephen and Jennifer on a nearly hour-long stroll throughout the massive hotel, including the Speakeasy Lounge that featured various musical and comedy acts. The Round Table was the resort’s top-tiered restaurant, fashioned after and saluting The Algonquin Round Table of Dorothy Parker fame. Harlem Jazz served up some of the best music in all of Vegas. The two casinos in the building had different personalities – Prohibition sought to capture a 1920s Chicago feel, while the Miami Deal served up palm trees and a large windmill in the middle of the room as a tip to the Roman Pools & Casino of 1920s Miami. The tour went on to include pools, dozens of shops, a spa and salon, fitness center, art gallery, and a small arena.

The tour ended at the door of the suite that Dix insisted Stephen and Jennifer stay in as his guests.

In response to protests from both Jennifer and Stephen, Dix declared, “A beautiful suite for a few days, as my guests, is the very least that this negligent father, not to mention negligent father-in-law, can do.” 

He kissed Jennifer on the cheek, slapped Stephen on the back, took Candy’s hand, and walked away. 

While heading down the hall, Dix said over his shoulder, “We’ll see you at dinner. Nine o’clock in the Speakeasy.”

 

Book Excerpt from "An Advent for Religious Liberty: A Pastor Stephen Grant Novel" by Ray Keating

Prologue

The Grand Ballroom of the Waldorf Astoria on Park Avenue crackled with the energy of political euphoria.

Supporters of Adam Pritchett were celebrating what appeared to be a victory of historic proportions in the New York City mayoral race. Expensive champagne flowed among the two-thousand-plus revelers in the elegant four-story, two-tiered room. Money wasn’t really an issue for Pritchett, and by extension, for his campaign. Nothing could derail what had come to be known as the “Pritchett Juggernaut.”

Or, at least, that’s how it seemed to everyone in the room, including campaign staff, donors, volunteers, Democratic Party officials, and even the media.

Pritchett ran one of the most unorthodox and expensive mayoral campaigns in New York’s history – and that was saying something. He spent a prodigious amount of dollars on all kinds of political advertising, including television, radio, Internet and social media, newspapers and magazines, direct mail, billboards and seemingly every other paid advertising outlet. 

At the same time, Pritchett completely ignored the media. He failed to do even one interview during the race, did not hold any press conferences, refused to participate in debates, and ignored questions shouted by reporters at campaign stops.

Pritchett, whose net worth topped the $280 million mark, built his wealth as one of New York’s leading commercial real estate developers. The man’s confidence in his own abilities was legendary in New York business circles, and when he decided to jump into politics by running for mayor, his arrogance only seemed to grow. Pritchett simply hired the best political advertising people in the nation, brought on a few political consultants willing to carry out his wishes with few questions, and saturated the largest and most expensive media market in the nation, perhaps the world, with his message.

That message was simple. Pritchett would bring crime, which had spiked over the past couple of years, back under control. He pledged to make sure that every city government job and program was protected, and the budget for public schools would rise. He was more than willing to jack up taxes on “my fellow wealthy residents who receive so much from this great city.”

The unions loved him, as did the rest of the Democratic Party. After all, what wasn’t there to love in a place like New York City? Pritchett was willing to spend his own money to get elected, and spend other people’s money to expand government and fight crime, all while hiking taxes on the rich, of which he was a member. He was a liberal dream.

Pritchett’s opponent didn’t stand a chance. 

The polls had closed a mere twenty minutes ago. The crushed Republican, Robert Nesci, already finished his concession speech. Now, the Pritchett faithful drank, danced and chanted their man’s name. They grew ever more excited, with anticipation mounting for Pritchett’s victory speech.

The only group in the room uniformly unenthused was the media. Despite the fact that they overwhelmingly subscribed to the same party affiliation and policy ideas as Pritchett, these reporters and commentators uniformly hated the guy for his arrogance and, more importantly, his cutting the media out of his campaign. It didn’t matter if they agreed with his agenda or not, access denied was unacceptable. But they looked beaten, resigned to being on the outside looking in for the coming four years.

Just outside the ballroom, Pritchett buttoned his dark blue suit jacket, looked at a key aide, Maureen Donahue, and said, “Well, Maureen, ready to make history?”

She responded, “You’ve already done that, sir.”

“You’re right. But let’s go make some more.” 

Donahue spoke into a cellphone. “Mayor-elect Pritchett is ready. He will be entering in a few seconds.” The 30-year-old Donahue had a soothing voice, bright blue eyes, round face, easy smile, and shoulder length blond hair that combined in a way so that people seemed to automatically like her, and were willing to get things done for her.

Donahue waited about ten seconds, and then pointed to and smiled at a member of Pritchett’s security team, signaling him to open the doors.

The security team formed a wedge in front of Pritchett, with Donahue and two other campaign officials trailing behind.

As Frank Sinatra belted out “New York, New York” amidst applause and shouts of approval, a spotlight focused on the smiling, waving Adam Pritchett. He didn’t look the part of a powerful politician, nor business tycoon, for that matter. Pritchett was short and thin with messy, grayish hair, a pointed, pinched nose, and a nasally voice. He wore thick, square glasses, and somehow, his expensive, tailored suits never seemed to hang right on his body. The entire package combined to make him appear older than his 52 years.

At the podium, Pritchett eventually calmed the faithful long enough to begin his speech. Beyond the generic thank you to voters, his campaign staff and volunteers, Pritchett’s comments were noteworthy for their lack of generosity toward anyone. 

While acknowledging his opponent’s concession speech, Pritchett took a moment to point out, once more, just how wrong Nesci had been on the issues. There also was no use of the word “we” when talking about the campaign or his upcoming administration. Instead, it was “I” and “me.”

But few of Pritchett’s supporters seemed to notice or care.

Then he came to crime. Pritchett said, “And make no mistake, I will make sure that our city is retaken from criminals, that every man, woman and child, every resident, commuter and visitor, will again be safe in this leading global city.”

The crowd erupted once more. A chant of “Pritchett, Pritchett” began and grew ever louder.

After nearly a minute, Pritchett lowered the volume of the crowd.

He began to speak again. “So, as your mayor…”

But a woman’s voice rang out from the floor in front of Pritchett’s podium. She yelled, “God bless you, Adam. We’re praying for you!”

While many in the room responded with hoots of approval, Pritchett’s face instantly transformed from victorious joy to controlled anger.

He pointed in the direction from where the call for blessings and prayers came, and said, “No! No, thank you. I don’t want prayers. I don’t want any god’s blessing. I don’t need it, and New York City certainly does not need it. And let’s be clear, New York does not need religion in the public arena. So, save any talk of prayer for the pews and your private lives. Let’s move away from such nonsense, and get back to the real world and real issues.”

Several individuals cheered Pritchett’s comments, including enthusiastic clapping from two of his three top campaign aides. Some of the Pritchett faithful half-heartedly applauded. But many in the room seemed bewildered, not sure how to react. That included Maureen Donahue.

Why Join the Pastor Stephen Grant Fellowship? Find Out Right Now!

Here's the latest on joining the Pastor Stephen Grant Fellowship. If you enjoy Ray Keating's Pastor Stephen Grant thrillers and mysteries, then consider joining the fellowship. A new option is to join at the Book of the Month Club level - it's a great deal. For more information go to https://www.patreon.com/pastorstephengrantfellowship

Excerpt from ROOT OF ALL EVIL? A PASTOR STEPHEN GRANT NOVEL by Ray Keating

On the Church calendar, August 24 marks the day we celebrate St. Bartholomew, the Apostle. In the Pastor Stephen Grant thrillers and mysteries, Father Tom Stone is the rector at St. Bartholomew’s Anglican Church on Long Island. For good measure, as the days pass in August and we head into September, we hear more about schools and education. The following chapter is an excerpt from ROOT OF ALL EVIL? A PASTOR STEPHEN GRANT NOVEL. The reader gets a feel for Father Stone, a bit about St. Bart’s, and we are introduced to Mike Vanacore and how education works into the story. Oh, yeah, and surfing.

Enjoy, and read the entire book by getting the paperback or Kindle edition at Amazon.com, or order a signed book. Thanks!

Chapter 22

Part of Mike Vanacore’s story seemed to be a replay of others’ in the computer, digital, broadband economy.

The thirty-two-year-old billionaire fell in love with electronics and computers while growing up in Hawthorne, California, which happened to be the Beach Boys’ hometown. Vanacore’s hard-working parents supported his interests and talents as best they could, and rejoiced when his excellent grades in high school, particularly in math and science, earned him a full ride to the School of Engineering at Stanford University.

Since they were intense gamers, Vanacore and two college friends decided to do more than complain about the shortcomings of various video games. By their sophomore year, they were consumed by creating their own video games, and managed to generate some buzz. Vanacore’s buddies, however, moved on under parental pressure when grades slipped badly.

But Vanacore had little trouble maintaining high marks, while at the same time creating a video game business.

He found a couple of angel investors to provide start-up capital, and by his senior year, Corevana Entertainment had grown to more than 100 employees, and $30 million in sales.

But rather than dropping out to focus exclusively on his firm, as other young tech turks had done, Vanacore finished his degree. After graduation, Corevana’s growth only accelerated, and its initial public offering made Mike Vanacore a billionaire at the age of 26.

Along the way, Vanacore became known in various circles for maintaining his Christian faith taught to him growing up. Compared to some of his fellow tech nerds, who earned reputations for power trips and/or wild parties that came with newfound wealth, Vanacore was highlighted now and then in the business media for being, well, Christian. 

As the U.S. Episcopal Church wandered away from the traditional Episcopal parish of his childhood, Vanacore actually spoke out. Some in the Episcopal Church took notice given his wealth and youth, but he was quickly discounted as just another “conservative” who refused to change with the culture. Some noted the irony of such criticisms given how he made his fortune.

When Vanacore decided to buy a home across the country on Long Island as an occasional escape from his California-based business, he stumbled upon St. Bart’s one Sunday. He apparently fell in love with the beautiful, castle-like stone church set on four lakeside acres in Eastport, and most importantly, with what was being taught and preached in the building. When the parish decided to leave the Episcopal Church, eventually joining the Anglican Church in North America, it was Vanacore who ponied up a majority of the funds needed to purchase St. Bart’s property from the local Episcopal diocese.

Vanacore was now expanding his charitable giving into primary and secondary education. His plan was to use his wealth to make substantive changes in individual local public schools, that is, in the kind of school he attended.

But his parish priest, Father Tom Stone, was about to ask Vanacore to listen to an alternative.

On the way out of Mass on Saturday night, Stone asked Vanacore if he had a little time to talk.

Ten minutes later, they were seated in Stone’s office, talking across the priest’s unique redwood, surfboard-shaped desk. A friend and parishioner had the desk specially made as a gift, given Stone’s off-duty love of wearing Hawaiian shirts, and his high school and college years spent living and surfing in southern California.

In fact, though about 20 years apart, Stone and Vanacore shared more than a common faith, but also a southern California connection.

Vanacore ran his right hand along the front of the desk. “As I said before, you have the best desk ever. A surfboard. Love it.”

“It was a gift from Clint Gullett. Handmade. It’s a great reminder of my California days. I’m sure he’d be glad to let you know who makes them,” replied Stone.

“I’ll ask him. So, when was the last time you hit the surf?”

Stone laughed. “It’s been at least, what, 25 years.”

Vanacore slipped into a mock surfer voice, and declared, “Dude, we have to remedy that.”

With his thin, tall frame, topped off by thick blond hair, and Clark Kent glasses, it was easy to see Vanacore moving comfortably in either the video gaming or surfing communities.

The young billionaire continued, “But I’m sure you didn’t ask me to stop by to talk about surfing.”

Stone replied, “No. Ever since you told me about the education foundation you’re starting up, something has been nagging at me. But I was not sure if it was my place to say anything, and then I got a call this morning.”

“Tom, you know I’m open to hearing your ideas and thoughts on anything, and considering that you’re a priest, and therefore, you teach people, I’d love to hear what’s on your mind.”

“I appreciate that. I know your focus is on targeting and helping select public schools.”

“Right.”

“Have you thought about supporting parochial schools instead, or as well?’

Vanacore paused. “Well, not really. I went to public schools growing up, and that’s kind of guided my thinking on this.”

“I can understand that. But given what you’ve told me about your childhood and your parents, do you think they would have sent you to a Christian school if they could have afforded it?”

“Actually, I have no doubt about that. I remember overhearing them talking about it late into the night at the kitchen table, and regretting they couldn’t afford it.”

“Today, it’s even tougher. Most families simply can’t take on the added cost of a religious education for their kids.”

“Like my parents. I understand that. But does it matter? I went to public school, and it was my parents, our priest and parish that kept me in the faith.”

“I’d say you were very lucky then. Given the state of our culture, it’s not easy to keep kids strong and active in the faith. Listen, Maggie and I have sent all our children to parochial school, and they obviously have gotten an up-close-and-personal church experience growing up as well. But when you consider the impact that schools have on children, just given the time spent in school and what’s being taught, there is that possibility of what’s being taught at home getting undermined in school. We only saw the upside in sending the kids to parochial school.”

“Yeah, that used to drive my parents nuts. My father complained about having to undo what was being done in school at times.”

“Now think about how many parents don’t even know what’s going on and being taught in school, or when they do know, not having the confidence to take it on, like your father did.”

Vanacore took his glasses off, and chewed on one of its arms. After a few seconds, he put the glasses back on his face. “Okay, Tom, you make a good case. What more were you thinking? What was the call about that stirred you to set up this little meeting?”

“As you know, the school that Maggie and I sent the kids to, and still send one, is St. Luke’s Catholic School. It’s been a tremendous blessing. And by the way, make no mistake, you can send your children to what you think is a faithful, traditional Christian school, and even then it unfortunately can turn out to be something different. But that most certainly has not been the case with St. Luke’s.”

“Well, that’s good.”

“Absolutely. However, there is a lot of uncertainty about the school’s future, given recent closings of Catholic schools. I’m not asking this because of my family’s link, but because St. Luke’s is a great place and it’s in the midst of planning how to grow and secure its future. I thought it would be an ideal opportunity for you to talk to the people who run a quality parochial school, see what the school offers, and consider the challenges it faces.” Stone paused. “I can set up a meeting or meetings with Father Burns and Father McDermott, the principal, Mrs. Fleming, staff, parents, whatever. What do you think?”

“I would love to meet with the people at St. Luke’s.”

“That’s great. Shall I set it up?”

Vanacore smiled. “Yes, but on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“Before the end of the year, you have to promise to come out to my place in California and go surfing. The entire family is invited, and you’ll fly on my jet.”

“Mike, that’s really nice, but I …”

“No ‘buts,’ Tom. Either you promise to get back on the board at my place, or no deal on meeting with St. Luke’s.”

It was Stone’s turn to smile. “You drive a hard bargain, Mike. Take a free trip to surf in California, or else? What can I say, but yes, and thanks?”

“It’ll be sick.”

After Mike left, Tom called a friend for a little guidance on the economics of education.