Author: McMillian Moody
Category: Christian
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/mcmillian-moody/page,5,24855-ordained-irreverence.html
“She may or may not,” Johnny explained. ‘That’s just how it is with her, Elmo. Believe me, I know. I’ve worked with—excuse me—for her many times. And don’t expect much appreciation for your efforts.”
“Well, that’s bleak,” I bellyached. “Any suggestions?”
He hesitated. “I suggest you lose the pity party, suck it up, and do the best you can.”
I paused. “All right then, I think I’ve got it. Good night, Johnny.” I hung up the phone. At first, I was ticked, but the more I thought about it, I decided Johnny was right.
I went to bed thinking about the different ways a person could orchestrate a timely leg injury. What does a minister of recreation do anyway? . . . zzzzz . . .
The next morning I jumped right in and systematically started knocking out each task on my list. I was a virtual machine—lining up parking attendants, ordering hors d'oeuvres, estimating the number of available seats. I actually started to feel good about the project. Not only was my list almost completed, I also had a feeling this was going to be an excellent event.
While looking through a list of potential deejays, Tom’s voice crackled over my intercom. “Elmo? Are you there?”
“I sure am. What’s up, Tom?”
“You know that project I put you on for Mrs. Jorgensen?”
“Yeah?” I set down the list of deejays.
“It’s been cancelled.”
“What?! What do you mean cancelled?” I fumed, exasperated. “I’ve already put in over twenty hours of work into this project!”
“Mrs. Jorgensen ran the idea by her daughter. Stacey told her the idea sucked, and assured her none of the teenage girls would come. So Annette May decided to can the event. I’m really sorry, but just close it down and wrap up any necessary loose ends.”
“Okay. Thanks,” I said, not meaning it. I switched off the intercom. Sitting there in shock, I felt like the refuse of the rich and famous. If this is what it was going to be like working full-time in a church, I didn’t want anything to do with it. Let the kiss-up Johnny Rochelles of the world have this crap. God was going to have to clarify a few things for me. It felt like I was interning at some religious version of the DMV.
I turned the intercom back on. “Adrianne? You there?”
“Yes, “she answered.
“Tell Tom I’m going home for the rest of the day. I’ve sustained a groin pull.”
I clicked off the intercom, then slammed The Closet door behind me. The impact knocked my new nameplate to the floor.
Not that I cared.
The Snafu
Even the mailbox case at First Church reflected the staff hierarchy-of-importance. Located in the break room, the case resembled one you might see in a post office with five or six rows of slots. The top row had only two mail slots; subsequently they were quite large—one for Dr. Jorgenson, the other for Tom Applebee. Then, with each descending row, the slots grew progressively smaller, until you reached the last slot on the last row which was barely big enough for a small envelope. This was my slot. It wasn’t even labeled. Oh the subtle humiliation of it all. So I defiantly made a label for all the world to see as a reminder that bottom dwellers are people too: Elmo the Great. Unfortunately, as I attempted to put the new label in place I discovered it was much too wide. After trimming it down to size I was left with “mo the Gr.” I figured what the heck and taped it up there anyway. At least it would keep them guessing.
If anyone even noticed.
Around ten o’clock on Friday morning, I swung by the mail case to check my slot. Three items of interest and a bunch of religious junk mail crammed my humble slot. After discarding the mailers for 101 Ways to Improve Your Preaching Now on DVD and Using Bobblehead Dolls of the Apostles to Grow Your Sunday School, I was left with:
▪ The next staff meeting agenda
▪ A memo from Tom Applebee concerning my assignments
▪ A sealed envelope with Elmo written on the front
I walked up one flight of stairs, then down the hall and into The Closet where I flipped on the light and tossed my mail on the table. Normally at this point, I would’ve taken off my sports jacket or suit coat, but this was casual Friday. One Friday a month the staff is allowed to dress casually. That meant a short sleeved-shirt or perhaps a collared sport shirt, no tie, and casual slacks. On this particular day, I wore Dockers and a blue golf shirt.
Before I could even sit down, Miss Figghie’s voice came over my intercom. “Elmo? Are you there?”
I pressed the call button. “Just walked in. What’s up?”
She sounded urgent. “We have an emergency. There are one hundred people over at Forest Lakes Cemetery waiting for Deacon Phillip’s graveside service to begin.”
“Okay. What’s the emergency?”
“Dr. Jorgensen is supposed to perform the service, but he’s nowhere to be found. We’ve been trying to track him down for the last thirty minutes with no luck.”
“Well, who’s going to cover it?” I laughed to myself, imagining Tom Applebee or Fred Snooker having to bust cheeks over there to rescue the situation.
“That’s the problem,” Miss Figghie stated flatly. “There’s no one around today but you.”
Uh oh.
I’d never done a funeral before, much less one without any time to prepare. Think, Elmo, think! “Wait a minute,” I shouted into the intercom. “I just saw Thurm Wilson downstairs. Call his office and have him meet me in the staff parking lot, pronto. We’ll get this covered.”
Thurm jumped into my car and off we went. I noticed he too was wearing a golf shirt.
“What’s the deal?” he asked.
“A bunch of people are over at the cemetery, including one dead guy, waiting for a graveside service, and Dr. Jorgensen is a no-show. Ever done a funeral service?”
Thurm sat up in his seat. “Whoa, where’s Horace?”
“They can’t find him, and I’m too nervous to speculate. Again, have you ever done a funeral service?” I asked urgently.
Thurm was cool under fire. “Yeah, I’ve done a few. You open with a prayer, read the particulars about the deceased from the obituary, then read the first part of John chapter 14, followed by the 23rd Psalm, and close with the Lord’s Prayer. It’s not too hard.”
“Great.” I sighed with relief. “You’ve just been nominated to save Dr. Jorgensen’s tail.”
“No way,” Thurm shot back. “I’m in a golf shirt!”
“Sorry Thurm, but your pastor needs you, these people need you, and I need you. I’ve never done a funeral before! Here’s my Bible. Start preparing.”
Thurm reluctantly took my Bible, resolved to the inevitable. “The New Living translation? Who uses The New Living translation?”
“Shut up and start getting ready! We’ll be there in no time.”
When we arrived at Forest Lakes Cemetery, the people had been waiting a full hour for the service to begin. We apologized for Dr. Jorgensen not being there, we apologized for our casual clothing, we apologized for the late start, then we apologized for apologizing so much. The family members were understanding, but anxious to get on with the service. The funeral director handed Thurm a copy of the program with the obituary included, and he started the service. From my perspective, it went quite well. I was impressed. Thurm hit a home run covering all the bases, and came across very caring, as if he’d actually known these people or spent some time with the family before the service.
I was congratulating Thurm after the service when we were approached by Deacon Phillip’s daughter. She thanked us for coming to the rescue, then dropped a bomb on poor old Thurm. Evidently Deacon Phillip’s first name was Jacob. He had a twin brother named Jeffrey. Jeffrey attended the service, sitting in the front row. In his rush to get the service started, Thurm had misread the funeral program and eulogized Jeffrey the brother, instead of Jacob, the deceased. All of Thurm’s kind comments about a life of service and the welcome reception at the Pearly Gates had accidentally been ab
out a living, breathing man sitting right in front of him in the front row. But the daughter was very gracious, and even shared that Jeffrey was so impressed with Thurm’s eulogy, that he had requested him to do it again for his funeral when the time came.
Thurm was mortified. Me? I thought it was hilarious but mostly glad it hadn’t happened to me.
The sister handed me a check made out to Dr. Jorgensen for $100, asking me to thank him for all he had done for the family during this difficult time.
How about that. He misses the funeral and still gets a check and a thank you. Man, senior pastors are held in high esteem.
Wonder if he’s on the front nine or the back nine?
When we got back to the church, I was informed that Dr. Jorgenson was in his office. Turns out he’d been handling a life-and-death emergency for one of our members at Memorial Hospital. Because the situation had been so touch-and-go, he’d not even been able to check in with the church. I went up to his office to give him the check for the funeral. He graciously thanked me for my role in getting the graveside service covered. He’d already heard about Thurm’s snafu, and we both chuckled about it.
Then Dr. Jorgensen told me about the strangest funeral he’d ever participated in. Several years ago, he’d received a call from an attorney out on the west coast. Apparently an old millionaire had died and left specific details about his funeral in his will. If these details were followed precisely as instructed, fifty percent of the dead man’s wealth would go to a certain world mission agency. The attorney, who represented this mission organization, called to inform him that the dead millionaire had requested Dr. Jorgensen preside over his burial at sea. He also wanted to be buried in a casket. The man had even listed the exact latitude and longitude for the burial location at sea. For the sake of the mission agency, Dr. Jorgensen had flown out there as instructed, and on the designated day, he joined about fifty other people for a four-hour boat ride out into international waters. It was illegal under the nearest state’s law to bury a person at sea in a casket.
Under these unusual circumstances, Dr. Jorgensen performed his regular funeral service, and all was going according to plan until something very unexpected happened. After the family said their farewells, the casket was released over the side of the boat. It floated, refusing to submerge. The family was understandably shaken by the spectacle. The poor funeral directors were perplexed, so they huddled together and formulated a plan. One of the funeral home employees stripped down to his pants, put on a life jacket, then was lowered down into the water. He swam to the casket, opened the lid and let it fill with water. It still didn’t sink. Some of the family members were beside themselves. Finally, one of the boat crewmen came up with a workable plan. They brought the casket back on board, attached the spare boat anchor to it, chain and all, then threw both the casket and the anchor over the side of the yacht where it sunk to the bottom of the ocean.
“Right there on that boat that day, I vowed I’d never do another funeral at sea,” Dr. Jorgensen said.
I left his office wondering what my first funeral would be like and hoping I wouldn’t have to don a life jacket.
Back at The Closet, I started going through my mail. I browsed the staff meeting agenda for next week. Nothing stood out except for one name: Eddie Hughes. I figured it must be time for one of those periodic meetings with Eddie, telling him to back off harassing the singles chicks. I wondered how long the staff would tolerate Eddie before just telling him to find another church home. Maybe that time had arrived.
Then I picked up the interoffice memo from my supervisor, Tom Applebee. It was attached to a book entitled Pastoral Ministry for Dummies.
MEMO:
To: Mr. Ellington “Elmo” Jenkins
From: Pastor Tom Applebee
Re: Evaluation
Elmo,
Since you have now completed the first month of your First Church internship, I thought it appropriate to give you my initial evaluation. So far, I am very pleased with what I see. Dr. Jorgensen shares my opinion. We like your initiative and your ability to cut through the church hype and get to the meat of the situation. You get an A+ for people skills. This has been verified by the relationships you have already developed with many of the staf,f and from reports we’re hearing about your interactions with members of the church.
On the practical side, we will now be asking you to take on a few ministerial duties. This will add experience to your obvious knowledge base. I have included a copy of the book Pastoral Ministry for Dummies. This thin volume will give you some basic instruction on how to prepare and perform pastoral duties like funerals, weddings, baptisms, etc.
Keep up the great work.
Tom Applebee
I folded the memo and smiled. Good start, Elmo. I pretended to pat myself on the back. I set the book aside, but not far. Remembering this morning’s emergency graveside service, I knew this “how to” book would come in handy.
The last piece of mail was a small sealed envelope with my first name handwritten on the front. The envelope was pale purple. I hoped it wasn’t from a guy.
I opened the envelope and pulled out a note card. It simply said,
Would you consider doing lunch sometime?
Bonnie
At first, I was taken aback. No, to be honest, I was astonished! I’d never received an invitation from a female before. It was courteous, concise, and to the point. But wait a minute. Bonnie was breaking the rules. Wasn’t the guy supposed to be the initiator?
I couldn’t decide if I was more flattered or more concerned by her aggressiveness.
My contemplation would have to wait for now. It was Friday with much left to accomplish, and the day was already half over.
The Indigestion
On Monday morning, I had a message in my wee little mailbox to drop by the office of Bob Stevens, the church administrator. And of course, the yahoo signed it Bob “Big Bird” Stevens. You need to understand Bob is all of five feet four, and that’s with double lifts. Since Bob’s office was on the first floor right around the corner from the mailboxes, I went there first.
Tapping on the partially open door, I stuck my head into his office. “Hey, has anyone seen Big Bird around these parts?”
Bob looked up from his budget reports and cracked a big smile. “Elmo! Good. Have a seat.”
As I sat down in the red leather chair facing his desk, I noticed the paneled wall to my left covered with framed photographs from the Caribbean—specifically the Cayman Islands, Bob’s annual vacation spot. Without fully thinking through the implications of my question I asked, “Bob, have you ever read John Grisham’s book The Firm?”
He jettisoned his smile and stared right into my eyes.
Uh oh. Wish I had that question back.
Bob maintained his stare. Awkward. A contemplative pause hung between us. Finally, in a not-so-serious tone, he quipped, “Who’s got time to read fiction?” He let out a sinister little laugh. The laugh of a sinister little man.
He quickly segued to the reason for summoning me to his office. “Elmo, we evaluate all interns on an ongoing basis. When we determine that they’re a good fit here—dedicated to the task and serious about learning the ropes of local church ministry—we seal the deal. You’ve reached that point, and I’m pleased to inform you that we’re rewarding you with a new laptop computer. It’s outfitted with a wireless card and already programmed with access to our church network, including email. Your email address will be [email protected]. The best news of all is that you get to keep the laptop, even after your internship is over, courtesy of one of our generous members.”
“Wow,” I blurted out. “Thank you! Will it connect from my clos. . . ?” I caught myself. “From my office?”
Bob’s big smile returned. “It will not only connect from your office, but from any place in town that provides a courtesy wireless service, including your seminary. You can even connect to our network while sipping snooty coffee at places like Sta
rbucks.”
“Man! Thank you, Bob.” I took the box from him. “Starbucks? Wow,” I mumbled to myself as I left his office.
The time had come. I needed to respond to Bonnie’s lunch invitation. What better way to break in my new computer than to send her my first email. Setting the laptop on my office table, I opened the lid. While the laptop booted up, I reviewed what I knew about Bonnie:
1. She was Louis Estrada’s secretary and had worked at First Church for two or three years.
2. She had graduated from college and wanted to be a teacher and a writer.
3. She had a quick, witty sense of humor.
4. She was attractive with long brown hair, bright eyes, and a great smile. She must have worn braces because her teeth were all straight and in the correct places.
5. And for some unknown reason, she apparently wanted to get to know me better.
Laughing out loud, I remembered what a nerd I was when it came to this whole dating/girlfriend thing. I’d been on a few dates, but nothing ever came of them. Truth be known, I’d never even kissed a girl. Twenty-five years old and never been kissed. Pathetic. So now I have this nice girl asking me out to lunch, and I’m hesitant. Not because I’m fearful or shy, but because I’m Old School. Shouldn’t I be the one asking her out? Deciding to turn the tables, I upped the ante. Forget lunch. I would ask her out for a full-blown dinner date.
Launching Outlook Express, I clicked on Create Mail. A window opened, and I dove right in.
Bonnie,
Thanks for the lunch invite, but I’d rather take you out to dinner instead. I know it sounds corny, but let’s just say I’m kind of old-fashioned. How does Friday night sound? I know a great upscale Cuban restaurant over on Murphy Road —Casa Verdi, which translates, the Green House. Wonderful food and a lush, exotic décor. By the way, they do have a dress code. A sign over the front door says, No Tie, No Taco. Let me know what you think.