“This is where I get off,” I said.
“I know,” Brag’mok said. “Just get in your car and tell me when you can go, and I will meet you at the source.”
I sighed. “All right, but it might be a few days.”
“Days?” Brag’mok said. “Why days?”
“Because now I have to buy new tires,” I said.
“Take this Metro bus to where the rivers meet. From there, you can travel the ley lines. Did my brother not teach you how?”
I sighed. “He did.”
Brag’mok nodded. “Then no need to wait for tires.”
Chapter Seven
I imagine I looked stunned as I walked into St. Matthews. I was not sure what had been most off-putting about my Metro encounter with B’iff’s older brother. Whether it had been that he wanted me to lie to Layla, or maybe it was a reminder that everything else I was doing, the things I cared about, had to take a back seat to these potentially world-saving endeavors. I mean, how could I even begin to focus on convincing the council to participate in a cross-denominational soup kitchen when elven legions could come bursting through an otherworldly portal at any moment with designs on world domination?
Brag’mok had been patient despite how pressing his need was and had not insisted I leave with him straight away. He hadn’t balked about the meeting I was attending getting in the way of things. Surely he knew what this meeting was about. I’d discussed it with Layla more than once recently while driving, so the elven giant had known I was going there, which was how he had been able to arrange our encounter.
On top of all that, I was more than a little annoyed about my tires. I mean, surely Brag’mok could have figured a less destructive way to corner me and force the discussion he meant to have. It was the least important issue on my mind at the moment, but it still irked me. Sometimes, it’s the little things that kill.
I grinned. “The little things that kill.” There was a Bush song that said that, one of my favorite bands of all time. I still remembered when I showed up for the first day of school, and half the kids were wearing shirts with the band name modeled on the logo from the old TV show, M*A*S*H: B*U*S*H.
I didn’t have a clue who they were at the time. Apparently, they’d become a sensation over the summer. It was news to me. But when I picked up their album, you know, back when people bought compact discs, I was hooked. I was a machinehead. Alas, I missed the days of nineties alternative.
“Caspar?” Philip said as I approached the table. “You all right?”
I nodded. “Yeah, sorry. It’s been a long day. Someone slashed my tires for some reason.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Philip gestured to an open seat, not the one I was used to claiming. At council meetings, sort of like when people went to church or any other sort of gathering, I tended to take the same seat. I was a creature of habit, I suppose. This time, I was sitting right next to my bishop, a less confrontational position than across the table, like it used to be with his predecessor. Perhaps it was a subtle but symbolic gesture to emphasize that in Philip’s mind, we were on the same side.
I sat down and reached to the middle of the table, where there was a carafe of coffee alongside a stack of Styrofoam cups and the usual non-dairy creamer, sugar, and pink fake-sugar packets.
I scooped a little cream into my cup but bypassed the sugar before nearly burning my tongue with the first sip.
I glanced around the table.
Everyone was looking at me.
These guys weren’t my friends. They were my colleagues, but I’d always been something of an outsider.
“Shall we begin with a prayer?” Philip asked. It wasn’t really a question, more a signal that we should assume the proper posture.
I smiled a little as Philip started speaking. His prayer hadn’t been prepared in advance. It wasn’t from one of our denominational manuals. That was what the ex-bishop used to do. He was praying what in seminary-speak was known as ex corde prayer. That is, extemporaneous prayer. Praying from the heart.
I found it refreshing. It was also controversial, as dumb as that might seem. I still remembered being told by one of our old-school professors at seminary that out of the heart came all things ungodly: evil thoughts, murder, adultery, sexual immorality, theft, false testimony, slander. For that reason, he said, praying from the heart was ill-advised.
What brilliance.
I raised my hand and asked why, then, we were always told that Jesus was moved by his heart, motivated by compassion, when he healed. Also why the prophet Ezekiel had declared that we’d be given new hearts and why, elsewhere, the Bible said we should love God and our neighbor with all our hearts.
I don’t remember the professor’s reply, but I recall it was dismissive.
“Grant us a spirit of peace and harmony,” Philip continued after beginning his prayer with a litany of gratitudes. “Ensure that our deliberations are modeled after your heart, your love of all people, rather than fueled by fear and blind ideals. Amen.”
“Amen,” I replied, nodding enthusiastically. The other men around the table echoed their obligatory amens. Yes, they were all men because, well, our denomination only permitted men to preach.
Not an issue for local districts to dispute.
It was the sort of matter that would require deliberation at our denomination’s national convention, and since each district only had one representative who was chosen from the clergy in that district, my status as an envelope-pusher had never earned me so much as a single vote to become the delegate. And being recently off suspension, I was sure they wouldn’t select me this time. Sure enough, selecting a delegate was one of the items on our agenda for the evening.
Philip distributed sheets of paper outlining our meeting’s agenda. I habitually licked my thumb, took mine from the top, and passed the rest of the stack around.
Probably not the most sanitary practice, now that I thought about it.
I mean, since the last time I washed my hands, I’d ridden the Metro, opened a couple of doors, and shaken a few hands.
Nasty. What was I even thinking?
I glanced at the agenda.
I wasn’t sure why “opening prayer” was listed since he hadn’t handed these out until after the prayer had taken place. But after that, there were two items, mostly to do with me, and the third, electing our convention delegate. That one most certainly wouldn’t have a damn thing to do with me.
It listed “Rev. Cruciger’s reinstatement” as the first item to address, followed by “Reconsidering participation in the Methodist soup kitchen.”
“First,” Philip said, “I’d like to welcome Reverend Cruciger back. Everyone here knows Caspar and the reason my predecessor initially suspended him. As we discussed in our emergency session, it seems our former bishop’s decisions might have been made in haste and with compromised judgment. I believe today was Caspar’s first service back at Holy Cross.”
I nodded. “It was.”
“I presume that today was less eventful than your last?” Philip asked.
I winced. “Not exactly.”
Philip smiled. “Well, I’m sure the people were glad to see you nonetheless.”
“It’s not that,” I piped up. “After what happened, word spread. People are coming looking for healings.”
“We’re aware of that,” Philip said, nodding at one of my colleagues. “Reverend Otten managed the situation in your absence. Care to share your experience, Daniel? It might be helpful for Caspar as he navigates this challenge.”
Daniel Otten had historically been a loud-mouth advocate of the hardline approach the former bishop Matthias Flacius had taken. A kindly enough man, older than the rest of us, but also the one most likely to turn over a fellow minister if he felt he’d crossed the line when it came to denominational rules. For instance, he ran a blog dedicated to what I’ve often called “heresy hunting.” He was looking for folks like me, those willing to push the envelope and test the boundaries of our dogm
a and denominational rules.
Otten had once published a scathing blog on the evils of using guitars in worship. Only a pipe organ, he believed, and a piano in a pinch, could be used, and then only to lead a congregation in doctrinally reviewed and approved hymns.
His article included a list of several hundred ministers whom he believed had aligned themselves with Satan on account of offering “contemporary” worship alternatives in their churches.
He also wore a white-tabbed collar almost all the time. In fact, I don’t know if I’d ever seen him without one. He once posted a picture of himself canoeing with his wife, and he had been wearing his collar under his life preserver.
“We had to start locking the doors,” Otten said. “The first week, we had three or four miracle-seekers show up.”
I nodded. “They’re still coming. We had one today. A girl with spina bifida.”
Otten shook his head. “I know the couple. They’ve come every week in your absence. I suspect, though, they’re faking their daughter’s condition to elicit our sympathies and a handout.”
I snorted. I wasn’t about to argue with him. It was a fairly bold accusation, not to mention a gross assumption hidden under a veneer of racially charged assumptions about the family.
But this was one of those opportunities when winning the battle would come at the expense of losing the war.
I wasn’t going to convince Otten that the girl was genuinely in need, and I’d make even less progress asserting that I’d healed her.
“Would it be so wrong,” I suggested, “if we established a fund for folks who are in need? I don’t know about the girl's condition, but it strikes me that a family must be in dire need if they’re willing to go to such measures to secure assistance.”
“Not that I’m opposed to helping the poor,” Otten said, “but once you start doing that, trust me, their kind multiplies like rabbits. You’ll have five more, or even twenty, the next week, expecting additional handouts.”
I sighed. “I understand that can be a challenge, but surely there’s something we can do to help. I feel like we’re wasting an opportunity. We’re an all-white congregation in the middle of the city where minorities are the majority. Most of our members drive thirty minutes or more to come to worship.”
“And they drive so far,” Otten said, “because Holy Cross was their parents’ church, the place where they learned the faith, and their grandparents did the same. They come because the traditions of their youth continue to serve them well.”
I shook my head. “I have no problem with traditions if they are genuinely helping people. And I agree, most people do value them. But surely there’s a reason why our church remains viable, even if only barely so, in a community of need.”
“Where would you propose such funds come from?” Philip asked.
I shrugged. “We have wealthier members who might be persuaded to contribute. Perhaps if I led the charge and donated half my salary to the cause.”
Daniel was laughing while shaking his head. “If that’s what you want to do, there’s no one here who will stand in your way. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. Even Jesus was overwhelmed by crowds of miracle chasers. After he fed the five thousand, he had to flee across a lake because more people came looking for a free meal.”
I nodded. “He left so he could have time to pray, not to get away from the people. He did feed the five thousand, after all, and he empowered his disciples to do it.”
“I’m not questioning your heart or your motives,” Otten said. “But you should act wisely.”
I shook my head. “We’re not just going to hand out cash, but what if we use our funds and pay utility bills for people in need? We could pay people’s rent directly. And if we add our resources to what the Methodist soup kitchen is already doing in our community…”
“Would you like to move on to that item on the agenda?” Philip asked.
I shrugged. “Might as well.”
“The situation hasn’t changed,” Otten said. “They still espouse dangerous doctrines that might deceive the faithful.”
I shook my head. “Have you been to the soup kitchen, Daniel?”
“I have not.”
“They aren’t preaching there, and most of the people who come don’t know the difference between Methodists and Baptists and Lutherans, or any of the other thousand denominations that hide behind the notion that they’re the only ones doing it right.”
“That doesn’t mean,” Daniel said, clenching his fists, “that the differences don’t still exist, nor that such matters are unimportant.”
I sighed. “I agree, such issues are important. But we don’t sort out those issues by retreating into conclaves of like-minded persons while assuming that everyone else has somehow been infected by the devil’s influence.”
“So you’re suggesting we go so we can convince the Methodists of their errors?” Daniel asked, a hint of intrigue in his voice.
I rolled my eyes. “No. I’m suggesting we go so we can contribute to the infrastructure they’ve already established and help more people in the community.”
Otten was about to speak, but Philip raised his hand, cutting him off. “For the sake of argument, let's say that you’re right, Daniel. The Methodists espouse doctrines we believe might conflict with our interpretation of scripture. But if you believe that their teachings are dangerous, wouldn’t you want to be there so that those who are reached at the kitchen don’t all end up in their churches rather than ours?”
I bit my tongue. That point had occurred to me too, but the idea that this was some bait-and-switch scheme to grow our membership rolls was aggravating.
That wasn’t the point.
There were hungry people in the community. Some might not eat if the soup kitchen wasn’t there, and from what I knew, the Methodists were stretched thin. They didn’t have enough volunteers to oversee the place seven days a week. They didn’t have the financial resources to do it, either. The fact of the matter was whether or not the folks who benefited from the kitchen ended up in our churches the following Sunday, if we participated, they’d be able to eat on evenings when they might otherwise go hungry.
“A fair point,” Daniel said. “But I’d suggest we propose to the Methodists taking over the kitchen on the nights when it isn’t open. We run our nights how we see fit. They do the same on the evenings when they are in charge.”
“It’s a possibility,” Philip said. “Is that an agreeable proposal, Caspar?”
I shrugged. “Better than not participating at all. Still, I don’t see any harm if our volunteers and theirs are allowed to contribute on any night of the week, regardless of who is in charge that evening.”
“We can’t prevent our members from volunteering whenever they like,” Philip added. “And trying to enforce rules like that would be untenable.”
“Still,” Otten continued, “on our nights, we will offer prayers before meals. We will be the ones answering questions of a religious nature. We will be the ones handing out invitations to our churches.”
I bit my lip. I thought that was silly, but as a compromise, it was preferable in my estimation to refusing to participate. “I think we could work with that, provided the Methodists agree.”
“Very well,” Philip said. “Then it’s agreed. Caspar, please initiate a conversation with the Methodists in charge and communicate our terms. Pending a final vote to approve this course of action, of course.”
I nodded. “I can do that.”
Philip took a voice vote. On this occasion, the ayes were universal. There were no nays, a small victory. It was progress, anyway.
“With that matter settled,” Philip said. “I’d like to open the floor for nominations for the denomination’s convention.”
“I nominate Daniel Otten,” one of the ministers piped up.
“Any objection?” Philip asked.
No objections were voiced.
“In that case, Daniel, are you willing to serve as our dele
gate should you be chosen?”
“Of course,” Otten said. “It was an honor to serve at the last convention, and I’d be glad to do so again.”
Philip nodded. “I’d like to also nominate Reverend Caspar Cruciger. Do you object to your nomination, Caspar?”
“No, I don’t.” I scratched my head. “But, I mean, I was barely reinstated.”
Otten grunted. “And he’ll be distracted by his duties at the soup kitchen. Provided the Methodists agree to our terms.”
“Are you objecting to his nomination, Daniel?” Philip asked.
“No,” Daniel said. “No objection.”
I didn’t win, but I did secure five out of eleven votes, which was darn close. One more and we’d have ended up in a tie. Technically, I abstained, and Otten voted for himself, so one could argue that effectively we did tie. If I’d voted for myself, we’d be six-to-six. But in this case, unlike other formal matters, we’d voted by secret ballot. No one knew for certain that I was the one who abstained.
Though, from the look on Philip’s face when he announced the tally, he suspected it.
I was assuming Otten had cast his vote for himself, but there wasn’t any way he’d vote for me. Cows would fly before he did that.
Truthfully, it was the best-case scenario. I didn’t want to go to a convention, not when elven legions might burst through the gates at any time. Not when, according to Layla, I’d be the best shot my fellow humans would have to stop them. I probably should have declined the nomination, all things considered, but I didn’t think I’d get more than a single vote. And even then, I suspected, Philip had only nominated me as a good-faith measure.
But for some reason, half the council believed I was preferable to Otten. I, the one who was always challenging church dogma, as opposed to my colleague, who believed himself to be a defender of it.
An odd position, given that the God of the Bible had created the universe, decided the outcomes of wars, flooded the world, and raised himself from the dead. Why would anyone think that a God who could do things like that needed us to defend him?
Old Dogma New Tricks (The Elven Prophecy Book 2) Page 5
