mile down the road, he knows, the church parking lot is clogged with members. Traffic backs up onto Dayton Boulevard. Crosses dangle from rearview mirrors. Bibles slide on dashboards.

Matt, 78 now, with wrinkled knees and sagging cheeks, was once minister of education at the red-brick church. His babies grew up there. Stephen, his middle son, sang tenor in the choir. Vicki, their only girl, played in the youth softball league. Keith, the youngest, went to backyard Bible club.

Every Sunday for nearly three decades, Matt put on a crisp shirt and tie, trained Sunday school teachers and glad-handed newcomers. But it was more than that, more than just tradition.

From the Southern Baptist church he drew his purpose, his worth. The calling had come when he was in his early20s, fresh out of the Army.

But that all ended 17 years ago.

These days Matt watches recent reruns of Red Bank services on a television in his kitchen while his wife, Frances, putters around the house. Sometimes he'll move his lonely worship into his study and read through the Bible again. The only sound in the background is the dull hum of an air conditioner. On the wall, a hand-sketched portrait of Stephen reminds Matt of all that's gone. It hangs over him.

He carefully reads the red letters in the Word, the phrases Jesus spoke. Books like Leviticus, he skims.

Leviticus, with its hard words about abominations and detestable sin, just doesn't speak to him anymore.

***

There are more than a dozen churches along Dayton Boulevard, just a speck on the