Author: McMillian Moody
Category: Christian
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For some reason the Sanhedrin came to mind.
As I waited for Tom’s return, I perused the art and artifacts of his office. A plaque on the wall revealed he’d graduated Summa Cum Laude from Slippery Rock University. Quite humorous considering his line of work, I chuckled. From his collection of books I could tell he must be quite bright, though I doubted he’d actually read many of them. I even flirted with the idea of asking him a question from Thomas Aquinas's Commentary on Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics. But then I remembered my father’s sage wisdom. Dad always said, “Never embarrass the man who signs your paycheck.” Tom wouldn’t be signing my paychecks, but I figured Dad’s wise axiom still applied.
When Tom finally returned, he finished briefing me on the particulars of my job. Basically, I would shadow him for the first several weeks, and he would be my supervisor for the entire six months. I would attend all staff meetings, pertinent committee meetings, and just maybe a deacons meeting or two. Since I was already a licensed minister, I would be assigned a sampling of all staff responsibilities, including hospital visitation, funerals, baptisms, weddings, and such.
Finally, he said the words I’d longed to hear all day: “Let me take you down to your office.”
I forcefully repressed any show of emotion, but inside I was giddy. I’d never had my own office before. Even the secretaries at First Church had great offices with fancy wood trim and custom-built desks. I knew mine wouldn’t be on the fifth floor. Perhaps the fourth floor? Would my window look out on downtown or perhaps back toward the picturesque west horizon? I briefly closed my eyes and imagined a stunning sunset outside my window. We got on the executive elevator, and my ebullient spirit quickly dampened as Tom pushed the second floor button. I fought to regroup. Well, at least it’s not on the first floor. We exited the elevator and began a series of turns, first walking past the print shop, then the music library and the nurse’s station. Where are the staff offices? I wondered. Finally, we passed an office. I read the nameplate as we walked by:
Rev. Fred Snooker
Interim Senior Adult Pastor
M-W-F (mornings only)
Snooker. Unfortunate name for a pastor, I thought. Two more turns and we came to a dead end. To our left, was a solid metal door badly in need of a fresh coat of paint. The sign on the door read: Utilities/Miscellaneous Closet.
Tom turned to me and without a trace of apology in his voice, said, “This will be your office. We haven’t assigned office space to any previous interns, but since you’ll be performing ministerial duties, I pulled some strings and got you your own place.”
He then smiled at me. That special smile. You know, the one that quietly says I like you, but the fact is you’re a punk, and you have to start at the bottom just like the rest of us did.
He pushed open the door and there it was—my very own Deluxe Utility Closet. Deluxe, meaning they supplied it with a six-foot banquet table and one metal folding chair.
And my window? It looked out on a panoramic view, all right.
A panoramic view of the church dumpster.
The Horses Rearing
My first week on staff at First Church had gone pretty well. I was systematically getting to know each member of the large staff. Thanks to my nickname, I had to suffer through the obligatory onslaught of Muppet jokes. Nothing new, of course, but when I met Tom Applebee’s secretary, I knew the ribbing would proliferate dramatically. Her name? Adrianne Figghie. Yes, that’s Figghie which rhymes with Piggy. As luck would have it, Miss Figghie was both single and quite “rotund,” if you will. To exacerbate the problem even more, in the right lighting, she bore a slight resemblance to the famed Muppet heroine. I felt awful as she became collateral damage to my humiliation, but what could I do? To her credit, she seemed nonplussed by the relentless wisecracks.
Wednesday morning arrived, and we all gathered for the weekly staff meeting in the first floor boardroom—not to be confused with the sacred fifth floor Executive boardroom. A generous supply of donuts, Danish, and coffee covered a table in the far corner. People trickled in, slowly filling the room. I stood next to the coffee pot enjoying a glazed donut and chatting with Adrianne about my list of assignments for the day. I looked up as Thurman Wilson, the youth pastor, casually slipped in from the hall. I knew Thurm from seminary, though he’d graduated a couple years before me.
Thurm spotted me across the room and in his best Cookie Monster voice hollered, “Hey Elmo, could you get Miss Figghie to toss me a cooookkkieeeeeee?”
The room exploded in laughter. I felt my face heat with embarrassment. I turned to apologize to Adrianne, only to discover she had mysteriously slipped away. I started to fire back a witty quip about God’s vengeance, when I noticed everyone shuffling to find a seat as Dr. Jorgensen strode through the door. I marveled at the subtle shift in demeanor, from comfortable camaraderie to nervous respect inspired by his commanding presence.
Dr. Jorgensen took his seat at the head of the boardroom table. I quickly discerned the existence of an unspoken delineation by which the staff members seated themselves. Like some type of subliminal pecking order. Apparently, the twelve seats around the table had fixed assignments, whereas the others seem to be filled at random. My best guess? Seniority rules. The longer you’ve been on staff, the closer you sit to Dr. Jorgensen. I could only imagine how awkward it must be when someone retired or got fired. Did everyone just move over one seat, like some kind of pharisaical musical chairs or fruit basket turnover? As I dawdled on that thought, I yawned but quickly closed my mouth. It’s your first staff meeting. Stop looking like a schmuck!
As second-in-command, Tom Applebee took the seat directly to Dr. Jorgensen’s right. Fran Bruker, the pastor’s long-time secretary, occupied the seat to Dr. Jorgensen’s left. I estimated Mrs. Bruker, a widow, to be somewhere in her late seventies. I’d been told her husband died decades earlier, soon after their wedding day and under questionable circumstances. Though she was never implicated in his passing, his suspicious death raised many questions which were never resolved. They had no children, and she never remarried. Quietly living out her life, Mrs. Bruker had served as secretary to the last two senior pastors of First Church.
I have a bad habit of thinking everyone looks like somebody else. I drive my family and friends crazy making these comparisons. Fran Bruker reminded me of Cloris Leachman’s character Frau Blucher in the movie Young Frankenstein—small but stern, with harsh facial features and bad teeth. In the movie, every time someone said the name Frau Blucher, you’d hear the nervous whinny of horses rearing off in the distance. Moderately funny in the movie, now it was hysterical.
A couple of days earlier, I’d mentioned this Frau Blucher observation to Thurm. We had a good laugh over it, cracking an endless run of jokes along those lines. In hind site? Bad mistake. Now, when Fran Bruker’s name was announced to read the minutes, I made eye contact with Thurm and the horses reared. I had to call upon every ounce of sheer willpower just to keep from bursting into laughter. Thurm’s eyes watered, and I almost wet my pants. Like village idiots, we had opened a Pandora’s Box.
As Fran droned on reading the minutes, I began studying the different people sitting at the table. Tom had given me a thorough run-down on each staff person. Harry Simpkins, the minister of music, sat at Tom’s right. Tom told me Harry was a piece of work, describing him as a cross between a vaudeville entertainer and professional hockey player. It’s widely held that music ministers at large churches tend to be aloof, arrogant, and on occasion, a tad bit prissy. Not Harry. He had a big heart and even bigger personality, but often lacked common sense. Passionate to a fault and not known for being graceful or diplomatic, Harry was indeed quite the character.
Over the years, Harry’s crazy escapades had become legendary. Tom told me about the time Harry and the youth pastor de jour chaperoned a canoeing trip. While loading the teens back on the bus after a meal break, Harry and the youth pastor got into a heated logistics argument that quickly escalated out of
control. Fascinated, the kids watched from the bus as their two leaders engaged in a sanctified fist fight. Two godly men rolling in the dirt with their ordained irreverence on full display.
The poor youth pastor returned to find his office empty and a moving van in front of his home. The beloved Harry survived the incident with a reprimand from the deacons and a few hours of First Church’s consecrated brand of community service.
Next to Harry sat Fred Snooker, associate pastor emeritus and now part-time minister for senior adults. Before Dr. Jorgensen arrived, Fred had served as associate to the previous senior pastor, the infamous Dr. Buster Sapp. The onset of dementia had forced Dr. Sapp to retire in his later years. No one knew a problem existed until they discovered Dr. Sapp had been dressing up as an elderly woman and attending the Ladies Missionary Society meetings. The ladies even voted him president-elect of their prestigious women’s group before the charade was uncovered. An awkward moment in the otherwise illustrious narrative of First Church.
After the Buster debacle, Fred Snooker stepped boldly into the gap serving as interim pastor while the church searched for a successor. Assuming he would be the next senior pastor, Fred faced bitter disappointment when the church hired Jorgensen instead. A good and decent man, Fred humbly accepted the outcome and stayed on as associate pastor until retiring several years ago. Fred recently rejoined the staff in an interim position replacing Senior Adult pastor Hugo Withers. The elderly Withers had died of natural causes. A colleague found him at his desk, face down in his taco salad.
Looking back across the table, I studied Bob Stevens, the church business manager seated to the left of Fran Bruker. Bob looked like a typical accountant, small in stature, thinning hair, and beady eyes behind black-framed glasses. He seemed nervous to me, like Al Capone’s personal accountant must have looked. The annual budget of First Church totaled $11 million, mostly funded through tithes and offerings and special gifts from the town’s well-heeled. The church kept another $1 million tucked safely away to be used for more parking spaces should adjacent land ever become available. Forget missions. These folks wanted to park close to the building. Bob Stevens managed all of it. According to Tom, Bob was a man of rigid personal habits. He even took his two-week vacation at the exact same time every summer and always to the exact same location in the Cayman Islands. An interesting getaway spot for the church bookkeeper.
Louis Estrada sat next to Bob. To be honest, I found the tall, dark Singles pastor to be rather odd looking. Like maybe he’d spent a little too long in the birth canal. But it takes a special set of gifts to be a minister to singles, and Louis clearly possessed them. First Church enjoyed a wildly successful singles ministry thanks to the impressive program designed under his leadership. As Fran read off the calendar of events for the next several weeks, at least half the entries involved singles activities. Being young and single myself, I carefully noted those that related to my age group. I’d visited First Church in the past, keenly aware of the large pool of single righteous babes in attendance. Hopefully, my new status as a staff member would improve my chances with the ladies. To be honest, I needed all the help I could get.
As Fran finished going over the calendar, I hurried to wrap up my observations of the staff members at the table. Ramona Holloway served as music associate. An attractive woman with scary eyes, she was single and probably so for the long haul. Next to Ramona sat matronly Doreen McGinty, the children’s director. Doreen had an unusually soft voice. Almost a whisper, which I presumed came from years and years of yelling, “Stop that this minute!” Next, Raze Hankins the minister to married adults, and Terry Hankins the college and career pastor. I was betting they were related. Rounding out the table, Bernard Coggins served as head of pastoral care. Bernard played clean-up batter, covering all those tasks the other pastors didn’t like to bother with—bereavement visits, counseling, the benevolence ministry, etc.
The second echelon of staff members sat in padded folding chairs around the perimeter of the room. These included the building superintendent, food service manager, preschool director, Thurm the youth pastor, Johnny Rochelle the recreation director, the security director, and a whole brood of secretaries. There are more people attending this staff meeting than the Sunday morning attendance of about 75 percent of the churches in America, I thought. I’m not sure that an $11 million budget is enough.
When Fran finished, we took a short break. All the secretaries, assistants, and directors were excused, leaving only the upper-level staff in the room. I grabbed my Daytimer and started to leave with the other underlings.
“Jenkins.”
I recognized Dr. Jorgensen’s voice over my shoulder. As one of his defining characteristics, Dr. Jorgensen addressed everyone by their last name, men and women alike. I turned as the pastor emerged from the hubbub of expensive suits and walked toward me.
“Jenkins,” he said again, “just a moment. I’m going to break protocol and have you stay for the rest of the meeting. I’ve discerned that you’re an idea guy. And to be honest, this group of . . .” He paused, subtly scanning the remaining staff members mingling around the room. “A collective . . .” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “Well, let’s just call them a collective brain cramp. They could use some new, fresh ideas.”
Did he just say what I think he said? Did he ask me to stay? I checked the room. Did anyone else hear this? Surely someone had just witnessed the most significant moment of my young ministerial career. No such luck. Still stunned, I didn’t know what to say. “Uh, sure . . . well, uh . . . why, thank you, sir.”
“Just grab an empty chair at the table and feel free to jump right in on the discussions. I’ll let everyone know you’re here on my invitation as an active participant. Fair enough?”
“Sure. Absolutely.” I took a seat.
The door closed, and Dr. Jorgensen led a quick prayer for wisdom, discernment, and brevity. I got the distinct feeling he had a tee-time and didn’t want to be late for it. Tom Applebee passed out copies of the agenda. Concise and to the point, the list included just four words or names:
July 7th Agenda:
Strickland
Harvey
Debt
Festival
Whoa. What’s with the cryptic agenda? I better start praying for some of that wisdom and discernment.
BOOM! Tom Applebee jumped right in. “We have a vacancy on our Finance Committee. The nominating committee suggested Ansel Strickland, and he’s willing to serve. If we approve him, he’s in. Comments?”
“Strickland’s background check came back clean,” Bob Stevens began. “He’s been married twice, but his first wife won’t be a problem. She remarried and lives in another state. Their children are all adults now. All successful citizens. He has no children with Betty, his second wife. Betty is a faithful volunteer in our church media library. Strickland has worked middle management for Morgenstern-Kimble for twenty-seven years with excellent marks on his annual evaluations. He’s bright and stable.”
“Any hobbies?” Harry Simpkins asked.
“He’s a collector of sorts,” Bob responded. “Vintage civil war firearms, old clocks, antique toys. That sort of thing.”
“That stuff can get pricey. How does he pay for it?” Harry pressed.
“He makes one twenty-three five annually at Morgenstern-Kimble,” Bob continued, “and Betty knocks down another twenty grand as a part-time legal assistant. He appears to manage his money well and has little or no credit card debit.”
I fought to keep my composure. I couldn’t believe the copious nature of what I was hearing. Weren’t we simply discussing the qualifications of a potential volunteer church committee member? It sounded more like the vetting process for a Supreme Court justice.
“Is he a tither?” Fred Snooker asked.
Now there’s a reasonable question, I thought.
“Last year, he gave 13.6 percent of his total gross income including benefits to the church,” Bob answered. “Anothe
r two thousand to other charitable activities in the community.”
My head began to swim. I struggled to look attentive, but the intense scrutiny boggled my brain. A sickening thought came to mind. What on earth had they discussed about me before I was hired?
Louis Estrada joined the inquisition. “What about his health?”
“It’s all good. Very good,” Bob stated. “He’s a runner. Low cholesterol. Good family history.”
I wondered if they’d checked his teeth like prospective buyers of a racing horse. How did they get all this information on the poor guy? I half expected someone to produce his tax returns or latest urine sample.
Out of nowhere, Dr. Jorgensen asked, “Jenkins, what do you think?”
Startled by his question, I made a concerted effort to look contemplative. How do I play this game? Do I ask something about his views on stewardship? But then a strange confidence came over me. The finger of God was at work again. His greater purposes for my life were at play, and I felt compelled to go with the movement in my spirit. I paused, then slowly panned the table looking at the faces of people I hardy knew. I turned to Dr. Jorgensen and asked, “What about his faith? We’ve discussed his good work ethic, his strong exercise regimen, his apparent honesty and integrity. Have these strengths been forged through sheer human will, or are they fruits of a life built upon a sincere faith in God?”
I could only imagine the thoughts floating around the table.
Kid, you are so naïve.
You don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.
Why are you in here anyway?
After a long pause, Dr. Jorgensen said, “Insightful question, Jenkins. This is one of our most important committees. We need men of strong faith for our leaders. I believe Mr. Strickland to be such a man, but too often we take these things for granted.”
Several of the other staff members confirmed Ansel Strickland to be a godly man, then we moved on. I kept my mouth shut for the rest of the meeting. But I did notice a subtle change in the attitude and demeanor of the staff as they discussed the other items on the agenda. When the meeting ended, we stood to leave. Dr. Jorgensen gently patted me on the back without a word. When I turned to acknowledge him, he winked at me with a smile, his way of saying well done.