Author: McMillian Moody
Category: Christian
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/mcmillian-moody/page,14,24855-ordained-irreverence.html
Now there was some good news.
I guess I didn’t fully comprehend what Dr. Jorgensen meant when he used the term exclusive in referencing the Echelon Country Club. Not knowing what to expect, I wasn’t prepared for the level of service we received. As we pulled into the main entrance, we had to pass through a security gate. The security guard gave both of us a special navy-blue urethane wristband. Each had our last name and the date embossed on it in white raised letters. Dr. Jorgensen said all guests are required to wear these wristbands while at Echelon. We drove down a winding road lined with huge oak trees for about a mile or so, before dead-ending into a horseshoe driveway that curled up to the front of the plantation-style clubhouse. A gigantic front porch stretched across the entire width of the building. White rockers graced the porch, swaying randomly in the breeze. Beautiful flowers, chrysanthemums, sedum, and aster were everywhere.
Dr. Jorgensen pulled his car to the designated spot, and we got out. A valet took the car from there. An attendant greeted us with frosted glasses of fresh-squeezed orange juice and informed us that Mr. Fitzsimons was waiting for us in the guest lounge. Once inside, we walked past the entrance to the Pro Shop. I noticed a small counter sign: Guest greens fees billed to member's account. It’s a good thing Smitty was paying, because I would’ve had to sell my car to do so.
Smitty sat at a small table in front of a large window overlooking a pond with three identical fountains, and of course, it was surrounded with colorful flower beds. He stood as we arrived.
“Horace, Ellington—top of the day to you, gents!”
We all shook hands. Dr. Jorgensen had told me this wasn’t Smitty’s regular club; he just kept a membership here for business reasons since it was close to downtown.
Smitty smiled. “Elmo, I’m so glad you could join us today. It should be a great day for golf. And the Thursday Mediterranean Buffet is always the best lunch of the week.”
“Thank you so much for inviting me, sir. I hope I don’t embarrass myself too much on the course.”
“Don’t concern yourself with that,” he quipped. “Old Horace is a pretty good golfer, but Harty and I are high handicappers. Speaking of Harty, he’s running a little late this morning, so he’ll meet us at the first tee. Elmo, you’ll be riding with Harty. Horace and I have a special golf cart that’s retrofitted with ash trays for our cigars.”
“Great,” I said, meaning it on several different levels.
After a plate of fruit, Gouda cheese, and a croissant, we were escorted to the Guest Locker Room. We each had our own locker; our names engraved in white on a navy blue nameplate. When I opened the locker, there were my old golf shoes. They’d not only been cleaned up, but polished and outfitted with new soft spikes and new shoe strings. They hadn’t looked that good since I bought them several years ago. Also in the locker, a new Echelon golf towel with my name stitched on it in blue. Plus a dozen complimentary Titleist golf balls with my name printed on them above the Echelon logo. To top it off (so to speak), they’d also provided an Echelon Country Club fitted golf hat. How they got my hat size, I’ll never know. I don’t even know what it is. I put on my golf shoes and new hat, grabbed the towel and golf balls, and followed Dr. Jorgensen out to the cart area. Two carts awaited us, our clubs securely loaded on the back. They’d been cleaned, of course. Even the golf bags sparkled.
I felt like Prince Charles. Everywhere I turned someone asked, “May I help you with that, Mr. Jenkins?” or “Is there anything I can get for you, Mr. Jenkins?” I hadn’t been this pampered since I was in diapers. To be honest, all the attention got old pretty fast. Maybe the rich and famous just get used to it after a while.
Sure enough, Hartzel “Harty” Wiley Smith IV was waiting for us on the first tee, a Starbucks Venti Caramel Macchiato in his hand.
“Hey boys! Sorry I’m late, but I just can’t get cranked up in the morning without a big ol’ cup of coffee with lots of sweet stuff in it.” Harty smiled really big then took a big chug.
The upper-crusters didn’t seem bothered that he was late. Not in the least. These rich folks sure knew how to relax.
“Harty, have you met Elmo Jenkins, our current church intern?” Smitty asked.
“No I haven’t, though I’ve probably seen you around the church.” He smiled as he shook my hand.
“Nice to meet you,” I said.
“Looks like it’s you and me today against the tobacco lobby,” he cracked. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and their brown lungs will slow them down a bit.”
Harty didn’t smoke, but you could tell he loved to eat. You might say Harty had a hardy appetite. He weighed at least two hundred and fifty pounds, maybe more, and stood only about five feet eight inches tall. I would guess he was in his early forties. Dr. Jorgensen had told me he was into commercial real estate and quite good at it. I imagined he brought a lot of his clients out here to the Echelon Country Club to seal the deal. I bet it worked.
Harty turned toward me, whispering so the others couldn’t hear him. “You any good?”
I whispered back. “Sometimes, but not always. I’m kind of streaky.”
“Listen. I’m going to challenge these cigar-sucking rubes to a little contest just to get their blood pressure up a bit. Don’t worry about the money. I’ve got it covered, win or lose.”
“Okay,” I whispered. No pressure. Yikes!
Harry turned back toward the other cart, speaking louder this time. “Me and the kid here would like to challenge you cigar lovers to a little wager.”
Smitty stepped out of the cart, his stogie tucked in the corner of his mouth. “Bring it on. What’s the bet?”
“Our cart against your cart, an eighteen-hole best ball match, one hundred dollars a person, winners take all.”
Smitty smiled broadly and looked back at Horace. Horace looked at me. I nodded. He then nodded at Smitty who turned back to Harty. “Let’s do it.”
I promptly shanked my first drive sideways into the parking lot causing Harty to choke on a mouthful of his macchiato. Thankfully, after a few holes I settled down and we played competitively.
Completing the front nine, we were only one hole down. I noticed the cigars were now nowhere to be found. The other cart seemed to be paying a lot more attention to the match. Conversely, in our cart, Harty and I were more relaxed and getting to know each other a little better.
“Harty, I’ve been told you’re related to the infamous Deacon Wiley Smith.”
“Yep, he was my great-great-grandfather, but he died long before I was born.”
“Fred Snooker told me all about The Black Toe Enigma there at First Church. He said Wiley Smith is a central character in that legend. I’m sure you’re familiar with The Black Toe story?”
Harty chuckled. “Oh yes. I know all about it, believe me.”
“Well, Fred has challenged me to solve the puzzle, so I’m hoping you can shed some light on the whole thing.”
“I can solve if for you in four words—a bunch of hooey.”
“Harty,” I pleaded, “I’m keeping us in this golf match. The least you can do is throw me a few bones about The Black Toe thing.”
“All right, all right.” He stopped the cart. “Here’s the straight poop. These are the only verifiable facts in the whole thing. One—my great-great-grandfather Wiley Smith did get lost while hunting in a blizzard, and when they found him, he was near death and delirious. Two—he was Chairman of the Deacons at the time. Three—he was never quite the same after that. Four—he was aided during the storm by someone, but because of the trauma, he could never remember who it was. Five—he was a key a leader at First Church for many years, and during that time accepted advice and counsel from many different people, most of which was given in confidence. Six—as he got older, he suffered a stroke making his speech slurred and hard to understand. The stroke also made him a bit crazy. Seven—it was during the last period of his life that The Black Toe thing got started.”
“Wow,” I blurted out. “It almost s
ounds as if you had to write a paper on the topic for a college class.”
“Close. A speech for my Public Speaking class. Got an A-plus on it,” he said with pride. “Now can we get back to the task at hand and focus on taking these boys down?”
“Yes we can,” I said. “Onward to the next tee.”
Finding my stride on the back nine, I started parring every hole. By the 14th hole, the match was all tied up. Smitty and Pastor made a great team. If one messed up, the other one got a par. My partner Harty was all over the course. He hadn’t helped our team at all on the back nine. He needed his dozen Titleists and a few more the way he was losing golf balls, but it didn’t seem to bother him. I actually quit paying attention to his shots as I focused on the match, trying to keep us in it. When we arrived at the 18th tee, the match was still all even.
The 18th hole was a short par 4 with a lake down the left side of the fairway and dense woods along the right. Smitty went first and promptly hit two balls into the lake. He called it quits for the day, and went back to his cart for a few last puffs on his cigar. Dr. Jorgensen hit a good drive, but pushed it a little right and it kicked into the trees. I’d been driving well most of the day and piped this one right down the middle of the fairway. Harty was the last to tee off, hitting a big banana slice that started out way over the lake but curved back across the hole, clipped a tree, and bounced back onto the fairway. For his second shot, he hit a low rolling ball that ended up about ten yards short of the green. Dr. Jorgensen was partially behind a tree and had to play out short of the green, ending up about fifty yards away.
I held all the cards. All I had to do was put this hundred-yard wedge shot somewhere in the middle of the green, two-putt, and we would more than likely win. Unfortunately, my adrenaline level was too high, and I hit my shot over the green and behind some shrubs. Dr. Jorgensen then calmly stepped up and hit his third shot landing it about a foot away from the hole. He’d have a tap-in par. In about two minutes, the whole situation had reversed itself. Now Harty and I were scrambling to get a par and not lose the match.
Assessing my unplayable position behind the shrubs, I didn’t see Harty step up quickly and hit his chip from in front of the green, but I heard his holler a few seconds later. That rascal had chipped in for a birdie to win the match. I looked up and saw him doing cartwheels across the green. Not an easy task for a man with his build. Dr. Jorgensen just shook his head as he walked back to his cart. I couldn’t see Smitty from where I was standing, but I imagined he was probably eating the rest of his still-smoldering cigar. Harty ran over and gave me a big bear hug nearly squeezing the air out of me. What a finish. I figured Smitty would never invite me back out for golf again.
As we were turning in the golf carts, Smitty walked over and handed Harty two crisp one hundred dollar bills and patted him on the back. No words were spoken. The big guy had carded a pretty ugly golf score at well over one hundred, but he made the one shot that counted to win the match. I love golf for stuff like that. I’m convinced that’s why so many bad players keep on playing. It takes just one good shot like that to bring them back again, to waste four more hours and spend a lot of their hard-earned money.
Harty walked over to me sporting a huge grin. He put the two one hundred dollar bills together, folded them once, and handed them both to me. “Take your girlfriend out for a nice dinner. You just made my week.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Oh yeah,” he grinned, slapping me on the back.
We had a good laugh. The kind of laugh that only the winners enjoy.
The Mediterranean Buffet was as good as Smitty had bragged it would be. It featured a variety of shellfish dishes, many sautéed in different wine sauces, complemented by generous mounds of fresh fruits, numerous cheeses, and hot-out-of-the-oven breads. Harty had an appointment, so he couldn’t join us for lunch. His loss. Dr. Jorgensen, Smitty and I were seated at a table on the rear terrace of the clubhouse that looked out over the 9th green and surrounding lakes. It was beautiful, and I was hungry. We loaded our plates, said grace, and began the pleasant task of eating the mouthwatering food. Discussion over the main course remained light. We shared a good laugh over Harty’s golfing skills and concurrent antics. After the dessert cart had delivered its best and the cappuccino had been served, the conversation turned more serious.
“Elmo,” Smitty began, “you’ve probably conjectured that there was more to today’s invitation than just a round of golf.”
“Yes sir, I had a feeling that was the case.”
“You’re a sharp young man, Elmo. I like that about you. When will you be finishing your degree at Harvest Morgan Seminary?”
“This internship at First Church is my last requirement. I’ve already completed all my class work. So unless I get a bad evaluation from Tom Applebee, I’ll be graduating in December.”
Smitty laughed as he glanced over at Dr. Jorgensen. “From what Horace and Tom tell me, you’re doing a great job. I’m sure that will be reflected in your final evaluation.”
I found it interesting and a bit disconcerting that Smitty was doing all the talking while Dr. Jorgensen just sat there passively. Then again, maybe I was misinterpreting the situation. Maybe Dr. Jorgensen had instructed Smitty what to do and say, and Smitty was merely following orders. Similar to how Tom Applebee ran the church staff meetings while everyone knew that Dr. Jorgensen was really the one in charge. A curious leadership style, almost like that of a CEO or even a monarch. That thought gave me a chill.
Smitty continued. “First Church is a great church. Has been for over a century. That said, those of us in leadership are concerned the old girl is starting to show her age to some degree. Our membership is aging. To be frank, we feel our methodology and approach to the local church in today’s world just isn’t as effective as it used to be. We’ve all suffered through enough Peter Drucker-type seminars to understand how large organizations go through bell curve life cycles.”
Did he say Peter Drucker?
“Horace and I and our other leaders have discussed this thoroughly, and we’ve decided we will not idly sit by and watch First Church go the way of the dinosaurs. We want to be proactive and help get the First Church ship back on course, to remain effective in our town and in our world.”
I was reeling from metaphor overload, desperately needing another hit of coffee with two shots of espresso this time.
“Elmo, let me get straight to the point,” Smitty continued. “After you graduate, we would like you to consider joining our church staff full-time.” He paused, watching to see how I would react.
His statement caught me totally off guard, and it probably showed. “Well, thank you sir. But in what capacity?”
“The key word for our church’s health into the future is transition. If you agree to join our staff, we’ll be creating a new position just for you—Assistant to the Pastor.” Your sole responsibility will be to research and oversee a First Church transition strategy designed to take our church into the future. It won’t be easy, but we feel as though you have the skill set and personality necessary for the job.”
“Wow.” And I meant it. “Mr. Fitzsimons, I’m honored that you’d even consider me for any position at First Church, much less one of such importance. I know Dunston Jones is retiring, and I thought maybe that was the position you might be offering me.”
Smitty turned toward Dr. Jorgensen with a puzzled look.
“The old janitor who’s retiring next month,” Dr. Jorgensen explained. Then they both laughed
“To be honest,” I continued, “it’s a lot to think about.”
Dr. Jorgensen took over for Smitty. “We aren’t expecting you to give us an answer today or even for a while. We just wanted you to start thinking about it and praying about the possibility. You would be answering directly to me, and you’d have a lot of freedom and resources available to you. The bottom line is, either First Church starts reaching and assimilating younger folks into the life of our churc
h, or there won’t be a First Church to worry about twenty-five years from now.”
I promised to pray about it and get back to them in a few weeks. God had just laid a huge opportunity in my lap, but I wasn’t sure I was up to the task. Fortunately, I had time to get some good counsel. Dr. De Villa would be no help whatsoever. But I could call my home church pastor, and I would ask for Fred Snooker’s sage advice on the idea. I also wanted to run it by Bonnie and get her thoughts. In the short time I’d been around Bonnie, I’d already discovered her to be quite wise for her age and worth listening to.
The Gaffe
“HELP! Somebody please help!”
Bonnie was trapped in a car upside down with water rising all around it. Two of us tried to free her—me and Johnny Moran. But we needed help! As I scrambled around trying to find a way to get Bonnie out, I thought, This is so odd. I haven’t seen Johnny Moran since I was in junior high school. In fact, he still looked like he did in junior high. Then I realized that Bonnie wasn’t trapped in an automobile—it was some sort of train or subway passenger car. When I looked closer, it wasn’t even Bonnie. It was an old friend of mine named Marlene. From in the distance, I could hear this ringing sound. It would ring, pause, then ring again, getting louder and louder each time. I was dazed and confused and getting more confused. The rising water, the loud ringing, the screams from Bonnie, or Marlene or whomever it was . . . louder, higher, louder . . .
BAM! I woke up in a rush to the sound of my phone ringing.
“Yeah?” I yawned into the phone while glancing at my clock. It read 7:30. On a Saturday morning? This had better be good.
“Elmo, this is Juliann. Pastor Tom asked me to call all the ministerial staff requesting them to be at church for an emergency meeting at 9:00 this morning in the Executive Boardroom.”
I yawned again, bigger this time. “Wow, the EBR? Someone must’ve died or been arrested or something.”
“I really don’t know what’s up, Elmo.” Juliann sounded way too chipper for this early on a Saturday. “Gotta run.”