Ordained Irreverence



  Cover design by OBT Graphix

  Ordained Irreverence

  McMillian Moody

  Copyright © McMillian Moody 2012

  Elmo’s journey continues in:

 

  Some Things Never Change

  (Elmo Jenkins Book Two)

  The Old Man and the Tea

  (Elmo Jenkins Book Three)

  A Tale of Two Elmos

  (Elmo Jenkins Book Four)

  More novels from OBT Bookz

  From Author Diane Moody

  Of Windmills and War

  The Runaway Pastor’s Wife

  The Demise

  Blue Christmas

  Blue Like Elvis

  Confessions of a Prayer Slacker

  Tea with Emma

  The Teacup Novellas (Book One)

  Strike the Match

  The Teacup Novellas (Book Two)

  Home to Walnut Creek

  The Teacup Novellas (Book Three)

  At Legend’s End

  The Teacup Novellas (Book Four)

  The Christmas Peril

  The Teacup Novellas (Book Five)

  The Teacup Novellas

  The Collection

  (All 5 novellas in one volume)

  Special Bonus Book

  For your reading pleasure we have included the first chapter of Some Things Never Change – Elmo Jenkins Book Two at the end of this book.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher. Though this is a work of fiction, many of the stories and anecdotes included were inspired by actual events that happened in the life of the author and those he worked with during his years in full time church ministry.

  DEDICATION

  This book is for all the church staff members who work tirelessly and unheralded behind the scenes enabling churches to effectively meet the needs of the flock. Yours is a noble calling.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To my wonderful wife Diane who daily gives a part of her life to so many others, but always saves the best part for me. This books stands as a tribute not only to your top-shelf editing skills, but also to your tenacity and unlimited gift of encouragement.

  A special thanks to Glenn Hale and Sally Wilson for their help and suggestions.

  And to the Potter. Continue to mold and squeeze and shape

  and smooth and fashion this vessel for Your use.

  There are episodes in life that help define who we become. A special relationship, a death in the family, a financial windfall, a battlefield experience, a mission trip, etc. This is a story about one such episode.

  Six months that changed my life forever.

  — Elmo Jenkins

  The Epiphany

  As one of the 457 ministerial wannabes suffering through the righteous rigors at Harvest Morgan Seminary, I had not distinguished myself as an academician or a theologian. Not even close. There, amongst the budding Billy Grahams, Martin Luthers, and Mother Teresas, I trudged daily, basically void of inspiration. It was all Greek to me. Literally. The tedious, arcane, and often inane required regimen of my religious studies had systematically whittled away the honest desire that had once inspired me to pursue a life of ministry. My fellow seminarians seemed to thrive, either storming the mission fields of the world, bringing down the heavens with their glorious singing voices, or filling the pulpits of churches around the globe with profound, life-changing rhetoric.

  Me? I was tone deaf, possessed marginal oratorical skills, and refrained from even mentioning the word “missionary” for fear God would make me one. So what was I to do with my burning desire to serve God? Finishing the last semester of my class work, I needed only to complete an internship of some sort to finalize my seminary degree. But then what?

  My epiphany happened on a most unusual day. I’d tenaciously pursued one of my female classmates in hopes of getting a date. The evasive Dolly had demurred on numerous occasions, but in a weak moment (no doubt the result of sleep deprivation; it was, after all, finals week), Dolly said yes—but only on her terms. Terms which I found constricted at best. Yet by accepting her conditions, I reasoned, I could surely parlay this limited event into a more meaningful opportunity in the future.

  Her plan? We would attend her aunt and uncle’s annual Spring Open House. The family expected her to bring a date, and as she reminded me, I was available and obviously willing. However, she neglected to share with me two important facts. One, she failed to mention that Aunt Geneva and Uncle Smitty were, in fact, the Fitzsimonses—by far the wealthiest family in this part of the state. Old money. Real old money. Second, Dolly also forgot to warn me that this might well be the stuffiest, most excruciating two hours of my young life.

  We arrived fashionably late. Quite a handsome couple, I thought to myself. Within seconds, I realized we were the youngest attendees by at least thirty years. After introducing me to our hosts, Dolly excused herself—never to return. She had abandoned me! I felt like tearing my jacket and yelling out UNCLEAN! I figured the heartless shrew had arranged to have an escape vehicle warmed up and waiting at the rear door.

  Fortunately, all was not lost. Numerous tables of free food were waiting to be plundered. “Which way to the buffet?” I asked a thin waiter with a pencil mustache.

  So there I was, pondering my shrunken self-esteem, entombed in a mansion full of crusty old rich people. After pilfering my way through the shrimp tray and mentally comparing the small crustaceans to my measly existence, I noticed another non-geezer in the room. With natural dark hair, he appeared to be in his mid-forties. He looked as out of place as I felt, so I approached him and introduced myself.

  “Hello,” I said, extending my hand. “It’s nice to find someone else at this shindig who’s not on oxygen or sporting glaucoma glasses. My name is Ellington.” I paused then added, “Ellington Jenkins,” to keep it formal. Who knew? He might be somebody important.

  He shook my hand and studied me for a moment before a broad smile warmed his face. “Yes, this annual get-together tends to skew toward the geriatric. Nice to meet you, Ellington. I’m Tom Applebee.”

  Turns out Tom was the Associate Pastor at First Church, the largest and most respected church in our entire city. We hit it off immediately. Together, we suffered through Geneva’s stuffy reading of an original poem entitled Ode to a Gilded Debutante. The torture continued through a painful trilogy of songs by some has-been Irish tenor. When we could endure no more, we escaped outside to the quiet of the poolside cabana where I explained my background and seminary experience at Tom’s request.

  Later, as Tom and I made a stop at the dessert table, he told me about a six-month internship program at First Church. And then it happened. He casually asked, “Think you’d be interested?”

  For the briefest of moments, time stood still. There, flanked by caramel flan and raspberry sorbet, my future illuminated right before my eyes. Like Michelangelo’s painting on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, God reached down His finger and touched my life. Like Peter on the Mount of Transfiguration, I knew something mighty powerful had just happened, but I was still in a fog.

  “Ellington?”

  I blinked, jarred back to reality, my divine moment-of-destiny vision receding back into my subconscious. Taking an anxious gulp of sparkling water, I found my voice. “Yes, Mr. Applebee. I would love to apply for your internship.”

  I survived the party, applied for the First Church internship, and God made good on my epiphany. I got the job! The doorway to all my tomorr
ows opened wide. At long last, I had found purpose and focus, and my stature at the good ol’ seminary soared like an eagle. I was more than ready for this new challenge.

  As for Dolly, I'm sure she's still wonderin' who let the air out of her car tires.

  My bad.

  The New Rules

  Cue the balloons. My fifteen minutes of fame had arrived. My genesis. My new beginning, if you will. Relentless self-promotion and uncanny dumb luck, along with a dash of divine intervention, had conspired to provide me this golden opportunity. It was my time. I was ready to live the dream!

  I lingered in my car, securely parked in the staff lot, staring across the street at my Mecca.

  First Church.

  Forbidding yet graceful, her Frank Lloyd Wright-inspired facade formed a face that appeared to be smiling down on me.

  Not Second Church. Not Main Street Church. Not even the ubiquitous Whispering Creek Community Church. No, this was First Church. The Pope of all churches. I sat there momentarily awestruck, reminding myself to breathe. I felt a bit overwhelmed. In silence, I savored each detail, my mind adrift, remembering just how I had arrived at this life-changing moment.

  The mid-morning sun ricocheted off the First Church steeple and darted across my face, awakening me from my musings. I tossed my parking pass on the dash of my modest but efficient Nissan Sentra, and checked to make sure my tie was straight. Grabbing my valise, I headed for the entrance to the church office. While waiting for a chance to cross First Boulevard, I began taking deep breaths in a vain attempt to calm my nerves.

  A hearse was parked in front of the church ahead of several long black limousines. No doubt cars queued up for a drive to the cemetery. Man, I hate funerals.

  Jogging across the street, I spotted Dr. Horace Jorgensen sitting in the front passenger seat of the hearse. The renowned, beloved Senior Pastor of First Church—a living icon, a man known all around the world for his profound and articulate preaching, friend to the presidents and confidant of the high and mighty—sat a mere ten yards away from me.

  Suddenly, he pitched forward, his eyes wide, his mouth gaping as if struggling for air. Concerned, I glanced at the driver. He didn’t appear alarmed. In fact, he was smirking. For a brief, irrational moment, I panicked. My God, he’s choking! I quickened my pace toward the vehicle. I must rescue this great man of the faith! Who knows but that God put me in this moment for such a time as this?

  Fortunately, I paused long enough to come to my senses. I took a second more careful look. Dr. Jorgensen wasn’t dying. He was laughing. No, scratch that. He was guffawing, his signature red hair clearly visible through the tinted windshield. With tears in his eyes, he was enjoying the laugh of a lifetime.

  How odd, I thought. He’d obviously just performed some dead soul’s funeral service. The corpse in its casket rested less than three feet behind him. Yet there he was, busting a gut laughing? I would later learn that the hearse driver had shared a hilarious story with Dr. Jorgensen, and though it was coarse and very inappropriate, the pastor found it “quite humorous.”

  At seminary, we were taught that in order to survive on a church staff, you have to develop the ability to separate yourself from the pain and suffering of those you minister to. You must be sympathetic and helpful to your church members during times of sickness or loss, but you must also be able to emotionally disengage when the task was completed.

  As I neared the hearse, the passenger window slowly lowered. “Good morning, Mr. Jenkins,” he said with an oversized smile as he shook my hand. “I understand this is your first official day with us.”

  “Dr. Jorgensen.” I responded as though startled, pretending I hadn’t been staring at him. And since I had yet to be briefed on the proper staff protocol, I simply added, “Good morning to you, sir.” I stood there smiling for a long awkward moment, not knowing what to do next. Here was the Grand Poobah of my new vocational life, and I was sinking like the Titanic.

  The seasoned veteran took pity and rescued me. “So Jenkins, are you ready for your first day here at Crisis Central?” He smiled again.

  Since he’d brought it up twice, I knew I’d better respond to his query. “Well, to be honest, sir, I’m a bit nervous.”

  “Nervous?” he shot back, a befuddled expression creasing his face.

  Damn! First day, first conversation, and I’ve already screwed up.

  “Nervous?” he repeated. “There’s no time to be nervous around here. Gird your loins, son, and go get after it.” And with a chuckle, he waved goodbye as the hearse pulled away.

  The funeral procession sped off leaving me there to ponder my first two lessons.

  Rule #1: Avoid total candor when conversing with other staff members.

  Rule #2: Never think or say the word “damn” again.

  I gathered myself, took a deep breath and headed for the main entrance. As I approached the steps, I took one more quick glance at the church’s magnificent art deco design and promptly missed the first step, slamming my right shin into the concrete edge, and immediately broke new Rule #2.

  The Closet

  Cooling my heels in the guest area of the church office, I daydreamed about my new life on the staff of First Church. Popular folklore at the seminary embraced the notion that staff members at First Church were treated like royalty. Plush offices, personal assistants, and memberships at private country clubs and restaurants around town. I’d always questioned the veracity of those rumors, but the truth would now be found in the tasting.

  Steeped in a rich heritage, legendary First Church had played a prominent role in the life of our city for over 150 years. The current building, over 100 years old, had been the tallest structure in town for many of those years with a steeple reaching twelve stories into the sky. Since its beginning, only five senior pastors had filled its pulpit, each lasting at least a quarter of a century. These men not only pastored First Church, they also sat on the boards of numerous local banks and foundations. They also contributed regularly to the daily newspapers, and socialized with the wealthy and powerful members of the community. These interactions brought many of the same rich and famous people through the doors of First Church—politicians, professional athletes, doctors and lawyers. Some even became members of the church.

  “Mr. Jenkins.”

  Jarred from my daydream, I turned my attention back to the receptionist.

  “Mr. Jenkins, Pastor Applebee will see you now.” According to the nameplate on her desk, her name was Juliann. She was gorgeous. Someone must have theorized that a beauty queen at the front desk would create a good first impression. Worked for me.

  I got up, collected myself and approached the door to the inner office area. As I reached for the door handle a loud buzzer sounded off. I jumped back, embarrassing myself.

  Juliann giggled and winked at me. “I was just unlocking the door for you, silly.”

  I forced a smile. “Thanks,” I mumbled. Two quick steps and I was in. I paused to bask in the moment as the door gently closed behind me. I’ve arrived. I’m standing in the inner sanctum. Not the Holy of Holies, but close.

  Tom Applebee rounded a corner and shook my hand. “Welcome to the staff of First Church, Ellington,” he said with a big grin.

  “Please, just call me Elmo.”

  “Elmo?”

  “My full name is Ellington Montgomery Jenkins,” I explained. “But I’ve been called Elmo as long as I can remember. And please—no Sesame Street jokes.”

  He smiled. “Then Elmo Jenkins it is. Let me introduce you to the First Church team. You met our receptionist Juliann. And this first office here belongs to our administrator, Bob ‘Big Bird’ Stevens.”

  And so it began.

  Tom had to attend a meeting, so after the tour he left me to chill in his office. Very impressive. As second-in-command at First Church, he warranted a corner office on the top floor of the Church Administration building. Huge panoramic windows formed two sides of the room providing a spectacular view of dow
ntown from five floors up, high above the intersection of First Boulevard and Main Street.

  On my tour, I learned that the fifth floor consisted of only four rooms. The two private office suites belonging to Tom and Dr. Jorgensen, each fronted with separate built-in areas for their executive assistants and visiting guests. The Executive Boardroom, or EBR, and Deacons Lounge occupied the rest of the floor. Perhaps one of the most important rooms in the entire city, decisions made within the EBR over the years had helped shape not only the future of the church, but the direction of the town as well.

  Few church members ever stepped foot inside the EBR. A magnificent table made from one continuous piece of solid oak dominated the long, narrow room. Twenty leather chairs surrounded the table, with an additional ring of chairs lining the perimeter along the walls. These outer chairs could accommodate another thirty to forty folks. At capacity, the room could handle at least sixty people.

  Tom had told me the deacons met here, filling most every chair. The old “strength in numbers” game, I thought. I bet that’s intimidating for the poor staff member who gets called in. At one end of the room, a door led directly into Dr. Jorgensen’s office. On the other end, another door opened into the adjoining Deacons Lounge.

  There were no other doors. I asked Tom how they got around the fire code with no doors into the hall. He had laughed. “Every Fire Chief for the last hundred years has been a deacon of First Church. Fire codes have never been a problem.”

  The Deacons Lounge resembled a stuffy English gentlemen’s club. As if I would know? My station in life had never afforded me access to anything like it. High-back leather armchairs, a working fireplace, dark wood paneling . . . even a bar, though I hadn’t seen any liquor. In my mind’s eye, I envisioned years of back slapping, hand shaking, murmured whispering, and of course, plenty of pontificating.