Ordained Irreverence

by McMillian Moody

  It reminded me of a conversation I had with a good guy named Billy back at my home church. Billy asked me out to lunch one day to talk about spiritual matters. He’d been dating one of the single ladies in our church, and seriously thinking about giving his life to God. But he was reticent. In his skewed view of Christianity, it meant losing personal freedoms, and he had several “habits” he didn’t want to give up. I explained how faith in Christ was all about freedom, and that if he truly committed his life to Christ, he would have total freedom, even in those areas he’d mentioned. But I also made sure he understood that once a person makes the commitment, God has a unique way of reordering their priorities. Often, those old habits don’t seem as important anymore.

  When I got back to The Closet, Bonnie was sitting in my chair. No homemade chocolate chip cookies graced my desk.

  “Hey,” I said, plopping down in one of my other chairs. “What’s up?”

  After a brief dramatic pause, she responded. “It really hurt my feelings when you skipped over me in the skit assignments yesterday. But I thought about it, and in all fairness, I should have said something ahead of time.”

  She’s apologizing. I can’t believe it.

  I could’ve let her hang out to dry for a few minutes, but I was weary of the whole thing. “Listen, I’m sorry for being such an insensitive dolt about it. I have a latent genetic defect in my discernment skills, but there is good news. Charlise called me this morning and begged off her part. She said she’d rather have one of the smaller roles. So I just figured I would switch you two. I would’ve told you earlier today, but alas—well, that’s another story . . .”

  She smiled. “Now I feel like a jerk.”

  “Good. This means you’ll be able to empathize with me since I regularly play that role with gusto.”

  Her smile and her sarcasm returned. “And you play it oh so well.”

  Monday afternoon rolled around which meant a ten-minute drive over to the seminary for my mandatory weekly meeting with the Dr. DV.

  Now that Pastor Fred had kicked open the door of reconciliation, I began searching for a cogent strategy to convince Augie to participate in a face-to-face meeting with his long-time adversary. This wasn’t going to be easy. Or so I thought.

  The seminary campus teemed with activity as the fall semester wound down. The ancient oak trees adorning the main drive exploded with brilliant orange, red, and yellow leaves. I loved this beautiful old campus, and I felt a tinge of sadness knowing my days here at Harvest Morgan were all but over.

  When I entered the outer office, Bess was nowhere to be found. Probably out gathering gossip on some poor unsuspecting ministerial student. Dr. DV’s door was closed, so I knocked on the door, three quick blows in a staccato rhythm.

  "Who is it?" he grunted.

  "Elmo Jenkins," I answered firmly through the solid wooden door.

  "Come in, Mr. Jenkins," he said without hesitation.

  When I opened his office door, I found him sitting with his back to me rifling through papers on his credenza. As I stepped into his office, I was immediately assaulted by a virulent, pungent aroma that could be only one thing: flatulence. But on this occasion, a flatulence that most assuredly emanated from the very bowels of hell. My eyes burning, I suffered immensely as I wobbled toward his desk, careful to breathe only through my mouth. This was no ordinary odor. No, this propane had obviously percolated in the old man's colon for quite some time before gaining purchase and exploding into his small office instantly vaporizing all flora and fauna as it rushed to permeate the confined space.

  He turned slowly as a huge grin stretched across his face.

  He knew I knew.

  I knew he knew I knew.

  Neither of us spoke. He paused for an extra-long moment, clearly enjoying my torment.

  “Jenkins, let's go for a walk,” he said. “I need some fresh air.”

  “Me too,” I gasped, thanking God under my breath.

  Exiting the main doors we strode slowly along the cobblestone pathway fronting the Theology Building. To our right in my line of site just over Dr. DV’s shoulder was the historic and esteemed Campus Rotunda Building fashioned after the Jefferson Monument. I did a double-take. The resemblance astonished me—the domed roof identical to the curvature of Dr. DV’s bald head. As if he’d surely posed as a model for the building’s designer. I kept this observation to myself.

  Stirred from my musing by Dr. DV’s familiar phlegm gurgle and spit, I broke the silence. “Dr. De Villa, according to my internship calendar, this is our last meeting. I want you to know how much I’ve benefited from your guidance. I’ve gained a tremendous amount of respect for you along the way, and I want to thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”

  The old man cleared his throat again. “Jenkins, we both know that’s a bunch of flowery nonsense. I’m one miserable internship advisor. I know it, and you know it. I do it because it’s part of my job description—period. That said, I’ve grown to like you. I believe you have a bright future in whatever you pursue, and I’m not just blowing pig manure when I say that.”

  He had an interesting way of delivering a compliment.

  I slowed my pace. “I do have one last favor to ask. This may be way out of line but here goes. I‘ve asked Pastor Snooker if he’d be open to a sit-down meeting with you to talk over old grievances and clear the air. He said yes, and he said it without hesitation. Would you also consent to such a meeting?”

  Dr DV sighed. “You know, young man, in past years such meddling would have been a poor career decision on your part. But I’m in a bit of transition as of late. Some would call it a softening of long-held convictions about certain issues. A bit of a renaissance I think. Fred has been on my mind a lot lately. Maybe it has to do with the growing need to tie up loose ends as I enter the swan song phase of my life. It’s not widely known yet, but this is going to be my last year at the seminary. I don’t see it as retirement; no it’s more of a fading off into the horizon.”

  He stopped walking and turned toward me. “Sorry for the rambling. I’ve been experiencing a touch of melancholy these last few months, and that’s a new experience for me. Expressing myself along these lines has always been difficult. To address your question—yes. Tell Fred I would indeed like to meet with him. Perhaps we can get together after the graduation ceremony. I’m assuming he’ll attend your commencement?”

  “I believe he is planning to be there, but I’ll confirm that, then let Bess know. Finally, before I go, I have one last question. I have to know about your bowling trophies. How did you ever get into bowling?”

  A delighted smile broadened his face. “Well, Mr. Jenkins, that’s quite a long story. But if you don’t have to rush off just yet, I’d be more than happy to tell you all about it . . .”

  The Bowling Ball

  My First Church internship would be over in just a few weeks. I’d fulfilled most all of the assigned requirements necessary to get full credit, so my last couple of weeks at the church looked to be pretty light work-wise. I could relax some and enjoy the ride, which was nice. Popping into Bonnie’s office Tuesday morning, I surprised her with a bouquet of flowers. The look on her face let me know it was worth every penny I’d spent on them.

  “Elmo, you are indeed developing into a romantic.” She beamed.

  “With God, all things are possible,” I quipped, thrilled with her response. “Listen, I have an idea for tonight if you’re open to it—a fun way to kill several birds with one stone, or ball in this case. Dr. DV gave me his beloved bowling ball yesterday! He can’t bowl any more due to a bad back, and he wanted me to have it. I thought it would be fun to go bowling tonight and try it out. I’ve also been looking for an opportunity to get Thurm out of his apartment. He’s been in the major dumps since he and Alise broke up.”

  “Sounds like fun, though I’ll have to cancel my Amway meeting.”

  “Your what?!” I gasped.

  “Easy boy, just kidding; I’m not a
multi-level type of girl. How ‘bout I see if Juliann would like to join us? Do you think Thurm would mind?”

  “Why would he? As long as we don’t slip up and call it a double date. Let’s shoot for 7:00 at the Happy Lanes and Grill. It’s automated so you don’t have to keep your own score.”

  “My kind of place. I’ll pick up Juliann, and you bring Thurm. That way it’ll be casual and relaxed for everyone. By the way, Elmo, can you bowl?”

  “About like I play tennis and fish, but don’t worry. I’ll try not to injure anyone.”

  I’d made an appointment to see Tom Applebee in his office at 10:00, so I took the executive elevator up to the fifth floor. When I walked into Tom’s outer office area, Adrianne called me over to her desk.

  “Elmo, you’ve gotta hear this,” she said, barely suppressing a laugh. “I just pushed the ON button on the intercom to call you and remind you about your appointment with Tom. You must have left your CALL button on. Take a listen.”

  Dunston Jones was singing Sitting on the Dock of the Bay with all his gusto. He must have been sweeping up my office. He sounded rather good, singing in a mellow baritone voice.

  “Well, who knew old Dunston could sing like that?” I said.

  But what I was really thinking? How many times have I inadvertently left that CALL button down, letting Miss Figghie eavesdrop on me? Dang. Payback for all those times I’d listened in on the nursery ladies.

  “Elmo,” Tom stood in the doorway to his office. “Come on in.”

  I winked at Adrianne. “Now don’t you tell Dunston you heard him crooning, and I won’t tell Pastor Tom what I’ve heard when you’ve left your CALL button down.” Her jaw dropped, and her face turned pale. Now I was the one suppressing a laugh. As I closed Tom’s door, I winked at her one more time.

  “Elmo, have a seat. What’s on your mind?” he said, smiling.

  I eased into one of his leather chairs. Man, what a nice piece of furniture.

  “Pastor Tom, I know I have a scheduled Exit Interview in a few weeks to wrap up my internship here at First Church. But today, I’m here to ask your opinion and advice on the full-time position the Personnel Committee has offered me starting the first of the year.”

  Tom swiveled sideways, leaning his chair back and putting his hands behind his head. “To be honest, Elmo, the idea for the new position actually started with Horace and Smitty. They didn’t wrap me in until the third conversation or so. There’s been concern for some time now that First Church was aging, and in danger of going the way of so many other great churches that just dry up through attrition. We really had no strategy or plan to correct this problem until you came along. Horace feels—and I concur—that you are a ‘prototype,’ for lack of a better word, for the kind of young, energetic, outside-the-box, yet grounded individual that we need to help First Church succeed where other long-standing churches have failed.

  “It’s a huge win-win opportunity for you. You’ll get to innovate and take risks, and at the same time have the full support of the leadership of the church. A lot of the sharp young guys coming out of the seminaries are trying to recalibrate their churches for the future with no mandate from their church leaders or membership. More often than not, they get eaten alive, disillusioned in the process, and in many cases kicked out on their heads.

  “Here, we have a unique situation. An old, established, historic church that really wants to turn the corner.”

  I leaned forward and put my elbows on Tom’s desk. “I know it’s an incredible opportunity, but I’m just prayerfully wondering if I’m the right man for the job. Or if I’m even up to it. Wouldn’t it make more sense to find someone who has more seasoning, more actual church staff experience?”

  Tom wheeled his chair around to face me directly. “Elmo, you proved your capability to us all these last six months. I wish some of our other guys had your enthusiasm and work ethic. Personally, I think you would be a tremendous success in this new role, but ultimately, the decision has to be yours. Only you know what’s best for you and your future. It’s a big job, and I hope you say yes, but I will support your decision either way.”

  My afternoon schedule was open so I swung by The Closet and picked up a few things, including The Black Toe Enigma album and my folder of TBT research. I figured I would head back to my apartment and spend some time analyzing the different TBT artifacts to see if there were any clues in them.

  I dropped in on Thurm on my way out. “Hey, buddy.”

  He was working on some lame-looking poster for one of his upcoming youth events. “Hey, Elmo. What’s up?”

  “You know, you should take some of your staff ‘continued training’ allowance and take a few classes in graphic arts or something. You design some dog ugly posters.”

  “If you accept that uppity-up staff position you’ve been offered, perhaps you can convince Smitty and friends to finally okay a secretary for me and Johnny. You know youth ministers get no respect—”

  “Uh oh, here comes the whining again—not! Subject change. We’re going bowling tonight.”

  “What? No, Elmo, I can’t—”

  “Yes you can, and you will,” I said firmly. “I know you don’t have any plans, and you can just TiVo American Idol and watch it later.”

  “How’d you know I watch American Idol?”

  “I learned all kinds of weird stuff about you from the kids at the All-Nighter.”

  “No.”

  “Oh yeah,” I said with a big grin. “Anyway, the real draw is that I’ll be bowling with Dr. DV’s championship bowling ball which he gave me as a graduation present yesterday. He told me he had won over one hundred trophies with that ball.”

  “Elmo, I’ve seen you play competitive sports. Does the bowling alley have good insurance?”

  “Now there’s the Thurm I love. Yes, I have limited bowling skills, but it should be fun watching me flounder. And by the way, Bonnie and maybe Juliann will be there also.”

  “Why Juliann?”

  “Bonnie wanted to invite a friend along. And hey, you and Juliann are just friends. Remember, no agenda, no regret. I’ll pick you up at 6:30 sharp.”

  When I got home I threw my stuff on the coffee table in the living room and headed to the fridge for a—you guessed it—can of Coke. The only other items in my refrigerator were a jar of grape jelly (not jam) and a bag of mozzarella cheese sticks. I grabbed one of those as well. Ah, the unencumbered life of a young single man.

  Back on my couch, I took a bite of cheese and a swig of Coke then grabbed the TBT album. I took out the stack of artifacts with the intent of writing down each message and doing an analysis of them as a group. From the pile, something caught my eye. It was rounded with a scalloped edge. I didn’t remember seeing it before. Pulling it from the pile, it appeared to be a cardboard coaster or something similar. A message written on it said: Just let it go. TBT

  There was no date. How could I have missed this one? Oh well. But then I flipped it over and about fell off the couch. It was a coaster all right—a coaster from the Echelon Country Club. My mind started spinning. Where did this come from? How did it get here? This must be some type of practical joke, but whom from? Who would have access to this type of coaster? I jotted down the possible perpetrators.

  The list was short:

  Smitty

  Dr. Jorgenson

  Harty Smith

  Tom Applebee (maybe?)

  Thurm (possible, but why?)

  I quickly eliminated Harty as a suspect. He wouldn’t have had access to the TBT album. And why would he play a joke on me? He didn’t even really know me.

  No way Dr. Jorgensen would have done this. We’d never discussed it, and he was no practical joker. Smitty, ditto.

  That left Tom Applebee and Thurm. It had to be Thurm. Tom was a fun-loving guy, but he had much bigger concerns to deal with. I couldn’t imagine him taking the time for this type of prank.

  As I pondered this new turn of events, I stared at the pile of artifacts.
I pulled out the one dated 5-5-1975. The message was written on an interoffice memo slip of paper which was originally probably white, but now a faded, tannish yellow color.

  The cryptic handwritten message simply stated: That’s not a good move.

  I had no clue what that meant or what it referred to. What caught my eye was the ‘g’ in the word good. The shape was unusual, almost like a curved, elongated figure eight. I reached for the Echelon coaster and flipped it over. Sure enough, the ‘g’ in the word go was identical. I’m no handwriting expert, but it sure looked as if these messages were written by the same person. And since the Echelon Country Club was only a few years old, it meant these two messages were written decades apart. That eliminated Thurm and Tom.

  What the heck was going on here? Why write a message on an Echelon coaster? I was more confused than ever.

  I picked Thurm up at 6:30 sharp. He wore a bowling shirt. No way.

  “Who owns a bowling shirt?” I said, embarrassed for him.

  “I used to be in a church bowling league. It’s an expensive shirt, and I never get to wear it, so I thought why not? Besides, it matches my bowling ball bag and shoes.”

  I laughed out loud. “So you have an entire matching bowling ensemble.”

  “So what?”

  “I bet you also have one of those Spandex bicycling outfits with matching helmet and gloves.”

  “Sure do.”

  My mocking tone flew right over Thurm’s head. Maybe the joke was actually on me in my cargo pants and sweatshirt.

  ‘Thurm, I have to ask you something straight out, and I need you to be totally honest with me. Did you plant a new clue in the TBT album?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve only seen that stupid book the one time—at the Staff Retreat. What’s going on?”

  “Well, as you may remember there were a lot of clues, or ‘artifacts’ as Pastor Snooker called them, in The Black Toe Enigma album. Since then, I’ve been spending a lot of time doing a kind of forensic study of all the material in the album.”