Ordained Irreverence

by McMillian Moody

  Our little conversation came to an abrupt close as we were summoned to the middle of the room. Time for the program to begin. The leadership team had placed thirty chairs in a circle. Uh oh. Kumbaya time? Thankfully, I discovered this group was more hip than that. Although we did start off by going around the circle and introducing ourselves. Each person had to share one significant thing about themselves. Swell.

  First up was Art. He worked for UPS and collected Elvis memorabilia. Next came Jerry, a stockbroker who sang in the church choir. Cyndi worked as a loan officer and loved to cook. (It showed.) Debbie was a graphic artist and the reigning state Scrabble champion. (I was at a loss for words.) Nicholas was an anesthesiologist and amateur golfer. We continued around the circle—David, Judy, Ernie, and several others whose names I’ve already forgotten. Your typical group of church singles, some enjoying the group friendship, others looking for potential dates, most pretty lonely.

  Over the next six months, many of these people would become my dear friends.

  There’s a unique bond that forms in a young singles group. Many of the members are separated from their families by distance, so the group becomes their surrogate family. This type of group is fluid, always changing as new members arrive and existing members either move away or marry. The dynamics of a young singles group are different than, say, a college group where everyone is pushing toward a degree or career. In a young singles group, most of the members are already established in life. They’re just looking for fun, friends, and maybe some romance along the way.

  We played a few of the regular group games, watched a Best of Saturday Night Live DVD from the ‘70s, then it was food time.

  Most everyone had brought a dish for the potluck supper. I had prepared my famous Elmo Surprise:

  One box macaroni and cheese (the cheapest you can find)

  One can of chili with beans (store brand is fine)

  One packet grated cheddar cheese (mild)

  One small package sliced pepperoni

  Instructions: Cook the macaroni and cheese per box instructions and leave in pan. Add the chili and stir until mixed well and heated thoroughly. Pour into an 8-x-8 Pyrex dish and cover with grated cheese, and then a layer of pepperoni. Bake in oven at 350° for 20 minutes. Voila!

  Well, I like it. And therein lies the problem with a singles potluck dinner. Most singles are fast food junkies, some never cook. Which means we end up with about twenty casserole dishes, some of which are virtually unrecognizable. Personal favorites, I assume. I chose a healthy portion of Elmo’s Surprise, some chips (sans guacamole), the always reliable refried beans, jello, and a Fresca. The person responsible for bringing the drinks brought only Fresca. And he wonders why he’s still single?

  Finding an empty chair, I sat down with my gourmet meal. To my utter astonishment, Bonnie took the seat next to me. Juliann had exited earlier, so Bonnie was alone. I noticed she wasn’t eating.

  “Couldn’t find anything at the Buffet Ole’ that motivated your taste buds?” I joked.

  “I’m not much for potlucks. I’m pretty finicky when it comes to what I eat.” She surveyed my plate.

  I took one more bite then set my plate aside. It was just too weird having someone I hardly knew sitting there watching me eat.

  “So tell me, Bonnie. How long have you been working here at First Church?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Two or three years, I guess. I started out as the church receptionist, then Louis asked me to come be his secretary. The pay was better, so I accepted the invitation. I’ve been the Singles ministry secretary for going on two years now.”

  “Are you from around here?

  “No, I grew up in a little town in South Carolina. I moved here to attend Bargston College. I graduated with a degree in English Literature four years ago. My plan was to work a few years and save up the money to go back for my masters. The only problem is, I haven’t saved up any money, so here I am, a working class stiff at First Church.”

  I did the quick math in my head. If she graduated from college four years ago, that would make her around twenty-six years old. That was only about a year older than me. I could live with that.

  I continued probing. “How do you like working here at First Church?”

  She pondered my question for a moment. “It’s okay, I guess. Louis is a great boss, and I like working with the Singles ministry. But my dream is to teach and write. Someday, I want to write publishable American fiction and teach literature at a college like Bargston. What about you?”

  I decided to break Rule #1 and share my honest feelings with another staff member—albeit an attractive, single, female, interesting, staff member. “At the risk of sounding too pious, I have a sincere desire to serve God with my life, and I’m not yet sure how to do that. I have mixed feelings about working in the church. When I first accepted this internship, it was all about making career contacts and getting an upgrade on my resume. But now it’s developed into more of a discovery, or personal journey for me. God is really messing with me on a deeper level than just the day-to-day ministry training I’m getting here.”

  I looked at Bonnie and immediately wished I’d kept it more superficial. She had that more-information-than-I-really-wanted-to-know look on her face. So I took a left turn and lightened it up. “It’s been an adventure. Let me tell you about my visit out to Erlene Markham’s house the other day.”

  Several minutes later, my moment with Bonnie was interrupted by Eddie Hughes. Every church singles group has a guy like Eddie. Early thirties, never married, and probably never had a real girlfriend. Yet Eddie fashioned himself as quite the ladies’ man. He drove most of the single girls crazy by phoning them repeatedly. Eddie wasn’t picky about who he pursued. Tall or short, fat or thin, ugly or attractive, Eddy called ’em all. Several times a year, Louis Estrada would have to sit down with Eddie and ask him to refrain from harassing the single women at the church. Eddie would repent, promise to do better, lay low for a few weeks, then slowly begin making calls again. He wasn’t dangerous; just a nuisance.

  Eddie had one quirky habit which I found quite humorous. He didn’t do it on purpose; it was just part of who he was. Eddie mixed metaphors and confused clichés in the worst ways. He’d approach some poor, unsuspecting woman and introduce himself with a smile. Then, in a futile attempt to be cool or clever, he’d say something stupid or offensive, never even realizing it.

  Tonight was one of those nights, and Eddie was about to deliver one of his biggest faux pas of all time.

  Eddie burst right into the middle of our conversation. “Hey Elmo. I see you’re tying up one of the hottest ladies in the whole church.” He coughed. “I mean with conversation, not ropes or anything like that.”

  Bonnie winced. “Well, Eddie, how are you? Nice sweater vest.”

  “I’m good, sweetie. Good as gold. What are you two talking about so serious and all?” His eyes widened in his attempt to look serious.

  “Elmo was just telling me about some of his ministry training activities here at the church,” Bonnie answered.

  Eddie smiled. “We’ve got a great staff, all the way from Dr. Jorgenson down to Dunston Jones. Yes ma’am, they’re great from ‘throne to throne’.” He laughed wildly at his own joke. I didn’t get it. Neither did Bonnie. Eddie must have realized from our blank expressions that we were clueless, so he quickly explained. “You know—Dr. Jorgenson as pastor sits on the royal throne, and Dunston as janitor cleans the porcelain throne. Get it?” He laughed boisterously again. Bonnie contributed a courtesy laugh, but I didn’t. It wasn’t funny.

  He wouldn’t go away. “Speaking of the great staff; did you all hear Pastor Applebee’s sermon on sexual purity last Sunday night?” And then with Eddie’s unique gift of word confusion, he added, “That was some powerful sermon. Yes, sir. It hit me right between the legs!”

  No. Tell me he did not just say that! No way.

  But the expression on Bonnie’s face left little doubt. She’d heard it too.
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br />   A moment later, Eddie meandered away to bother someone else. Bonnie, her face still flushed, looked at me and whispered, “Did he just say what I think he said?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid he did.” We shared an incredulous, esoteric laugh. It took us quite a while to regain our composure.

  After dinner, we played a few more silly group games, then the evening wound down. Overall, I have to say I had a good time. I got to know several of the singles a little better. I would do it again.

  I didn’t think a whole lot more about my conversation with Bonnie other than to reconfirm that Rule #1 was still a good idea. Twice now I’d let down my guard with other staff members, only to regret it.

  Collecting my empty Pyrex dish, I grabbed the last Fresca and headed up to The Closet to drop off my sports coat. It had been a long week, and I was looking forward to sleeping in on Saturday morning.

  The Queen Bee

  To be totally honest, I had started the internship with a healthy dose of cynicism. When I first decided to pursue a career in church work, I had a focused desire to honor God with my gifts and talents, as limited as they are. My home church pastor had mentored me, given me some training, ordained me, and shipped me off to seminary to hone my skills. I arrived at campus naive but eager. But by the conclusion of the first year, my—shall we say “Salad Days”—had come to an end.

  My cynicism about the local church and vocational ministry started subtly, but continued to grow. By the time my internship at First Church started, I had a full-blown jaded view of most ministers, and serious doubts about the effectiveness of the modern church. For me, church work had become more of a career opportunity than a sincere commitment to change the world for God.

  Life has a funny way of confirming or destroying our preconceived ideas about things. Through my internship, I was confronting many new situations—some were validating my cynicism, and others were chipping away at it.

  My first interaction with Annette May Jorgensen, the senior pastor’s wife—aka the Queen Bee—did nothing but solidify my cynical perspective. Since Day One, I’d been pulled aside and warned numerous times by other staff to be careful around the Queen Bee. “Greater men than you have been beheaded by her whims,” I‘d been told. I’m rather partial to my head, so I determined I’d be extra diligent if I ever had to deal with her directly.

  Annette May Jorgensen’s maiden name was Fitzsimons, as in the wealthy and powerful Fitzsimons family. As you may recall, I met Tom Applebee at the Fitzsimons estate the night of their open house—the night that redirected the course of my life. Annette May Jorgensen was Smitty Fitzsimonses baby sister. Smitty and Horace Jorgensen had been roommates at Yale, and he had introduced Annette May to Horace. They fell in love and eventually married. When First Church began searching for a new senior pastor, Smitty was instrumental in getting Horace hired for the position.

  It was obvious, even to a newcomer like me, that the Queen Bee had a serious “entitlement perspective” on life, especially down at the church. In laymen’s terms, she got what she wanted with no questions asked.

  There are pastors’ wives who are notorious for meddling and for power plays. Fortunately for everyone at First Church, Annette May did not care for the minutiae of church work. Subsequently, she stayed out of almost everything with the exception of two or three pet projects per year. Dr. Jorgensen was masterful at keeping his wife at bay concerning situations critical to the life of the church. But when it came to her pet projects, he gave her carte blanche and would consistently take her side in any associated controversy.

  Woe to the staff member who crosses Annette May Jorgensen. That miscalculation would be followed quickly by the death fumes of “career suicide.”

  I had absolutely no desire to go near the Queen Bee’s kingdom. But fate had other plans.

  My office intercom came to life one afternoon. “Elmo, are you there?” Tom Applebee asked.

  “Hey Tom. What can I do for you?” I pulled my feet off my table.

  “I have a very special assignment I need you to handle. Our minister of recreation Johnny Rochelle would handle it, but he’s out for several weeks with a pulled groin or something.”

  Who pulled it? I felt like asking, but thought better of it.

  “What’s involved?” I asked.

  “It’s some type of Father & Daughter activity . . .” —and then he said it—“that ANNETTE MAY JORGENSEN is organizing.”

  I was speechless. My worst nightmare had begun. I had nowhere to hide.

  “Elmo? Are you there?” A long pause followed. “Elmo? Can you hear me?”

  I took a deep breath. “Yes, Tom, I’m here. Must be the intercom cutting out again on me,” I lied.

  Tom continued. “I’ve arranged for you to meet with Mrs. Jorgensen and her assistant Betty later this afternoon.”

  “Here?” I sputtered. “In my . . . my office?”

  Tom chuckled. “Listen, you’ve done a fine job fixing that place up, but Mrs. Jorgensen doesn’t do closets. She’ll meet you at four this afternoon in the church parlor.” Then he offered some advice. “Just relax and let her run the show. Take lots of notes but don’t ask too many questions. The key here is to listen and say, ‘Yes, ma’am’ often.”

  “I’ll be there.” I turned off the intercom. Talk about good days going south. I closed my eyes and began to formulate a strategy. Okay, okay. This is supposed to be an internship to learn how to work in the church. This is my opportunity to learn how to work with powerful, though problematic people. If I can succeed with the Queen Bee, I can succeed with anyone.

  I arrived at the church parlor at 3:45. I wasn’t about to be late for this meeting. Killing the extra minutes, I looked around, admiring the elegance of the exquisite room. Used primarily for wedding receptions, special church-related parties, and an occasional civic event, the parlor’s opulence impressed me. An enormous chandelier hung over the middle of the room. Expensive carpet covered the floor. I’d been told all the furniture was custom handmade in Europe specifically for this room. I wasn’t sure I was allowed to sit on it, so I just stood waiting.

  Betty Darby, the Queen Bee’s assistant, arrived first. She introduced herself and said that Mrs. Jorgensen would join us in a few moments. Evidently, the Queen Bee had decided to drop in on Pastor Jorgensen for a surprise visit. I hope the good pastor isn’t over at the country club “visiting the Greens” again. It was a standard joke amongst the staff. Horace loved to golf.

  Betty and I chatted for about twenty minutes while we waited. A very nice middle-aged lady, I wondered if she were paid by the church or by the Jorgensens. I would keep that question to myself.

  At 4:20, both double doors gently opened, and Annette May Jorgensen floated into the room.

  “Good afternoon,” I said, half bowing though not sure why.

  “Thank you for coming,” she answered, easing down onto one of the overstuffed chairs. Betty nodded at me, then we both took a seat on a couch.

  The Queen Bee continued. “And I really appreciate you pinch-hitting for Johnny. I understand the poor man is home nursing a sore foot.”

  I laughed on the inside, but quietly smiled on the outside. “Oh, it’s a privilege and a pleasure for me to fill in, Mrs. Jorgensen.”

  For forty-five minutes, I listened and took copious notes. Mrs. Jorgensen, who had watched Oprah faithfully for years, had seen a recent rerun of an Oprah show on the topic of fathers and daughters. The Jorgensens had a fourteen-year-old daughter named Stacey. So the Queen Bee thought how wonderful it would be to plan a special event just for the teenage girls of First Church and their fathers.

  She talked about the food. She talked about the entertainment. She talked about the arrangement of the room, the tickets, and the appropriate dress code. She already had a theme in mind: Behind every great man, there’s a great daughter! There were obvious problems with this theme, of course, but instead of saying anything I just glanced at Betty. She responded with a tight smile, silently
telling me to keep my mouth shut. Mrs. Jorgensen continued for another half-hour, filling the air with an expansive list of minute details that you-know-who would no doubt have to work out.

  I didn’t want to come across as a total lackey, so at one point I jumped in.

  “Tell me Mrs. Jorgensen, how many people do you anticipate will attend the event?”

  Without blinking, she shot back, “Those are the kind of details I’m expecting you to work out, Mr. Jenkins.”

  That would be my last question of the day.

  Mercifully, we finished the meeting and said our goodbyes. I slumped back onto the designer couch and flipped back through my notepad. I had taken eleven pages of singled-spaced notes, most of which outlined action items I would be directly responsible for. I was overwhelmed. This would be a mammoth job. Now I knew what happened to Johnny Rochelle. His groin wasn’t pulled. It had been kicked—and exceedingly hard.

  I immediately empathized.

  Limping back up to The Closet, I started making calls using my cell phone. I hoped I’d be reimbursed for the expense. Working until ten that evening, and most of the next day, I still had way too many pages of the assigned tasks to accomplish. Exhausted, I went home and stewed.

  Who was this lady dominating my life, with this unbelievable list of mundane tasks, for an event that had absolutely nothing to do with me or my ministry training?! And why didn’t she assign some of this junk to her paid assistant Betty? I needed some answers, so I gave the injured one, Johnny Rochelle, a call.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey Johnny, this is Elmo Jenkins, the church intern. I understand you’re on the disabled list.”

  “Well, I tore a thigh muscle playing intramural volleyball at the church Rec Center.”

  “Yeah, I know. I was pitched one of your assignments—working on a special event with Mrs. Jorgensen.”

  “Better you than me. My leg feels better already,” he laughed.

  I wasn’t amused. “What’s the deal with her? She comes up with some grandiose idea and has me doing literally all the work. And I mean all of it. I bet she doesn’t even show up for the event.”