The Church of Humanity was not what it once had been.  Where pews had once been full to over flowing, illuminated by stained glass proclaiming the diversity of the human race, now weak light fought through dusty windows on a few stragglers that seemed to occupy the space as much for warmth and diversion as piety. 

The truth was people had changed.  Cybernetic implants and genetic manipulation were no long considered unusual.  Most people had a flexible view of what made someone human.

'Most' was, of course, the operative word.  Some people clung to the old ways, the old prejudices.  And those people were the ones who still made it to the Church of Humanity every Sunday, listening to the fire and brimstone preacher.  His carefully coiffed wife sat flanked on either side by their son and daughter, whose imperfections had been preserved by parental fiat.  Jorge wore large glasses and Julia's crooked teeth had never been disciplined.  They were wholly and undeniably human, as were their parents.  So committed were the Pastor and his wife that when a staph infection ravaged the Pastor's heart, demanding new valves and a pace maker, the couple had staunchly refused.  The Pastor died, proud and defiant to the very end.

* * * *

Jorge was living a lie. Not just living, but preaching a lie.  He didn't hate the cybers or splicers.  In many ways he envied them.  He envied them their perfect vision, straight teeth, and parents living into their nineties, hundreds, and beyond.  After his father had died he'd been forced to take over the "family business".  He had his father's voice, his father's face, but not his father's heart.  It was a burden he'd never wanted or asked for. 

It was this man, broken and hopeless, that saw Moira Haggerty walk into his church.  At first blush she blended right in.  But her eyes were too blue.  Her smile was perfect in shape and shade. Her long sleeves and floor length skirt hid most of her enhancements, but their faint lines could be seen pressing through the fabric.  And she was beautiful.  So beautiful that Jorge had a hard time looking away. 

After the service he stood at the entrance as always, shaking hands and thanking everyone for their attendance.  Moira shook his hand and gave him a card.

"Do you think we could talk?  Maybe sometime this week?  I would like to do a piece about your church."

She offered no details beyond that and quickly departed.  But later he was able to get a closer look at the card.  It had her name and her occupation - Journalist. 

Now he was off balance.  He felt like a trap was about to be sprung on him and he was holding the trigger.  He didn't know what compelled him, but he called the number on the card, both scared and exhilarated. 

When the line was live he spoke first.  "Moira please?"

"This is she.  How can I help you?" She sounded so polite.  Almost harmless.  Not like someone who wanted to destroy him, his life, and his entire church. 

"This is Pastor Jorge Alexander.  You came to my church yesterday.  You said you were interested in doing a piece about the church?"

"Oh yes!  I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting you to call.  I would love to talk to you about your church and your dogma.  Can we set something up?  Meet somewhere, neutral ground."

"Um, sure, how about... Llewellyn's Pub?  Tomorrow at six in the evening?"

"It's a date," she said before hanging up.

A date.  He knew she didn't mean romantically.  But his heart jumped at the phrase.  It took all his effort to still it.

* * * *

Jorge arrived early. When Moira arrived and he waved to her, her face lit up.  Deep inside him, Jorge felt something similar happen.

She shook his hand before sitting down across from him.  She ordered a beer and started to set up recording equipment.  "You don't mind do you? It's all pretty standard.  If you want anything off the record I'll turn it off."

"No, I don't mind," Jorge assured her, though he felt his stomach lurch at the suggestion that he might reveal something he didn't want shared.

He eyed his drink warily, wondering if it was about to betray him.  Moira caught the glance.  "I wasn't sure you were allowed to come to places like this," she joked mildly.

He smiled.  "Yeah, bars aren't a problem.  Just operating rooms."

She laughed at that.  He was completely entranced by her laugh.  It may have been the ugliest thing about her.  It was a loud guffaw, dumb and flat and completely unlike the rest of her.  He loved it, her ugly, stupid laugh.  He resolved to make her laugh again.

"So what's the basis behind your religion?  It's  Christian, but most denominations don't have any problems with enhancements.  Even the Pope has a cybernetic eye."

"I guess that's why I'm not Catholic," he smiled wryly.  "The Bible says we're made in God's image.  So we just can't imagine anything man made improving it."

"People aren't perfect.  If we're made it God's image, it's a rather poor likeness.  Take me, for instance.  I got my first splices in utero when my parents discovered I had a birth defect.  You think I was damned before I even took my first breath?"

Jorge shifted uncomfortably in his seat.  It wasn't that he hadn't realized there were cases like Moira's.  He'd just never had to face one before. "You can always be saved, whatever you've done or has been done to you."

"And how would I redeem myself?  Tear off my cybernetic arms?"

"The Bible says that if your left hand causes you to sin you should cut it off."

Moira's eyebrows rose but she remained quiet for a moment.  "So you would expect your followers to obey such commandments.  To swear off enhancements, even if it meant their life."

Jorge didn't expect anything of anyone.  He opened his mouth to say something but words failed him.  Moira could see it.  So she did him a kindness.  "Why don't we finish our beers and talk about something else?  We can always finish the interview another time."

Jorge could only nod. 

* * * *

Jorge had been everything Moira had hoped for.  She could feel the crisis of faith boiling under the surface of Jorge's skin. 

And yet her perfect sense of a story just waiting to be told had failed her.  When she should have pushed him she backed off.  Not once, but every time.  They met again and again.  She was supposed to be interviewing him.  But he asked as many questions as she did.  Her editor was beginning to get suspicious.  To be honest, so was she. 

"Can I make a confession?" She asked one night.

"I'm not that kind of preacher."

She laughed.  That priceless laugh that Jorge loved so much.  And then he laughed too.  And the next thing they knew they were both laughing hysterically though neither knew why.  Finally when they could both breath again Moira took a deep breath, averted her gaze and bared her soul.

"I think I'm falling in love with you." It was barely more than a whisper but the words rang in Jorge's ears.

It was the worst time possible for him to be struck speechless.  Before he could recover Moira had collected her things and run out of the pub.

* * * *

Jorge's mother had prepared his sermon as usual, but when he saw Moira in the crowd - her eyes cast down, her face long and drawn - he threw it away. 

"Saint Paul once said that when I was a child I indulged in childish things, but when I became a man I put childish things away.  For too long, I've avoided putting away childish things because it was inconvenient or uncomfortable.  Like the idea that our connection to God could ever be severed by something as trivial as a cybernetic enhancement or that we should deprive ourselves of something as vital as genetic splicing if it could save a life.  Are we so proud that we don't think God could find us behind a few meager additions?  Is our hubris so profound we think we are literally perfect?  I, for one, do not.  And I have not for a very long time.  But it took the love and acceptance of a very special person to help me find my voice.  In the coming days our church will change - maybe merely by my absence, but then again maybe in much more profound ways.  That lies with you to decide.  But I, for one, will no longer be preaching the Gospel of Humanity, unless it also be the Gospel of Inclusion.  For we are all God's Children."

When his speech was over he finally brought himself to look at Moira.  She had tears in her eyes and was laughing her special laugh.  She had finally pushed him as far as he needed to go.