Chapter 1 -- The
Committee Meeting
Leach Street Presbyterian Church grew large, as so many
southern churches did, in the 1950s. It added a wing for a pre-school, then a
fellowship hall, and finally a gymnasium. The original structure dated from
1879, when large beige stones and square towers were deemed the only style for
proper worship. The Leach Street sanctuary nestled comfortably among its dozen
or so oak and pecan trees, and until the church’s membership became avid
addicts of modern air conditioning, the annual church picnic was held under the
trees’ approving branches on an expansive lawn. Then the church ladies moved
the event into the fellowship hall, and except for the little boys who insisted
on eating their hotdogs under a spreading magnolia tree, the congregation lost
both the ambience and friendliness of the grounds. For decades, the
congregation’s newly baptized babies had cooed in its grasses, its children hid
and sought among its box shrubs, and its teenagers sneaked kisses in the
shadows of its high walls. Soon they strolled soberly up its red, carpeted
aisle in pairs, gazed at the rose window’s twinkling light on the minister’s
white head, and took their sacred vows. Within a year or two, each couple began
the cycle anew, and thus Leach Street Presbyterian expanded its membership by
using the method that is gently called “family evangelism.” Unlike other
southern churches, now dwindled into empty wings and rusting gyms, Leach Street
reached so prominent a size in so few years that it catapulted past the recent
decline in church attendance, and now has an active membership of over 350,
with 200 faithful worshipers. The buildings are paid for, the pastor has salary
enough to satisfy his wife’s need for shoes and has bought his own home, and
the old church manse is used to house Leach Street’s associate pastor, Mr.
Reginald Heeler.
A mere assistant at so large a church ought not to be
mentioned so early in our narrative, but Mr. Heeler is worth noting. He is an
up-and-coming young man, lately from the elevated seminary in Atlanta and fresh
from his first slim work in a country church. Mr. Heeler feels his upward
movement. He stands tall and
strides quietly through the streets of his new town, nodding to parishioners in
a somber way. His dark, wavy hair endeared him immediately to the young women of
the congregation. Mr. Heeler is not a fussy man, but he is meticulous about his
clothing. He begins each day with a suit, greets the afternoon with a change
into a sport coat, and invariably relaxes into his evening with a golf shirt
and a pipe. He has never played golf but feels the shirts give the right
impression and may prompt an invitation. He is an ambitious man, with a
gleaming eye and a ready handshake. And although, dear readers, I cannot
approve entirely of his ladder-climbing tendencies, I must concede that
Reginald Heeler is not a greedy man. He is not a lecherous man. And in spite of
his one flaw, a twitch that makes his left eye wink involuntarily, the maidens
of Leach Street are safe from him for the present. He has one desire, and that
is the pulpit in the sanctuary, complete with its ancient Bible, its black robe
and the mystic sunlight streaming through the rose window. But Mr. Heeler is a
patient man. He is happy in his post. Knowing that he sleeps each night beneath
the rafters that once sheltered the snoring patriarchs of so grand a church as
Leach Street, gives him satisfaction. Indeed he and the present pastor, Dr.
Cloudee, share a driveway with only the slimmest of grassy patches between
their homes. Both men feel the proximity keenly.
The remainder of Dr. Cloudee’s staff at the church consists
of humble, hard-working folk who desire to serve God’s kingdom. Their diligence has produced the
increased population of his flock.
They mow the grass upon which the babies loll, and clean the carpet upon
which the young couples process. They type their pastor’s sermons and fetch his
coffee. He appreciates particularly his director of music and worship, Mr.
Shrilling. He and Dr. Cloudee meet
almost daily to discuss the music. And although the pastor may not resonate
forth the truth as an Apollo, his musical assistant in these holy services has
the gifts of Orpheus. Indeed, when the sermon is likely to reduce a few
worshipers into light slumber, and yes, even deeper thralls of rest, the mighty
Orpheus at his organ can rescue them from the bonds of reverie and return them
to the land of the living. The power of the organ, dear readers, with its four
manuals, forty stops, and ranks of pipes above Dr. Cloudee’s head, is greater
far than one elderly voice, albeit enhanced by the helpful knobs in the sound
booth. Dr. Cloudee and Mr. Shrilling have yet to reach a truce, much less a
partnership, in their efforts. However, all their battles, alliances and
out-flankings I cannot now discuss, for more urgent matters at the church
occupy us today. The presbytery committee on Posts and Appointments is hasting
to the church facility for a special called meeting. Dr. Cloudee is handing
each member in through the side door. He has received news that Jeremiah Jones,
our friend, president of the local Presbyterian college, clings to life by a
thread at the county hospital; an undiagnosed heart condition has leveled him,
and he is not expected to live. A year earlier, his medical status would have
mattered little to those who pace the halls of Leach Street Presbyterian and
its placid grounds, except as a sad piece of community news. A year earlier, the church and the
college were members of separate and unaffiliated denominations, although
merely five blocks apart. The
denominational merger, a reconciliation of theology (if not of minds) had
overcome all opposition at the synodical level, and one united Presbyterian
body emerged. This awkward union was now four months old. In the process, the
larger clan of Presbyterians, of which Leach Street was a prominent member, had
unwillingly adopted the smaller clan’s twin educational institutions. Our dying friend, with whom we are
barely acquainted, presided over one of these two.
Needless to say, the presbytery committee on Posts and
Appointments was unhappy to find itself in the thankless position of choosing a
president for a college of little significance. Its annual budget ran not a half million a year! It claimed
fewer than 300 students. Still,
the job must be done. A college near the end of its year must not be without a
leader. They met secretly, however, because the man did yet breathe, and
unwilling to seem too hasty, or too eager, they sat with Dr. Cloudee in the
inner sanctum of his session room.
“How shall we proceed, gentlemen?” Dr. Cloudee asked. “Whom do we know who could fill this
post?” He picked at his clean fingernails and then drummed his fingers on the
oak table.
“It is hardly an important position,” noted the gentleman on
his right, who sported the red vest of the Covenanters. “Nobody knows about
this little college. Any retired
pastor would do.”
The young and energetic pastor across from him disagreed.
“We can hardly assume that the college will remain as it is,” he began. “Now that it is joined with the
SPSNAAC, its future may be bright.
Why, they anticipate a 4% growth this fall!” He wore a deep green vest,
with a bright silver thistle pin on its breast.
The SPSNAAC, dear readers, is the Scottish Presbyterian
Synod of North America and Canada.
In less formal circles, it is known simply as SNACK. SNACK is the
larger, younger, and more dynamic of the denominations.
“Our joint denomination should nurture the college and
seminary along,” the young enthusiast continued. “The proper choice for this post is a man with vision and
spirit.”
Dr. Cloudee rumbled. “But surely our own institutions will
absorb them, brothers. I imagine
in only a few years, Hezekiah College and Strong Seminary will both merge with
their larger, sister institutions in Atlanta, our own schools. How can we ask
any rising man in the denomination to assume a temporary post at a dying
college?” Dr. Cloudee was speculating, of course. He’d heard no hint of such
plans from Jeremiah Jones.
From the names of the schools, you may gather that the
founder of the brotherly denomination, now defunct, was an upright and
well-regarded man. Hezekiah Strong
lived in the misty crags of Scotland many centuries before. His rugged rebellion and ringing voice
against tyranny birthed a little band of believers. It grew to a clan of Christians, and named itself the
Scottish Northern Association of Reformed Covenanters, or SNARC. In the New
World, he lent half his name to a little college, and the other half to a
little seminary.
The committee members interrupted each other, stuck to their
guns, altered their positions, and generally so confused each other that no one
seemed to know how to come to any resolution. Dr. Cloudee was concerned. Many of the gentlemen seemed intent at
least in filling the post. The best he could do was to delay that assignment
for the near future. If he delayed effectively, it is possible the college
would gently fold its ancient doors during the summer, and send its students to
richer pastures in Atlanta. The
college grounds, which could easily be adapted to suit some of the needs of
Leach Street Presbyterian Church, were most lovely. “The college soccer field
across the street from our gymnasium is particularly fine,” he had often
thought. Dr. Cloudee rumbled deeply in his throat. The table silenced.
“Gentlemen, no action can be taken now, while the current
president remains in such a tenuous state. This meeting is at best preliminary.
Since I am here on the scene, unless anyone objects, I will notify the
committee of any changes in the situation. We will meet again at a later date.”
The meeting adjourned.
The young member left first, twirling his thistle pin and unsettled in
mind. Delay and indecision were always abhorrent to him. But Dr. Cloudee
lingered with three of his old friends, classmates from seminary days. His
comrade in the red vest clapped him soundly on the back.
“Golf next Saturday, James? My knee’s on the mend, and I think my swing is back!”
“Yes, indeed,” Cloudee replied. “Next Saturday. 7:00. I'll reserve the tee time. Don’t be
late.” The other men agreed to
join them. James Cloudee locked
the church doors and strolled to his home two blocks away on Ivy Lane. Well he
knew that if anyone asked, he could say that the committed had met promptly,
discussed the matter thoroughly, and were considering options. “A very satisfactory afternoon,” he thought.
An irritating buzz vibrated against his leg. He slapped at his thigh in alarm,
thinking a diabolical hornet was after him. Then sheepishly he dug into his pants pocket and extracted
The Nuisance. His secretary Hilda
had insisted that he carry this hand-held plague, a cell-phone.
Dr. Cloudee opened the phone, and holding it in front of his
face, yelled into it, “Hello?”
The quiet voice that answered him brought ill news. Jeremiah Jones, the college president,
had died.
Copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen
Copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen
1 comment:
Good start, MK!
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