And now, for something completely different

Just for fun, and for a break from the savage political and ecological non-fiction swirling around me right now, I have turned my hand to fiction, and to short stories in particular. Here is my first story. See what you think.

Truth disguised

Truth be told, sometimes distractions are the main thing. Recently graduated from seminary, I am supposed to be writing my first sermon and not staring out the window. At the end of a couple of hours I am tired of staring at my computer screen, a gaze punctuated by looking up unusual words in ancient languages in hard covered and heavy reference books.

I actually pray for a phone call, someone asking for advice on a matter I know nothing about because I am new here: What colour hanging should cover the altar? Where do I want the flowers to be placed in the sanctuary? Truthfully, I really don’t care,  but I know that others do pay attention to such details. On the bright side, the call, while important to the caller, would at the very least give me a break from preparing this, my very first sermon in my first congregation.

I have been given a curacy, a “cure of souls,” a mandate to assist others in a vocation for which I likewise need encouragement and direction, the very things I am to offer others. It’s a strange role. Does a surgeon learn on the job? I guess so; that’s why they “practice” medicine. Roman soldiers taunted Jesus with “physician save thyself.” That didn’t work so well.

I have been around churches for a long time — as a child chorister, as a youth leader, even as a missionary following university; I was a crummy missionary; I don’t do black and white well: Believe! Please? Not many conversions etched into my gospel pistol handle. Still, here I am, in place, academically trained, ready to go, and to do . . . what?

Imagination stymied and progress arrested, I return to my window display, a lovely ground floor gaze through a fenced yard to a rough half-paved lane that connects my home with the centre of our small town, a place I have visited for years, but now a place to live, and work, at least for a few years. Our quiet, unassuming, politically unincorporated village with a proud memory of offshore fishing fleets and buzzing sawmills, both industries now in sharp decline, each more of a proud memory day by day. I sense much sadness here; some regret, even a flash of anger.

My clergy predecessors did well here, or so they tell me: in notes left in a drawer, in letters sent and received, and during the occasional phone call. I am less certain about my own future here. Time will tell. I could use some of their confidence. Early days I know, but I feel like I should bustle about with extroverted bravado. Not today at least.

Theologians talk about being and doing. Doing means establishing a reputation, of making oneself attractive somehow — a great preacher, someone who cares deeply about others, a saint? — as if it’s all about me, an attitude at the very least naïve, possessive, even arrogant.

Being on the other hand respects persons, places, and circumstances. I know of a Buddhist who would arrive and sit in a church during services. He could come, then leave, asking for nothing except a bit of sacred space in the community of others. Such beauty in simplicity.

Sometimes I wish I smoked — inhale, exhale, a cancerous rhythm, something to do, to distract me from what must now be done. The clock is ticking. (Do clocks still tick? Another distracting question.) Through my window I see that nothing has changed on the street. No cars, no barking dogs, no pedestrians. I remind myself however that miracles constantly occur right before my clouded eyes — microscopic organisms do what must be done and possibly some things that should not be done — sounds like a prayer of confession, which it is. Do trees talk to shrubs? Do bees chase birds? And what about the lowly worm? The worm is more productive than I am right now. A botanist once told me that if everyone knew what actually happens below, above, and all around us we would all burst out in wonder, love, and praise. It’s a religious cliché for sure, but he had a point.

Come on phone, ring, damn it! Distract me from my melancholic muse. Maybe I should get out for a walk. Ministers and real estate agents new to communities often hang out at coffee shops, go swimming at the local pool (we don’t have one yet), or hang out in a bar. They walk the streets, knock on hopefully friendly doors; if circumstances permit, they meet locals at the dog park — of course, one needs a dog. Maybe one day, but not yet for me.

This is only my second day here, so surely I can come up with thoughts by myself, at least this first time. Do all my fellow graduates sprinkled across the country feel equally uncertain about how to prepare their first sermon? I should call someone. I have a list somewhere in my bags. Maybe I could use some of their material. Is that lazy . . . or simply using available resources?

Argh. Not getting very far here. Another look out the window, and all I can think of is that kids’ song, a ditty I heard for many years at summer camp:

Mary had a little lamb
Whose fleece was white as snow
And everywhere that Mary went
She threw it out the window . . .

Hold on. That’s it! What am I thinking? I return the heavy books to their shelf. I press DELETE on my keyboard; goodbye first draft. I will start over. My head now rebooted, unplugged and plugged back in, I throw the whole sermon draft, as the song says, out the window. I cut my losses; I have jumped the shark; Now all I need is a good first line.

“Let us now praise famous men,” (photography by Walker Evans, documenting the lives of impoverished farmers during the great depression.) I love photography; I know Evans’ work; great book; bad timing however for a first sermon. How about: “As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be?” Sounds like a psalm suffix, which it is. Nope. Better still, and possibly the best: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God.” Well, that certainly has the ring of truth about it. A good beginning for a sermon, a ministry, and for a vocation of truth-telling.

Remember Pilate’s question to Jesus: “What is truth?” Jesus doesn’t answer, so I guess we all inherit that particular question. Truth is both a discovery and a goal for me; some days will be better than others. When I think about it, truth will be disguised in me. For truth to be Truth, others must collaborate in a perpetual scavenger hunt. Discovering and sharing truth is a strange process; for clergy it’s a strange calling; it’s a calling to which some people like me are uniquely called. We are however, never alone. Sermon number ONE; done!

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