Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,
Such shaping fantasies . . . (A Midsummer Night’s Dream)

Johnny Quinn sat in his cubicle in the Wildlife4YouthRampage offices, but was not fully sure that was the right name. They kept changing the name on the brochures so it was hard to know from day to day what the ministry was called. Uncertainty was part of the appeal. That was just one problem with ministering to the youth of today—riding the wave of cool and contemporary youth ministry was like surfing the big ones, and with one false move, there you were with sand in your trunks.

Johnny was rubbing the back of his neck. He was one of seven assistants to the main youth minister, who was off doing stuff and never around anymore, and Johnny had been told many times that he had a promising future ahead of him in this “most important work.” He had short blond hair, and a diamond stud earring—big enough to give him street cred, so necessary in youth work these days, and yet the earring was small enough to not worry the small handful of people at Camel Creek who might possibly have a problem with it. And at one point in the church’s history there might have been a handful of people disturbed by this kind of thing in the church, but they had all died and gone to heaven quite a number of years before. And frankly, none of them cared about it now, apparently having better things to think about. But Johnny still agonized over such things—what size earring would the apostle Paul have worn if his mission had been to the skateboarding and pants-droopy youth of today? Not an easy question to answer.

Every month or so the stress of youth ministry—dealing with the kids and all their issues—would get to Johnny, and so he would head on over to Brandy’s apartment to have her give him a neck rub, followed by her specialty back rub. But somehow her giving him a back rub always turned into him giving her a front rub, and then they would fall again.
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You cannot successfully determine beforehand which side of the bread to butter (Mrs. Murphy’s Corollary)

The morning after their sortie to the Camel Creek mid-week service, Bradford and Rourke decided that they should try to interview Robert P. Warner “his own self,” as Bradford put it. They asked around and got the address and contact info, and also discovered the existence of Mystic Union, a person mentioned in the newspaper article, albeit obliquely. Rourke hung up the phone after talking with one of the newspaper reporters.

“She told me Mystic Union is a real piece of work. Try to imagine Miss Boulder, Colorado on steroids. And we will have to go through her if we want to talk with ol’ Robert.”

Bradford nodded, and looked down at the piece of paper Rourke handed him. “1515 Asbury. I know where that is. Just on the genteel side of seedy. Safe but not savory.”

Rourke snorted. “You used to work as a tour guide that side of town?”

“I am not saying I did or I didn’t. But if I did, would that be so bad? Suppose a college student needed pizza money, say.”

The two detectives stood up, stretched, and headed out to their car.

Pastor Mitchell was driving into town from the other direction, listening to the car radio more carefully than usual. He almost never listened to KING because “it got him out of fellowship,” as he put it, but he was doing so this morning to see if there would be any references to the scandal at all. He had decided that morning, somewhat abruptly, that he needed to contact Mrs. Winmore, a.k.a Mystic Union, before his lunch appointment with Brian. His pastoral antennae were buzzing and sparking, and it seemed to him that he was inevitably going to be dragged into this swamp of charges and countercharges. And, if so, he preferred going in headfirst, and not grabbed at the heels by the swamp monster of circumstances in order to be dragged helplessly into these stagnant ponds of punk water. He was going to be talking to Cherie regardless, he had a lunch appointment tomorrow with Brian, and he had kind of an historical connection to Mrs. Winmore. So on the drive into town he was trying to think of some plausible way he could phrase the question he did have for her, but the real reason for going was simply to make face to face contact with her again. Just in case. [Read more →]

The devil’s boots don’t creak (Scottish Proverb)

Pastor Mitchell was leaning back in his chair, feet on his desk, phone balanced on his shoulder. “Uh huh,” he was saying. And occasionally he said, “go on.” The church was small, his study was at home, and this is what accounted for his wife appearing suddenly in the doorway.

“Just a sec,” he said to the person on the other end. “What? . . . Okay, call me later.” He hit the talk button because he was no longer doing so, and put the receiver on top of a stack of commentaries that enlarged at great length on St. Paul’s second extant letter to the Corinthians.

“I am picking Sandy up after her rehearsal, and then we are hitting Costco. We will be home before dinner, but if the oven beeps you should be able to hear it in here.”

“I hate it when you leave me.”

“You’re a dear and a love. But would you get the casserole out if you hear the beeping? Thanks bunches, sweetie. And since that is your sole responsibility for the next hour, you should be able to do exegesis like crazy. Or whatever it is you do in here.”

“I hate it when you leave me.”

Cindi stuck her head back in. “Did you see the paper this morning? About Camel Creek?” [Read more →]

Nine times out of ten, the coarse word is the word that condemns an evil and the refined word the word that excuses it (G.K. Chesterton).

The sunset was beautifully understated, and spread out over the western sky like the pale, pastel inside of an oyster shell. But it had been a day, and the oyster was a little annoyed. Sharon Atwater stood at the top of the stairs leading down to the parking lot, and looked out at the quiet evening, peeved. She was peeved, not the evening, although the evening was thinking about it.

At the bottom of the stairs was a local television station truck, big satellite dish on the top, and cords running all over heck. Several cameras were already set up, and it looked like they were about to go live. Car is right on the other side of that mess. I could walk through but they might start asking me questions. Not for Chad. Sharon swiveled and started to walk the long way around.

A few moments later, standing on the other side of her car, she saw the two detectives who had visited her earlier getting out of the car they had just parked right behind hers. Fantastic. They were just standing there, not moving at all. Waiting for me. Great. They found out I was lying and came to arrest me. But I wasn’t lying. Not for Chad. There was nothing to do but keep walking the long way around, so she did.

But the two policemen were not waiting for her. They were standing there for the same reason that Sharon was now going the long way around—the television crew. Only they didn’t know the long way around. Rourke was standing there, with an aggrieved look on his face.

“Why, Bradford, do I always have to deal with News Babe?”

Bradford didn’t know. “Righteous living?” [Read more →]

If you wish to drown, do not torture yourself with shallow water (Bulgarian Proverb).

The two detectives stomped their way up the river rock steps of Camel Creek Community Church. The landscaped slopes on either side of the broad steps were covered with junipers, which Rourke had long considered to be the orcs of the plant kingdom. The automatic sprinklers on a timer were busily spritzing them, which just made the recipients wet botanical orcs. The two men stopped at the top step, turned around and looked at the parking lot they had just escaped. Twenty acres of asphalt stretched out before them, tastefully interrupted with enclaves of trees and bushes.

“There might be more asphalt over the horizon but the curvature of the earth makes it tough to tell,” Bradford said. Rourke ignored him.

They had called the previous day to arrange for interviews. A cheery voice on the other end had greeted them (almost convincingly) with, “It’s great to serve the King! How may I direct your call?” Everyone was most cooperative. After the call from the prosecutor forced them to set up interviews at the church, Rourke had gone off to tie up the details of their previous case—which meant washing his wife’s Civic—and had told Bradford to make himself knowledgeable about all things Camel Creek. This Bradford had done with a considerable amount of wicked enthusiasm, and he was bursting to show off his information. [Read more →]

Christian, n. One who believes the New Testament is a divinely inspired book admirably suited to the spiritual needs of his neighbor. One who follows the teachings of Christ in so far as they are not inconsistent with a life of sin (Ambrose Bierce, The Devil’s Dictionary).

Two weeks before the black eye, and counting.

Things were not supposed to unravel this way. Not this way. Some other way maybe. Perhaps even inevitably some other way. But this charge is false. Reckless. Not on the menu. Deeply and profoundly unfair.

Chad Lester leaned against the inside of his office door, the newspaper sticking to his sweating hands. A secretarial heads up had reached him just half an hour ago, and he had stopped to pick up the paper on the way in. Front page and above the fold. The last time that had happened he’d been wearing an apron at a soup kitchen. Why hadn’t the paper called him? He’d just golfed with Bryan three weeks ago. Area minister accused in sex scandal. His picture lurked in a tiny smudge box right next to another picture in a tiny smudge box. Who the hell was that? Never used to even think profanities, but a whole string of them were lining up now.

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I have only two comforts to live upon; the one is the perfections of Christ; the other is the imperfections of Christians (Nathaniel Ward, puritan).

As a conscientious pastor, John regretted having given a fellow clergyman a black eye. Not entirely intentional, more a confluence of events that was larger than everybody involved. But still, hardly what he had learned in seminary. [Read more →]