Author: McMillian Moody
Category: Christian
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/mcmillian-moody/page,10,24855-ordained-irreverence.html
And that’s how The Black Toe Enigma got started,” Fred said.
Thurm spoke first. “I don’t get what the big deal is. A guy rescues the Chairman of the Deacons and gets frostbitten toes in the process. I mean, I admire his courage, but why are we talking about this over a hundred years later?”
Fred grinned. “It would’ve been a nice story that ended right there, except for these.”
He started flipping through the pages of the album. Handwritten notes signed and dated The Black Toe or TBT filled the book. Official looking interoffice memos either mentioned something about The Black Toe Enigma in the text of the memo, or were simply signed TBT. Several church newsletters or newspaper clippings included lengthy stories about The Black Toe Enigma. A variety of odd, random items like the gum wrapper I’d found were included as well. Most were dated and included cryptic messages or warnings.
Fred added, “And you have to remember these artifacts were collected over a period of a hundred years.”
“So, are you telling us that some church member known only to Wiley Smith, would impart wisdom or guidance through secret contacts or anonymous messages to the leaders of the church?”
“That’s one theory,” Fred said. “But the range of dates involved would’ve made our mystery man well over one hundred years old.”
“Then what do you think this all means?” I asked.
“To be honest, Elmo, I haven’t given it much thought in a long time. Your gum wrapper discovery the other day brought it back to the surface. When I first received this album, I spent quite a bit of time trying to figure out the puzzle. Back then, I concluded that old Black Toes was still alive and active in the church. I thought it was my goal to discover who it was. But over the years, I’ve come to believe that ninety-nine percent of the legend is baloney. And though an actual person may have existed during the ‘30s, ‘40s, and ‘50s going by the code name “The Black Toe,” who was covertly influencing the church leadership, he has long ago passed away.”
“I can understand how you arrived at your conclusion.” I said. “But it leaves many unanswered questions. Why did this really get started? Why did somebody need to act covertly here at First Church? And who has kept the legend alive by planting these artifacts over the years? Just to name a few.” I’d obviously been bitten by the TBT mystery.
Fred closed the album and handed it to me. “Elmo, why don’t you take this for a while and look it over. See what you come up with. I’d be really interested in hearing your thoughts after you’ve spent some time with it.”
The last retreat session came and went, but my mind spent the time elsewhere thinking about the crazy Black Toe Enigma. Later, for the two-hour trip back to the church, I chose to ride in the van named John with Harry stowed safely in the other van. Negotiating the entire back seat for myself, I slept all the way back to the First Church parking lot.
I may have even snored.
The Kiss
Standing on Bonnie’s front porch I decided to do one final Elmo checklist:
Fly up—check.
Nose clear—check.
Breath mint in place—check.
Threat of gas—minimal.
I had on blue jeans, my signature flip flops, and an Arizona Cardinals football jersey (a gift). No watch, no rings, no jewelry. I’m not a jewelry kind of guy. Pity the poor girl who ends up marrying me. Perhaps she’ll have a family heirloom wedding ring. Now, that would be a twofer.
Ready or not here I come. I pushed the doorbell. I felt really confident about this Elmo/Bonnie thing, and was trying hard not to mess it up. After a minute or so when no one came to the door, I started to lose my confidence. I pushed the doorbell again. Maybe it’s broken, maybe this is the wrong apartment, maybe I’m early, maybe I’m late, maybe I’ve got the wrong time alltogether, maybe she’s upset, maybe I ought to get out of here. I’m blushing, I just know it. I’ll go back out to my car and call her and tell her I’m lost—which could actually be true.
I started slowly walking back down the path from her apartment when I heard the door open. Awkward.
“Elmo,” I heard Bonnie say. “Where’re you going, handsome?”
“Well, I, uh . . . well, uh . . . nowhere,” I said stuttering, smiling, and blushing all at the same time. “Did you say handsome?”
“Yeah, and I meant it.”
All of a sudden my confidence returned. Watching Bonnie stand there, leaning against her doorframe, I realized how really attractive she was. Call me smitten, but she was a knockout. She had on old faded jeans with raggedy holes in the knees topped with a navy blue sorority-girl T-shirt with Got Grace? written in big white letters. Now there’s some subtle evangelism, I thought. She’d tied up her long brown hair in a ponytail, and she wore just a wisp of makeup. But what made Bonnie so beautiful were her eyes—her big, bright, beautiful eyes, the perfect blend of green and blue.
“What you got there, Elmo?” she asked, looking at the DVD in my hand.
“It’s The Princess Bride, one of my personal favorites,” I said as I stepped back up onto the front porch. “I thought it might be fun to watch after dinner.”
She leaned forward and whispered the movie’s most famous line into my ear.
“Ah, I see you’re a Princess Bride aficionado.” I smiled.
She smiled back as she led me into her apartment. “It’s one of my favorite movies too.”
“I should’ve known.” I closed the door behind us. “Wow. You have a really nice apartment, Bonnie. Cool furniture.”
“Most of the good pieces belong to my roommate Peg. I want you to meet her.”
We walked down a short hall and around a corner into a small apartment-size kitchenette. Peg was pouring herself a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal.
Bonnie introduced us. “This is Peg Leahy, my roommate and best friend.”
Peg looked up from her pouring and set the milk carton on the counter. She extended her hand to me. “Well, if it’s not the Dread Intern Elmo,” she said with a wink.
I shook her hand laughing, “I see that every occupant of this apartment has seen The Princess Bride.”
“I grew up in the Sudan,” Peg explained. “It was one of only six videos my family owned. Our copy was dubbed in French with English subtitles. I’ve watched it literally hundreds of times.”
“Wait a minute,” I said, “I recognize you from seminary. Didn’t we have a class together last winter?”
“Systematic Theology to be exact.” Peg chuckled. “I was there the infamous day you tried to sneak out early and accidentally stepped in the hood of that girl’s coat, ripping off the fur collar. What a scream. Whatever happened with that?”
“Oooh, that was indeed a day of abject embarrassment, though it does seem kind of funny looking back on it now. It cost me $25 to get her coat repaired, and Dr. Edwards made me write a ten-page paper on ethics.” I quickly pivoted, “So you lived in the Sudan?”
“Yes, my parents are missionaries there, and once I complete my degree at the seminary, I’m heading back.”
“One of my best friends is in the mission degree program at Harvest Morgan,” I said. “His name is Jamie Fulton. He’s a black guy about six feet tall and kind of thin, but don’t tell him I said that. He’s leaning toward Africa when he graduates.”
“I’ve met Jamie. Nice guy. I believe he’s thinking about going to the Ivory Coast. Well, kids, I have a term paper to finish.” She picked up her cereal bowl and headed toward her room. “Enjoy your dinner and the movie. It’s a classic.”
Bonnie had cooked a wonderful dinner. This was a pleasant surprise since singles often take a minimalist approach to meals. A married mom with several kids might prepare a meat or main dish, three or four side dishes, a small salad, some sort of bread with butter, and a homemade dessert—all in large quantities in case unexpected guests show up at the table. Add even more for the requisite leftovers, an important staple in a hungry family, and she’d prepared quite a lot of fo
od. Whereas a single person will prepare one dish, often out of a box or a can making just enough for that meal, then wash it down with a can of Coke followed by a tasty pint of Ben & Jerry’s finest.
Bonnie had outdone herself by making a three-cheese lasagna, a Caesar salad, and hot, buttery garlic bread. Of course, she served the obligatory cans of Coke—after all, we’re both single. She’d covered their little bitty kitchenette table with a red and white checkered tablecloth. She’d even set the table with cloth napkins— I’m not kidding you! I felt like I was in Lady and the Tramp. The final touch—a candle in the top of an empty Sangria bottle with a wicker bottom. I half expected Peg to reappear, red cummerbund in place, with a starched towel over her arm.
To be honest, I was a bit taken aback by her efforts. “What’s the special occasion?”
“You Elmo. You’re a special occasion,” she said, misquoting a Marlon Brando line.
“I can see you’re a romantic, meaning I’m probably in big trouble. I, like most American males, have no clue what being romantic means.”
She laid her hand gently on mine, “I think your naiveté is actually quite charming. Would you mind blessing our food?”
“Sure.” I then closed my eyes and stumbled through something no doubt both grammatically and theologically inaccurate, but I did hammer home the Amen with gusto. When I opened my eyes looking for some kind of affirmation, Bonnie was smiling one of those you’re-cute-even-though-you’re-a-dufus smiles.
The meal was wonderful. And that’s right; we topped it off by sharing a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey.
“Bonnie, what do you know about The Black Toe Enigma?” I asked casually as we ate our ice cream.
“I have no idea. It sounds like some type of serious though puzzling athlete’s foot condition.”
“Clever,” I said scraping the carton for the last remnant of ice cream. “Actually, you aren’t very far off the mark. It has to do with cryptic messages left over the years in various places around the First Church buildings, supposedly left by some mysterious church member who had frostbitten toes.”
“Do you know how stupid that sounds?” She stood to start clearing the table.
“I would normally agree, except Fred Snooker loaned me a scrapbook full of what he calls The Black Toe Enigma artifacts. These are actual bits and pieces of evidence collected over the last hundred years.”
“Well, what are you going to do with it?” Bonnie asked, placing the last dish in the fridge.
“I’m not sure, but just think how much fun it would be to solve a century-old riddle.” I could just sense Bonnie didn’t share my enthusiasm on the subject. I would have to go the TBT journey alone. I changed subjects. “Hey, let me load the dishwasher.”
“That would be great,” she said, wiping off the table.
A few minutes later we sat down on the futon in her living room, making small talk and easing back into the old intimacy zone. I admit it. I’m completely intimidated by the intimacy thing.
Bonnie ran her fingers through the hair over my right ear. “Elmo, I’m really starting to like you. A lot. And I think you like me too. I want to get to know you better.” She paused. “I’ve made some premature assumptions in past relationships that led to hurtful outcomes, but I’d like to think I’ve learned from those mistakes.”
I smiled at her. I hadn’t had sufficient opportunities to make many relationship blunders, but intuitively I understood what she was saying.
“So tell me, why are you studying for the ministry?” Her question seemed sincere.
“Okay,” I said, relaxing my posture, lifting my left arm on the back of the futon, softly touching her shoulder. “Here goes. In my late teens, I started listening for the first time to the messages from the pulpit. Up until that time, I only went to church because my folks expected me to. One Sunday it just started to make sense. Our pastor told stories about guys in the Bible who had the same kinds of doubts and feelings I was having. Yet God still used those guys to literally change the known world.
“Then one day our pastor invited me out for lunch. He said he sensed something special about me, and wanted to know if I would be interested in being discipled for a year. I thought about it for a few days and decided why not. Pastor Ron was cool, and he treated me like an adult. I liked that. I was about halfway through college at the time and still living at home. So we met once a week in the Student Union lounge at my college for about an hour. It seemed pretty lightweight at the time. He’d throw out some question about the Bible, or faith, or spiritual growth, and we’d just discuss it. He’d let me ask questions then give me Bible-based answers. I began to better understand who God was, and that the world didn’t revolve around me, and that God has a purpose for my life. Like the Psalmist said, God had ordained my days before they ever came to be.”
As I was telling my story, I watched Bonnie closely. I wondered how she’d respond to this bare-my-soul kind of conversation. She appeared genuinely interested, smiling and nodding in approval at the right times.
“After I finished college, I felt a tug in my spirit that perhaps God wanted me to use my gifts and skills, as meager as they are, in some kind of ministry service. With Pastor Ron’s encouragement, the seminary seemed like the natural next step.
“And that brings us up to today.”
“Elmo, I suspected you had a deep serious side,” she said, “but I haven’t seen much if it before.”
“Yeah, I tend to be more of a life-of-the-party, cut up kinda guy. I guess it helps conceal my insecurities or something.” I said feeling uncomfortably transparent.
“Me too,” Bonnie offered. “I’m actually quite shy. I know I might’ve seemed kind of aggressive with you, but to be honest, I had to work up my courage. There was just something about you I liked from the first time we met, and I couldn’t shake it.”
Flattered, I felt my heart start to soft-shoe around in my chest. And then I did it, surprising even myself—I leaned over and kissed Bonnie. It seemed so natural. She responded, putting her arms around my neck . . . and man, were her lips soft and warm . . .
I’d waited for this moment for a long, long time.
“Ta Da! The term paper is finished.” Peg’s shouted from her room.
We were too focused on each other to pay any attention. Too focused to hear her door open and the footsteps coming down the hall . . .
Peg rounded the corner, caught us kissing, and in her best Vizzini voice demanded, “Knock off the lip-lock, I mean it!”
We broke our embrace and I quickly rhymed back, “You wouldn’t have known if you hadn’t seen it!”
All three of us laughed until it hurt. Finally, after catching my breath, I asked Peg if she wanted to join us for the movie.
“Sure would,” she said, plopping into an easy chair. “You all can just rub noses some other time.”
We could and we would.
The Big Top
Show Time!
As a church staff, everything we did focused toward the Sunday morning worship service (also known amongst us insiders as under The Big Top). A large percentage of the congregation knew nothing about First Church apart from its Sunday morning worship service. For many, this service became an integral component of their Sunday morning routine. For others, it held no more significance than, say, a weekly television program they might watch regularly. Dr. Horace Jorgensen, Harry “The Night Kicker” Simpkins, Tom Applebee, Erlene Markham, Louis Estrada (on announcements), and whomever else might be on the platform that day, would mysteriously appear. Each service included some talking, some singing, some preaching, then all the actors would fade back into the unconscious minds of the members as they scurried back out to their cars.
It was a cardinal rule (no Catholic sarcasm intended) that the Sunday morning worship service start promptly at 10:30 a.m. Yet, of even greater importance at First Church, the Sunday morning worship service always, and I do mean always, ended by 11:30. This rule had been mandated thr
ough decree by the Deacon Board. Most of the other downtown churches started at 11:00 and finished around noon. By ending at 11:30, First Church members had a full thirty-minute jump on getting to the best restaurants for lunch. According to Tom Applebee, several hundred folks attended our Sunday morning service just because of the early start time. For a staff member to cause the Sunday morning service to run late violated this sacred principle, and guaranteed that poor soul a slot on the next Deacons meeting agenda. Not a happy place to be.
After losing a staff member or two over this sacred time issue, and realizing that the Deacons were indeed serious about it, Dr. Jorgenson put in place some helpful tools. First came The Clock. Think Mission Control at NASA. The Clock, measuring four feet wide by one foot tall, displayed the time in large white digital numbers. Mounted dead center on the front of the balcony, the accurate time was impossible to miss when you stood in the pulpit. Only those on the platform could see it. So it wasn’t a distraction for the congregation in the pews, except for the occasional teenager turning around to check the time. During the Sunday morning worship service, per Dr. Jorgenson’s instructions, The Clock ran backwards—a countdown starting at sixty minutes. With ten minutes left in the service, the numbers changed from white to red and the seconds also became visible for The Countdown.
Dr. Jorgensen timed his messages to end before the numbers on The Clock turned red. Otherwise, the service would run late, and the Deacons would howl. As an added precaution, he had trained the sound man to flash a bright white light from the sound booth—twice when he had five minutes to go, and once again with one minute left. Over the years, Horace had become the master of a concise summation. Each Sunday morning he would wax eloquently for twenty-four minutes, spinning all kinds of deep philosophical webs, asking penetrating spiritual questions, and challenging the saints to take the narrow road in life. Then, when the white light flashed from the sound booth indicating the sixty-second warning, Dr. Horace Jorgensen would somehow answer every posed question and tie up every loose end. He would finish by inviting those who would like to meet God or move their membership to First Church to join him at the front of the sanctuary.