Ordained Irreverence

by McMillian Moody

  When I arrived at Room 537, I found Justin sleeping peacefully on his back. Standard protocol for this scenario dictated that I leave my card and not wake the patient. As I gently placed my card on his bedside table and quietly turned to leave, I heard a faint whisper.

  “Thank you.”

  I wasn’t even sure he had actually spoken, but when I turned back around, his eyes had opened.

  “Well hello, Justin. I’m Elmo Jenkins from First Church. I thought you were sleeping. Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  With the slightest smile, still whispering he said, “That’s all right.”

  He had a gentle face, but with sad eyes. He actually looked much younger than twenty-three, maybe sixteen or seventeen. He sat up and leaned back against his pillows. “I’ve never been to First Church,” he said with a little more volume. “Isn’t it that big church downtown? I’ve seen it on television several times. I don’t do church much.”

  “Yes, First Church is downtown, and I guess it’s pretty big. A friend of yours who attends there asked us to stop by,” I said, checking his hospital visitation slip again. “But I’m sorry, I don’t have their name.”

  “That’s okay. I appreciate you coming. I’ve been here a week, and you’re my first visitor.”

  “Really?” I said, sincerely surprised. “Don’t you have any family here in the area?”

  “My mother and father both live here, but they don’t get along, and I’m not close to either of them. As far as I know, they don’t even know I’m here in the hospital.” I couldn’t detect any emotion in his voice.

  “What about friends?” I asked.

  “Oh, I’ve got a few,” he stated, “but I didn’t want to bother them with my problems. They’ve got enough of their own.”

  “Justin, it says here you’re experiencing chest pains. Do they have any idea what’s causing them?”

  “It’s really more of an ache,” he said looking at my card. “Mr. Jenkins, are you a minister?”

  “Please call me Elmo. I’m really more like a minister-in-training. Though I do all the same stuff the regular ministers do. I just get paid less.”

  Justin smiled.

  “Any idea what’s causing your chest to ache?”

  “Well, I know I look young, but trust me, I’ve already lived a lifetime. There’s been lots of heartache.”

  “Oh really,” I said stepping closer to his bedside.

  He continued. “Yeah. I’ve run into so many dead-ends in school and family and relationships, and they all hurt, bad. Most of the time I just feel like Bono.”

  “Bono?”

  “You know, the U2 song where the guy still hasn’t found what he’s looking for?”

  “Do you mind if I pull up a chair?” I asked.

  “No, not all.”

  From my perspective, it seems like in today’s world, at least in the U.S., there aren’t that many open doors to talk to people about God. But Justin had just kicked one wide open, and I wanted to take all the time he needed to answer any questions he might have about faith.

  “Justin, what exactly is it you’re looking for?”

  Who knew that a Bono song could spark a discussion for a young man to open his life to God? We talked for almost an hour, and I believe with all my heart that Justin made a sincere commitment to follow Christ. Promising to be there for him as he started his new adventure of faith, I gave him my cell phone number. I also made a mental note to talk to Louis Estrada when he got back in town to follow up on Justin with some of the young singles.

  At 3:30 on the nose, I strode into Dr. DV’s outer office.

  “Hey Elmo,” Bess said, looking up from her book. “Don’t forget to sign the ledger.”

  I signed the page. “Is the old man here today?”

  “Not yet, but he’s supposed to be here any minute.” She smiled as she carefully placed her bookmark in her textbook and closed it. “Just have a seat.”

  I sat down as an awkward silence filled the room for several moments.

  “I understand you’re dating Bonnie St. Hiliare.”

  Was that a statement or a question? “Wow. Where did you hear that?”

  “Peg Leahy and I have several classes together.”

  “Oh, Bonnie’s roommate, Peg, yes. Nice lady. Funny sense of humor.”

  A gossip’s smile crept across her face. “She said she caught you all kissing,”

  I felt a blush spreading. “Well, if she said that it must be true.”

  How did I ever get into this conversation, and how was I going to get out of it?

  Suddenly, Dr. De Villa burst in with a flurry, coming to my rescue. I stood as he rushed by me. “Afternoon, Dr. DV.”

  “Jenkins, is it Monday afternoon already? Dang it, where has this day gone?”

  Following him into his office, I closed the door behind me. He immediately made a phone call as I took a seat and waited my turn.

  Dr. De Villa’s office was quite small with no windows. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled three walls, each slammed full with thick, ancient volumes. His library included tomes on Theology, Psychology, Sociology, and several other “-ologies” that I couldn’t pronounce. The thick accumulation of dust suggested that most if not all the books had not been touched in many years. He had set aside two shelves for his collection of bowling trophies, all shapes and sizes. Apparently, he’d been quite the bowler. The trophies appeared free of dust, as if they’d been dusted or at least handled recently. Curious . . .

  It seemed to me like some form of heresy for theological texts and bowling trophies to occupy the same bookcase. I always thought most bowlers were predominantly of the blue-collar bent, not world-class academicians. Yet Augie broke all the molds for seminary professors. Maybe something deeper explained it; something I was missing. Perhaps he mentally painted each bowling pin with the face of an adversary then mowed them down without mercy. I could easily envision Fred Snooker’s face on the head pin, taking the first crushing blow with each new rack.

  Dr. DV slammed down the phone. “Morons!” He looked up at me. “Don’t even ask.”

  Not sure how to respond, I said nothing. Something told me this would not be a happy meeting. Or so I thought.

  Then Dr. DV, famous for his dramatic mood swings, slowly fashioned a big grin and calmly asked, “What did he say?”

  Clueless. “What did who say?”

  “Old Fish Face Snooker. What did he say when you gave him the envelope?”

  “To be honest, sir, he appeared quite incredulous, but very pleased.”

  “Good, good.” Dr DV came around and sat on the front of his desk. “But what did he say, my young Jenkins?”

  “Well, he mentioned that you had owed him that money for over forty years, and he said to be sure to thank you for him the next time I saw you.”

  “Jenkins, my boy, you have done well, and you shall be rewarded.” He paused to ponder, fist against his chin. “Tell you what, you may skip our meeting next week.”

  Crud! I was hoping for my own envelope with a hundred bucks tucked inside.

  He smiled. “Please tell the old man he’s been on my mind a lot lately.”

  I smiled back, “I will. And thank you, sir.”

  “Now about your internship. Bess tells me you have a girlfriend at the church . . .”

  The Memo

  A single piece of paper occupied my mailbox on Tuesday morning—a memo.

  MEMO

  From: Fran Bruker

  To: Elmo Jenkins

  Re: Golfing with Dr. Jorgensen on Thursday

  Dear Elmo,

  Dr. Jorgensen has requested that you join him for a round of golf on Thursday morning. Denton Persay, one of Pastor’s regular Thursday foursome, had to cancel this week. Dr. Persay is a heart surgeon and has a bypass procedure scheduled that morning. Bring your clubs here to the church at 8:00 a.m., and you’ll drive over to the Echelon Country Club with the Pastor. Your golf and lunch will be provided courtesy of Smi
tty Fitzsimons who will also be playing.

  Sincerely,

  Fran

  Though I stink at fishing, and I’m scary bad at tennis, I’m actually a pretty decent golfer. Dr. Jorgensen and I had spent a few minutes at the staff retreat talking about golf, which probably accounted for the invitation. The Echelon Country Club rivaled Augusta in pedigree and prestige. A chance to play such an exclusive course was quite a perk.

  I played on the golf team in high school. I wasn’t the best player on our team, but I was good enough to fancy the idea of someday playing golf professionally. God must have had other plans, because I never received any scholarship offers to play golf in college. But I still loved the game. Needless to say, Fran’s memo came as great news. I couldn’t wait until Thursday morning.

  In my brief tenure on staff at First Church, I’d already discerned that nothing transpires without a reason—especially if it takes four to five hours of Dr. Jorgensen’s time. Throw Smitty Fitzsimons into the mix, and I could guarantee something was cooking. So I thought it wise to run the memo by Tom Applebee for his opinion and seasoned advice.

  Adrianne told me I could find Tom up on the roof of the Education Building. I found him sitting at one of the picnic tables in the covered recreation area with his laptop open. Adrianne had told me that on nice days, Pastor Applebee would often steal away to the roof to escape from the phones so he could get some work done.

  As I got off the elevator and walked across the basketball court toward Tom, I observed a large patch in the retaining wall. A hole had been repaired—a really big hole. Remembering my dream that night at the staff retreat, I visualized myself standing in front of that gaping hole trying to keep the children from falling off the building. I’m not one to give a whole lot of credence to the significance of dreams, but now I was intrigued. I made a mental note to Google Holden Caulfield and find out what Thurm had meant.

  Tom must have noticed me studying the retaining wall. “Now there’s a story,” he said, reaching out to shake my hand. “What a day that was.”

  I toyed with the idea of telling him about my dream, but thought better of it. “Don’t tell me. Some 300-pound deacon missed a lay-up and crashed through the wall?”

  “Actually, it was a lot more exciting than that.” He laughed. “They had one of those mini sky-bucket contraptions up here to mount the court lights up on the light poles. The worker jumped out of it to get something and forgot to set the brake. He turned around just in time to see it smash through the retaining wall and go over the side of the building—sky-bucket and all.”

  “Oh my!” I exclaimed. “That’s six floors down to the sidewalk below. Did anyone get hurt?”

  “Fortunately, no one was below at the time. But Harry Simpkins’s brand spanking new Mustang wasn’t so lucky.” Tom grinned from ear to ear as he momentarily got lost in the memory of the fateful day. Then discarding any pretense, he laughed out loud. “You see, Harry had just bought it. He’d only had it a couple of weeks. Brand-new red Mustang, fully loaded . . . a bit of a pride issue at play there. And even though we provide free parking for the staff right across the street, Harry decided to park his new car along the curb and pay the meter several times a day. He babied that thing and was worried the doors would get nicked-up if he parked next to other cars, which in all fairness probably would have happened.

  “Well, that sky-bucket contraption fell right on top of Harry’s new car smashing it to smithereens. The impact turned on the car’s CD player at full volume, playing none other than Harry’s personally autographed copy of Air Supply’s greatest hits, to the delight of the small crowd that had gathered to see what had happened. It was surreal, and poor Harry was undone. The rest of us felt bad for him, but I have to be honest— it was also hilarious.” He laughed again, clearly enjoying the memory.

  “We were just relieved that no one was injured or killed. You know, Elmo, someone ought to write a book about Harry and all his adventures. But enough about Harry. What can I do for you?”

  I sat down across the picnic table from Tom. “I need some advice.” I handed him the memo from Fran and asked, “Any ideas what this is all about?”

  Tom smiled as he perused the memo. “Looks to me like you’re in for a round of golf.”

  Hoping for more here . . .

  He handed back the memo. “I don’t play golf. Bowling is my sport of choice.”

  Bowling. Again. I was going to have to rethink my attitude toward bowlers. “Ever bowl with Dr. De Villa?”

  “No, but I understand he was quite the bowler back in his day.”

  I stood back up to leave. “So you think there’s nothing more to this round of golf than just a round of golf?”

  “No,” Tom said, closing his laptop. “I didn’t say that. It’ll be golf first and foremost. Our pastor is very serious about his golf game. But I’m sure there’s some secondary agenda; though to be honest I have no inkling what it might be. Just go and have fun. Those four guys have played golf together almost every Thursday morning for years. Be prepared for a small wager of some sort. Oh, and don’t be shocked—Dr. Jorgensen always smokes a stogie when he golfs. Pray you ride in the other cart.

  We headed back across the court toward the elevator. “Who are the other two guys who play in the group?” I asked.

  “Well, let’s see. The memo said Denton Persay, the heart surgeon, won’t be there. Be glad. Denton’s a great guy, but he plays golf angry. And it’s not pretty to be around. So that leaves Smitty Fitzsimons, and the fourth member of the group is Hartzel Wiley Smith, the IV.”

  “As in the great-great-grandson of Wiley Smith, the legendary former Chairmen of the Deacons?” I could hear the excitement in my own voice.

  Tom stopped walking and looked at me with astonishment. “How have you found the time or the desire to read back through a hundred years of First Church history?”

  “I’m energetic, but not at that level,” I admitted. “I heard about Wiley Smith from Fred Snooker.”

  Tom chuckled. “Ah. The Black Toe lore.” He pushed the elevator button. “Then you’ll definitely want to ride in Harty’s cart on Thursday. He knows all about The Black Toe Enigma. By the way, did Fred show you that scrapbook?”

  The elevator doors closed us in.

  As I rounded the last corner of the second-floor hallway on the way to my office, I ran into Dunston Jones. He was pushing one of those non-electric carpet sweepers picking up lint from the hallway carpet.

  “Hey, Dunston. How you doing?

  “Fine-’n-you?” he said with his famous big grin.

  “Do you have a minute? I’d like to ask you something.”

  “Sure.”

  “Great.” I patted him on the back as we walked into The Closet together.

  In the middle of my table, I found a paper plate with a dozen chocolate chip cookies covered with Saran wrap. A lavender envelope rested on top of them. Setting the card aside for later, I picked up the plate of cookies and removed the plastic wrap.

  “Dunston, would you like a cookie?”

  “No thanks, Elmo. I already had one. Miss Bonnie gave it to me when I let her in here ’bout ten minutes ago. Now that’s mighty fine!”

  “I know. I love fresh chocolate chip cookies,” I mumbled as I munched down on one.

  “No, I mean Miss Bonnie is mighty fine. I don’t know how you ever got her to pay any attention to your sorry grill, but if you have any smarts at all, you won’t let that one get away.”

  “Well, Dunston,” I said, pretending to be taken aback, “thanks for the advice.”

  He nodded. “You’re welcome.”

  Changing topics, I motioned for him to take a seat, and I sat down in the other vinyl visitor’s chair. “Dunston, you’ve been here at First Church for a long time.”

  He nodded again. “That’s right.”

  “Longer than most of the other current staff members?”

  “That’s right too,” he answered with another nod.

/>   “Then, you probably know more about what’s happened within these church walls than just about anybody.”

  “I s’pose that’s possible,” he said. “But not everything. Only the Lord knows all that’s gone down in this place.”

  “Okay. We’ve determined you’ve been here a very long time, have known many people, and probably know as much or even more about what has gone on here than anyone else, correct?”

  He seemed flattered. “Well, I guess that’s ’bout right.”

  “Then All-Knowing Dunston Jones, what can you tell me about The Black Toe Enigma?”

  He seemed startled. “The black toe what?”

  “Enigma. You know, the, uh, mystery or uh, puzzle—The Black Toe Mystery.”

  He stood up. “Do you mean that crazy folktale about the guy with the frozen foot?”

  I also stood. “Well, yeah.”

  Dunston burst out laughing as he headed for the door. “Sorry, man. I gotta get back to work.” I could hear him laughing all the way down the hall.

  Well, that didn’t work out the way I’d planned. But something struck me as a bit odd. Dunston was never in a rush to get back to work.

  Ever.

  The Brouhaha

  Wednesdays had become my odds-and-ends day. Wednesday morning was the best time to catch a few minutes with Fred Snooker. And, of course Wednesday morning always included the obligatory weekly staff meeting. It was also the one day of the week Bonnie and I could have lunch together. I would then spend the afternoon covering various ministry assignments Tom Applebee had assigned me that morning.

  On this particular Wednesday, right before staff meeting was about to begin, Tom pulled me off to one side and asked me to set aside some time in the afternoon to visit Jeremy Cantor. He handed me a slip of paper with Jeremy’s phone number and address. He casually added, “Be careful.”

  For months now, I had been doing funerals, making home and hospital visits, doing some counseling, and helping with benevolence cases. But I had never been warned to “be careful.” It caught me completely off guard. Why would he say that?

  In marched Dr. Jorgensen, and our weekly staff meeting started. Since it had become a known and accepted fact that Bonnie and I were dating, we would sit together during the first part of the meeting. At first, Thurm and friends ribbed us about it, but after a week or two, no one even seemed to notice us.