November 7, 2005

• Claude’s turn, as chapter two continues…

  Upon
  reaching the church offices, Claude casually waved goodbye to Brad,
  as the younger man delivered the sack of onion rings to Minnie Anne.
  As he walked on down the hall Claude could hear him delivering a
  well-intended warning on the dangers of fried foods along with the
  rings, and while he couldn’t quite make out Minnie Anne’s response,
  he thought it sounded a mite clipped.

  As
  he rounded the corner to where his own office was, Claude saw through
  the open door a highly polished loafer of the senior pastor, who was
  apparently sitting and waiting for his return. Claude muttered
  irritably as he stopped in his tracks. The senior pastor was a nice
  man, no two ways about it, but he was also given to chattiness, along
  with finding more and more tasks to shovel onto the new associate
  pastor. Those two characteristics combined meant a visit from him
  led inevitably to greater inroads on Claude’s dwindling amount of
  free time.

  “Blast,
  blight, mildew and
  hail,” he groaned softly. Just
  what he did not need this
  afternoon. Pondering his options, he balanced the senior pastor
  versus the possibility running into Brad were he to retrace his
  steps, a Brad who might at any moment realize while Claude had agreed
  to escort Maud Whatshername to the Valentine dance, he had no way to
  actually accomplish the task. Muttering “Blast, blight, mildew and
  hail” once more, Claude chose the senior pastor and entered his
  office.
  

  Martin
  stood up as his associate pastor came in, gravely shaking hands,
  being a man who believed wholeheartedly in old-fashioned courtesy.  Waiting until Claude had sat down
  behind his desk, he once again took his seat, placed his elbows on
  the arms of the chair, steepled his fingers, and gave Claude a look
  full of portent.
  

  “Blast
  and blight and mildew and hail,” Claude
  grumbled inwardly. Even in the short time he’d been at Veritas he’d
  come to learn Martin’s look of portent was the harbinger of hours of
  effort…by someone other than the senior pastor. What was it
  going to be this time? He’d heard tales of the Grandma-Grandson
  Camp-out (there was still discussion in various small groups over
  whether Mrs. MacKenzie had gotten lost accidentally on purpose; those
  familiar with her eight year old terror of a grandson, Jimbo, had
  their suspicions); [PUT EXAMPLE HERE] [PUT
  EXAMPLE HERE] Warily he took the bull by the horns, inquiring
  politely, “So, Martin, what’s on your mind?”
  

  Martin
  drew in a long breath, held it for a count of ten, then let it out.
  He was a firm believer in the benefits of frequent, deep cleansing
  breaths, occasionally urging the discipline on those around him. Not
  this time, though. He had other fish to fry. “Claude, let me ask
  you something,” he began. Claude signified his willingness to
  listen. Martin repeated the deep breathing routine, then spoke in a
  voice filled with the resolve of a man bravely carrying heavy
  burdens, “There are matters and issues looming before us today
  which might well have a significant impact on the body of Christ in
  general and our particular assembly in specific…matters that will
  test our steadfastness, our earnestness, our boldness, our
  purposefulness, our selflessness. The course set before us will
  require the highest degree of wisdom and discernment…”
  

  Claude
  noticed the fingers of his right hand were drumming the top of his
  desk and willed them to stop. As the senior pastor droned on,
  Claude’s thoughts began to wander. What, he wondered silently, was
  Martin leading up to? Christmas was over, so that couldn’t be
  it. A bit early for Easter, surely. His ear caught a name, snapping
  his attention back to the man in the other chair. Casting civility
  to the winds, Claude broke in. “Excuse me, Martin. Did you say Ken
  Atwood? The ex-race driver turned preacher?” Martin looked
  momentarily displeased at the interruption, but being a basically
  kind man, he chose to overlook it.
  

  “That’s
  right, Ken Atwood. As I was saying, we need to map out a strategy
  for dealing with his new book, as nearly everyone is going to be
  reading it. We don’t want to play catch-up, now do we? We in
  leadership positions must be at the forefront of our flock, striving
  ahead and lighting the path, making certain no rocks exist to trip
  the unwary…” Martin looked and sounded prepared to continue in
  this vein indefinitely, so Claude mercilessly broke in yet again.

  “What
  book?” he asked simply. Martin goggled at him, aghast at his
  abysmal ignorance.

  “What
  book?” he croaked. “Why, Race for the Prize, naturally!
  Promotions for it have been all over CBI stations for months, along
  with ads in Christianity Today, and posters in LifeWay bookstores.
  How could you have missed it?” Fixing his associate pastor with a
  stern eye, Martin waited for this dereliction of duty to be
  explained. If possible.
  

  Claude
  shrugged lightly. “I don’t listen to radio much, or read
  Christianity Today, and I mostly get my books online or through
  interlibrary loan. LifeWay doesn’t deal much with the writings of
  the Puritans,” he said simply. “Hey, at least I knew Ken
  Atwood’s a preacher now, so I’m not completely out of the loop. But
  I grant you I hadn’t heard of this book. What’d you say the title
  is? Race for the Prize? Based on Hebrews, I assume,”
  Claude observed wryly. “Catchy.” Still, he wondered what this
  book had to do with Veritas Bible church.
  

  Martin
  accepted the other man’s explanation a little reluctantly, but
  acknowledged to himself it was barely possible a man as steeped in
  theological writings of centuries ago might not be aware of the more
  current authors and their works. All the more reason, he told
  himself with satisfaction, to get Claude involved in the plans for
  the proposed campaign. Bound to be good for him, to stop being so
  immersed in the past and start paying more attention to modern
  theological trends. 
  

  To
  this end, Martin leaned forward, intent upon communicating the
  importance of the project he had in mind. “Claude, if you weren’t
  already aware of the book’s impending publication, you can’t be aware
  of the extraordinary appeal it holds for our church members. Just
  yesterday I saw an advertisement for it at Amazon, so the mainstream
  press is getting on the bandwagon. This thing is going to be huge
  … simply huge!””To emphasize the hugeness of the
  approaching storm, Martin thumped the arm of his chair. Both men
  looked with surprise at his left fist, whose owner immediately looked
  sheepish.

  “Forgive
  me, Claude,” he implored, shaking his head at his own unexpected
  vehemence. “Sometimes my feelings run away with me. There’s a
  deep vein of passion in me that my wife says … well, never mind
  that.” The sixtyish senior pastor projected a combination of
  self-consciousness and a certain amount of roguishness.
  

  Claude
  grimaced slightly. “Never mind, indeed. Well, moving right along,
  how exactly do you foresee Race for the Prize affecting our church?
  And what steps do you think we need to take to combat it?”

  Martin
  appeared dumbfounded at the other man’s take on the situation. “Combat
  it? Who said anything about combating it? No, no, Claude
  … we must prepare to take advantage of the interest generated by
  this book. Doubtless there will be an influx of new people due to
  their having read it. We must be like the virgins waiting for the
  bridegroom! Lamps filled with oil, flames burning bright and
  steady!” He sat back, overcome with the beauty of his analogy.

  Claude
  found himself overcome as well, but for entirely different
  reasons.
  

  =========================
  

  BTW,
  if anyone can come up with a couple of additional ideas of the sort of
  thing Martin has gotten his church involved in, shoot ‘em on to
  me!  I’m blanking here. 
  

  • 3:48 pm
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