“Wait, wait—Juliann, could you do me a favor? Would you mind asking Pastor Tom to roll the meeting back to, say 11:00? After all, it is a Saturday morning, for Methuselah’s sake.”
“Come on, sleepyhead. Rise and shine,” she said with her signature giggle. “I have a half-dozen more calls to make. See ya.”
As I hung up, I got ticked. We get one morning off a week and now this.
“What could this possibly be all about?” I grumbled as I dragged my dog-tired carcass toward the shower. And I wasn’t about to shave. If they had a problem with it, they’d just have to get over it.
I’d only been in the Executive Boardroom on one other occasion—just a brief stop on my first day guided tour with Tom Applebee. But since that day, I’d heard many a tall tale concerning the “goings on” inside this hallowed room. I had no idea how accurate these stories were, but if you accepted them all as totally valid, the EBR had to be one of the most important rooms in the country—no, make that the world.
I arrived early at 8:45, very surprised to be the first one there. If it hadn’t been for a hand-drawn sign (This Way with an arrow to the left and a pink happy face—thank you, Juliann), I would’ve thought I was in the wrong building. To get to the EBR, you had to first navigate the Deacons Lounge. Its polished oak door stood open with another one of Juliann’s cheery directional signs taped to it. I fished around the Deacons Lounge hoping to score a strong cup of hot coffee, but came up empty. On the bar countertop, Juliann had provided chilled apple juice box drinks and slices of raisin bread. I kid you not. Some poor schmuck was going to marry her one day for her great looks, then regret his decision the first time she prepared food for him.
Snatching up a juice box, I headed for the EBR and plopped down on one of the perimeter chairs. Over the next fifteen minutes, they all trickled in, most with coffee in hand from Starbucks or McDonald’s or wherever.
Note to self: when Juliann is in charge of refreshments, pick up a cup of coffee on the way in.
And for the record, I didn’t notice anyone gnawing on a piece of raisin bread.
As expected, Dr. Jorgensen arrived precisely at 9:00 with Smitty Fitzsimons in tow. I casually glanced around the room taking inventory of those in attendance. It appeared to be the entire ministerial-level staff of the church, except—uh oh—no Bernard Coggins. My mind darted back to the incident at the staff retreat when Dr. Jorgensen and Smitty were obviously discussing something about poor Bernard during a prayer. Perhaps the fruit of that discussion had ripened and fallen from the tree, taking old Bernard down with it. Dr. Jorgensen’s opening sentence immediately confirmed my suspicions.
“We’ve asked Bernard to clean his office,” Dr. Jorgensen said with a touch of sadness.
I expected an audible gasp or some collective show of emotion by the staff, but no one made a sound. Very odd. Everyone in the room knew the phrase to clean his office meant he’d been canned, but they were all so stoic about it. I was taken aback.
To fully comprehend the workings at First Church, you had to develop the astute ability to read between the lines. Direct orders were communicated both verbally and in writing, but the real agenda could most often be found in a nuance or subtlety. An integral part of this intrigue included the liberal use of euphemisms. For instance, any use in any context of the word stragglers meant we’d all better start getting our tails to meetings on time. A staff member’s name used in the same sentence with the phrase not-cuttin’-it meant he was in serious jeopardy of being asked to clean his office. If a staff member weren’t pulling his weight in a particular ministry area, the entire ministerial staff would get a general “pep talk” on the subject with the clear implication that someone in the room was not-cuttin’-it. Each staff member then had to discern if he or she were the culprit and what needed to be done to get it fixed, another oft-used code phrase.
Why things weren’t more straightforward puzzled me, but it probably had something to do with the First Church mystic. The place had something of a secret society ambience about it.
So everyone sitting in the EBR immediately knew that Bernard Coggins had been fired and was long gone.
When I first started my internship, Thurm had explained the exit protocol First Church used when terminating a staff member. When I heard the procedure delineated, I assumed it had been borrowed from the corporate world. Of note, Dr. Jorgensen never participated in any staff dismissals. By staying disconnected from the process, he reasoned he could still be available to the individual as their pastor if needed. The great irony rested in the fact that he had been the one who initiated the dismissal proceedings in most cases.
First, the staff member’s supervisor and the Chairman of the Personnel Committee would call in the poor chap for a meeting. In this meeting, he would be advised of his termination and the reasons why, most commonly a sub-par job evaluation (translated – not-cuttin’-it). He would also be informed that no appeal process would be offered. They would then produce a severance check based on the fired employee’s tenure and a “termination agreement.” Of course, for the fired employee to receive the check, he had to first sign the agreement. By signing the agreement, the staff member pledged not to pursue legal action against the church. The fired staff member always took the check.
He was then escorted off the church property, with instructions to come back the following day after hours when a Personnel Committee member would stay with him as he cleaned out his office before permanently leaving the premises. It seemed cold and efficient, but it was actually designed to minimize the fallout with the rest of the staff. The severance checks were usually quite generous. The staff leadership made themselves available to help the terminated staff member find another position in another church better suited to his skills and abilities.
The fact that we had all been called in to the EBR meant this was no normal dismissal. We all liked Bernard and knew him to be a diligent worker, faithfully covering some of the most tedious and difficult ministry tasks. Which made his dismissal all the more puzzling.
“Friends, I’m sorry we had to call you back down here on a Saturday,” Smitty began. “But it was imperative that we have this meeting before tomorrow’s services, so you would all be fully informed in case you’re queried about Bernard’s sudden departure. I’m not at liberty to share the reason for Bernard’s dismissal, but I can say that it was not the result of poor work performance or because of a sexual indiscretion. Bernard has some personal issues to work out, and we will be helping him get the necessary counseling to deal with those issues.”
Thurm, seated next to me, pointed to a doodle he’d drawn in his Daytimer. It looked like a couple of horses running in tandem. I had no idea what it meant.
Smitty continued. “If you are asked about Bernard, please simply respond that he left for personal reasons and we wish him well. Nothing more, nothing less. Any questions?”
Harry jumped right in. “Who’ll be covering his responsibilities, like the Benevolent ministry and such?”
“Fred Snooker has graciously agreed to fill in until we find a replacement for Bernard.”
Yeah right, I thought to myself. They either offered Fred a boatload of cash or kidnapped his beloved parakeet Peppy, threatening to kill the bird unless he agreed.
I realized Fred wasn’t at the meeting. I figured he might be mapping out an escape route across the Canadian border with Peppy in tow, even as Smitty was speaking.
Finally, Dr. Jorgensen closed us in prayer, we filed out of the Executive Boardroom, and that was that. I grabbed a couple pieces of raisin bread to eat on the way home—yes I do eat raisin bread. I rode the elevator down with Thurm.
“What’s with the horse doodling?” I asked with a mouth full of raisin bread.
He looked and me and somberly said, “They caught Bernard at the horse track.”
In the silence that followed as the elevator quietly descended, no horses reared off in the distance, and no one even considered laughing.
“Elmo, we just realized Bernard was scheduled to handle the baptisms at the evening service tonight. I need you to cover those. Is that okay?”
I gulped. “Well, uh, sure. When and where?”
“Just be at the baptismal room at 5:30. Erlene Markham will meet you there to assist. She does these every week, so she can fill you in on what to do. I’m sure you’ll do fine. Oh, and by the way, don’t wear long sleeves.”
He disappeared back into the church before I could tell him I’d never actually performed an official baptism before. Oh well.
One of the required pastoral training courses at the seminary dealt with the practical skills necessary to be a pastor. I’m not sure if it had an official title or not, but I called it the “Dip ‘em, Marry ‘em, & Bury ‘em” Guide to Pastoral Care. Part of the instruction included two full class periods in a swimming pool to practice baptizing each other. I’m not referring to the aspersion/sprinkling routine. No, we’re talking a full-court body slam down under the water, over and over again. Drowning each other for the Lord, amen!
Believe it or not, to immerse someone correctly is actually a fine art. First, you have to decide if you’ll take them down to the right or to the left. Contrary to popular myth, this has nothing to do with a church’s theology. It’s more of a personal preference. I’m a switch-baptizer—I go both ways, though I have a better percentage of success from the right side.
It’s very important to instruct the individual being baptized to bend their knees when they go under. Otherwise, both of you may end up on the steps out of sight from the congregation. It’s the old baptismal disappearing act. Another problem occurs when some people are more buoyant than others. What if they don’t go all the way under? What if the face or nose stays dry? Do you have to do it again? Will this impact their spiritual walk? These are questions I never found answers for.
Back at my apartment, I kicked off my shoes and slacks and fell back on my bed staring at the crack in my ceiling. I’d heard horror stories about baptisms going awry. I didn’t want my first experience to be added to that Top Ten list. I briefly considered calling in sick, but eventually decided to forge ahead and, in the famous words of Michael Jordan, “just do it.” It couldn’t be that tough. I figured there might be one, maybe two people show up to be baptized. Surely, I could do that without screwing up.
As instructed, I showed up at 5:30 in the baptismal room. Erlene showed me the booklet given to everyone who comes to be baptized, highlighting the major points she would be going over when the candidates arrived. What she neglected to tell me was tonight’s number of scheduled baptisms—seventeen! A modern-day First Church record.
After Erlene’s brief but informative talk, (I kept praying she wouldn’t curse) the guys headed off to the men’s dressing room and the ladies to theirs. Fortunately we had plenty of baptismal robes. I located the special stall just for pastors in the back of the men’s dressing room. There, I found the waders. Whereas the folks being baptized were required to wear a swimsuit or a T-shirt and shorts under the baptismal robe, the pastors usually wore fishing waders over their clothes, so they could quickly get back to the service after the baptisms were done. Unfortunately, no one had bothered to inform me about the small, pinhole leak in the wader’s left boot. So I simply slipped off my shoes and jumped into the heavy rubber pants, topping it off with the official white pastor’s gown used specifically for this function.
According to established procedure, the minister doing the baptisms goes into the water first, and makes a few general comments to the congregation before he invites down the first person to be baptized. At Tom’s cue from the platform, I slowly waded into the water and took my position. The house lights dimmed as the baptistry lights were brought up. About halfway through my opening comments, I realized I had two problems. First, I immediately began to feel my left sock get squishy as the left boot of my waders began slowly filling with water. The second and perhaps more critical problem was the water in the baptistry. It was nowhere near warm. Not exactly ice-cold, but definitely cool. Someone had forgotten to turn on the water heater in the baptistry, most likely one of Bernard Coggins’ jobs as overseer of the Baptism ministry. Or perhaps I was the victim of one of Erlene’s infamous and often bizarre practical jokes. Either way I quickly calculated that the cool water probably wouldn’t be that big of a problem for those getting baptized. After the initial shock, they’d only be in the water for a minute or less. It might even add some energy to the proceedings.
On the other hand, I would be standing in less than comfortable water temperatures for at least fifteen minutes or more. I wondered if hypothermia would come into play. I could see tomorrow’s headline: First Church Intern Drowns While Performing Baptismal Service. Then there would be a mug shot of Erlene Markham with the caption explaining she was last seen boarding a plane for Montenegro . . .
Alas, in the end it wasn’t the cold water or the leaky waders that made this event memorable. No, it was my ever-dependable bad habit of screwing up my words when under pressure. Actually, I’d performed like a champ up until the last person. And then, well . . .
The seventeenth person to be baptized was Katie Cotese. Katie was the twenty-one year old daughter of one of the newer couples at First Church, Burt and Marion Cotese. Katie had flagrantly flown through the rebellious teen years but recently turned her life around. She was now actively involved in our Singles ministry under the watchful eye of Louis Estrada. Katie was a super young lady. But there was one unique characteristic that made her stand out—literally. Katie was eight months pregnant.
By the time Katie came down the baptistry steps, I had no feeling remaining in my left leg below the knee. Not even phantom pain. I felt like Captain Ahab in search of his missing peg leg. The gown hid Katie’s bulging abdomen, but most folks in the church knew about her pregnancy and her single status. They were glad she had turned her life around and started attending church, and thankful she was going to keep her baby.
I reached out and took her hand, helping her into position.
“Our last candidate tonight is Katie Cotese. Many of you know Katie and her parents, Burt and Marion.” I turned to face her. “Katie, have you accepted Jesus as your Lord and Savior?”
Katie smiled at me and then at her parents sitting out in the congregation. “Yes, I have.”
I was cold, I was sore, and I was ready to wrap this thing up. I took a deep breath. “Katie, my sister in Christ, I now pronounce you—”
I stopped mid-sentence. A wave of quiet, astonished laughter rolled quickly across the sanctuary. I hung my head momentarily, disbelieving my own gaffe. “Uh, I mean . . . Katie, I now baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” And I dunked her.
As she came up out of the water, the organ kicked in with Blessed Assurance, and we escaped stage left.
“Katie, I am so sorry! I—”
“Don’t say another word, Elmo,” she said, cutting me off. “It was an honest mistake, and it’s no big deal.” She gave me a big hug and headed off to the ladies locker room to change.
I really appreciated her attitude, but I knew it would not be so easily forgotten by my co-workers or the church membership in general. I would be ribbed about this for weeks or even months.
It would be included in my obituary one day. I just knew it.
The Pity Party
Monday morning arrived. I planned to lay low trying to minimize the abuse I would receive because of my “I now pronounce you” mistake. I hoped Bernard’s surprise departure would provide me some cover. Knowing that Juliann would not be a problem, I walked right in the front door intending to sweep by my mail slot then s
lither up the back way to my office.
“Buenos Dias, Senorita Juliann,” I greeted without breaking stride. “Abra la puerta, por favor.”
“Ah Elmo,” she said pushing the buzzer to open the door. “You know I don’t know Spanish.”
“I think you know more than you think you know. Gracias!” I dove into the break room, pleased to find it void of any other staff members. The one correspondence in my bottom slot was from Louis Estrada. He asked me to drop by his office first thing. Oh boy, here we go. I winked at Juliann as I snuck out of the break room and around the corner toward Louis’s first floor office. His door was cracked, so I knocked then stuck my head in.
“Don’t tell me Katie’s parents have demanded my head on a platter.”
Louis looked puzzled. “What? Uh . . . oh. No, not at all. Though that was an unfortunate slip of the tongue. I also heard they forgot to heat the water for you. Tough first baptism, huh?”
“You aren’t just kidding.” We both laughed though mine was a bit forced. “What can I do for you this morning, Louis?”
He motioned for me to take a seat. “Since you’ve participated a few times with our young singles, you know what a great group of people they are. As long as I plan structured events with plenty of supervision, everything goes well. But to be honest, there’s a real lack of leadership from within the group. Normally, that’s manageable, but every once in a while something comes along that requires someone from within the group to step up and take charge. The annual First Church Fall Festival Skit Night is one of those events. As you know, each ministry age group of the church is supposed to perform a ten-minute sketch that Sunday evening. I’ve been waiting for one of the young singles to jump in, but so far I’ve come up empty. So I’m asking if you’d consider standing in the gap and pulling this thing together.”
I leaned back in my chair and thought for a long moment. “Skit night is what—two Sundays away?”
Ordained Irreverence Page 15
