It seems my soul is like a filthy pond, wherein fish die soon, and frogs live long” (Thomas Fuller)

John Mitchell was steamed in the abstract. In the concrete world around him at that very moment, to wit, his time at the evening dinner table with his wife and daughter, he was most content. But Chad Lester got to him at the basic worldview level, at the place where theological doctrine and principled animosity intersect.

On top of that John had been in puppy love with Michelle Lester in junior high school. But that hadn’t been her name then. What was it? Davenport, that was it. He had never asked her out or anything, preferring instead to worship her from afar, usually at a distance of thirty yards or more. The thought of Chad Blister just taking one of his early feminine icons off and then treating her that way . . . John was not even sure that he could recall what she looked like back then, and he had never seen her since.

Part of the reason he had not played the role of an aggressive shepherd to Brian Lewis was that he knew that bringing Lewis into the fold would also probably bring in Michelle at some point. And then what? Had he ever told Cindi about that junior high crush? Probably. What did it matter? There had been three other crushes, probably that same year. That’s what junior high is for. And the earth would go around the sun ten entire times before he had finally met Cindi, who, as Puritans go, was as hot as it gets. And, John thought smugly to himself, for those who think that means “not very,” he could write a book, although no Christian publisher would ever touch it. She could make him bleed from both his ears, like some very unfortunate kind of parachute accident. John grinned inside his head.

“Careful, these are hot,” Cindi said, bending over to place the cheese potato casserole at the head of the table.

John opened and closed his mouth, remembering just in time that Sandy was present. You bet they are, John thought. Cindi read his mind and gave him one of her warning looks. After she was seated, they said grace, and passed the food gratefully around.
“Anything new about Camel Creek, daddy?”

“No news today. But I was thinking this morning . . . remember that story that Cherie told us about six years ago? The one about the guest speaker in their college and career group?”

Cindi laughed, “Oh, that was wonderful. Some man named Wilson . . . Tim Wilson, or Jim Wilson, something like that.”

“What happened again?” John asked. “I was trying to remember it.”

“Somebody in the group suggested a special guest speaker for a week when the designated group facilitator—that’s what they call them—was going to be out of town. It was a last minute thing—they didn’t do their normal vetting process, and the person who recommended Wilson had only been at the church for a few months. She didn’t have any notion of the worlds-in-collision she was setting in motion.”

“I never heard this one,” Sandy said. “What happened?”

“Well, the thing was arranged quickly—Wilson was going to be in town for some other event anyhow, and he didn’t know Camel Creek from any other big box church. So he just did what he normally did, which was apparently to teach on confession of sin (acting throughout his presentation as though there really was such a thing as sin), and he told everybody that they ought to be doing exactly whatever the Bible says to do. He had to catch a flight right after lunch, and so he never had any idea of the pandemonium he left behind him. About ten people in the class—out of two hundred or so—thought something like, ‘You know, that’s right.’ The rest of them were about as indignant as a room full of wet cats.”

John chuckled. “That’s it. That’s what I remember.”

“In fact,” Cindi continued, “I was just talking to Karen Watson last week, and she told me that she and Tom were part of that small group that wound up leaving because of it. The Watsons and the Craigs. So two of our families eventually wound up at Grace Reformed because of that meltdown.”

John’s eyebrows went up, which was a significant and bushy event. “I didn’t know that part.”

“Why were you trying to remember this?” Cindi asked.

“Oh, I just have had Camel Creek on the brain the last few days. Everything I hear reminds me of what they are doing over there. I was looking something up today in Calvin and came across the phrase confession of sin. And then I remembered that those words were uttered one time on the actual premises of Camel Creek. But I couldn’t remember the story.”

“Now John, you aren’t thinking too much about Camel Creek, are you? You know how it agitates you.”

John grinned, somewhat grimly. “But it gives my preaching that secret fire.”

“You have also been up at two in the morning with heartburn three times in the last few weeks. I just don’t want you . . . you know.” And Sandy nodded her cheerful agreement with her mom.

John was mildly irritated, not at Cindi, but with that special kind of vaguely-aimed irritation that we reserve for ourselves when in the presence of people who are being correct in our direction. And so he did what always did whenever he felt that way about his dear wife being right, which was to swallow it, say nothing, and show nothing. He knew she was right. He needed a different secret fire pretty darn quick.

A phone in Cindi’s handbag, hanging by the door from the kitchen to the garage, chirruped merrily. Cindi left her ice cream on the table and after a few moments of rummaging around, found it. “Hello?”

Within seconds the pleasant look on her face vanished. “Here,” she said, “you need to talk to John.” This was not because Cindi did not know how to handle her cousin Cherie, but rather because her husband was better than she was at deciphering code whenever Cherie was hysterical. And Cherie, on the other end, was speaking something like high-volume Navajo under stress.

John listened gravely for a few minutes, and then sat bolt upright in his chair. “Lester? Lester is there?” The random collections of syllables from Cherie indicated the affirmative. “I’ll be right over,” John said. He snapped the cell phone shut, handed it back to Cindi.

He got his jacket on, and stood for a moment by the door, waiting for Cindi to warn him about letting Lester get to him. But she just kissed him on the cheek. “You are a good pastor,” she said.

Cherie’s apartment was about ten minutes away when the traffic was light, which it was this evening. By the time John veered off the freeway exit, he had several opening speeches prepared. He wasn’t sure which one he was going to use. They were all very fine, and all built on the foundation of total depravity, a doctrine that had been so lucidly formulated by the theologians at the Synod of Dordt in seventeenth century Holland. Not that he expected Lester to know all that historical theology stuff, but he did expect that Lester would still catch the drift. He was going to be civilized about this—he had already dropped the words worm, cockroach, and invertebrate weasel from his sermons, and yet they all still retained a very robust character.

He pulled up in front of Cherie’s apartment, and yanked on the emergency brake harder than he usually did. The handle came off in his hand. Stupid brake. He walked deliberately up to the door and knocked more softly than he usually did. Self control is one of the fruits of the Spirit. He found himself doing breathing exercises that he and Cindi had learned in a birthing class many years ago.

Within seconds, Cherie pulled the door open. Her hysterics were gone, but her eyes were puffed up and she was sobbing. Her blouse was badly disheveled.

John stepped into the apartment, past the small bathroom that was the first room on the right. The narrow hallway led into a kitchen on the left, and a small dining area on the right. It was a screwy apartment. “It’ll be all right, Cherie,” he said, patting her hand. He led her to a chair in the dining area, where she sat down, still sobbing. “Is Lester still here?” he asked.

She nodded silently.

A male voice came from the living room, located way at the back of the apartment. It really was a screwy layout. “Cherie? Is someone here?” Lester came around the corner, and stopped abruptly when he saw John. “What . . .?” he began, and then he saw Cherie and her disheveled clothes. If John had been paying attention to Lester’s face he would have seen him go white, the way men do when they see a trap swinging shut on them. But John was not paying attention to Lester’s face—he was deciding which of the speeches he was going to launch into. And as for that, it probably didn’t matter, because he was going to use them all, and it was just a matter of which order they would come in. But still, he wasn’t watching Lester closely, who was staring in high indignation at Cherie.

Lester turned to John. “Surely you don’t believe . . .”

“What am I supposed to believe?”

“I came over to talk, visit a little, catch up . . . old friends . . .” His sentence rolled to a stop against the wall and just sat there, abandoned.

“He attacked me,” Cherie said. “I said no, no . . . he wouldn’t listen.”

Chad Lester was appalled by this dishonesty, as only a dishonest man can be. For those who have never seen this phenomenon in action, let us say only that he was the kind of man who was entirely unaccustomed to looking at lies from this end of the barrel. He was counting the rounds in their chambers. He could see their pointed, silvery tips. He licked his lips.

“She . . . she is lying . . . we visited a bit . . . she said she was having digestion problems and had to use the restroom. She must have called you from there.”

Cherie shook her head violently. “He said he wanted to talk. But after just a few minutes he started pawing me again, just like old times. I said no, but he insisted. So . . . so I pretended to change my mind and asked to freshen up first. I went to the bathroom and called you.”

John went to the phone and picked it up, intending to dial 911. “What are you doing?” Lester asked.

“Calling the cops. What does it look like?”

“No,” said Lester and Cherie simultaneously. “Don’t do that.”

“Why not?” John said, looking at Cherie.

“No cops. I don’t want to talk to cops.”

Chad said nothing, but was looking immeasurably relieved. He wasn’t thinking three chess moves ahead like a man in his position really ought to be doing. Had Cherie set him up this way just to give John Mitchell a chance to give him the ungarbled word? The chances were not likely. In fact it was a long shot of the first order for anyone who thought about it, but Chad Lester in his relief was in no frame of mind to think about it.

John didn’t argue, but just put the phone down. He knew from long experience that no one was more obstinate than Cherie when it came to things like this. If he pushed, she would just set her mouth in that odd position of hers, and forty-five minutes later it would be all settled, and the settlement would be whatever Cherie had decided to do in the first place.

“No cops.” John said. “Alright, then. Lester. I have a few things that I think you need to hear, and I most certainly need to say. If you will permit me?”

Lester nodded, not really hearing. He was still rejoicing over the no cops attitude displayed by Cherie. Mitchell-words would be no trouble at all. Lester had a toggle switch in his brain that he used to flip years before whenever he was being lectured by his mother, schoolteacher, or any other superior, and it had enabled him to assume the appropriate demeanor of thoughtfulness while being chewed out, and all while his mind was meandering elsewhere. He hadn’t used that switch in years—he didn’t get chewed out anymore—but he still knew right where it was.

John started in, not knowing that his congregation of one had already wandered off, and by the end of the short medley of sermons would be in bed with a nubile someone, far more cooperative than Angela or Cherie.

“The fact that your congregation wants you the way you are does not mean that you have any right to be that way. Of course they want you that way—it grants them the right to live however they want, and still have a scratch n’ sniff version of the Christian faith. And that is the secret of your success. Your congregation assembles with a good will. Of course they do. The prophet Micah says that if a man prophesies wine and beer, he would be just the spokesman for this people. People want what they want, and they heap up teachers for themselves, teachers who will give them what they want. You are just one more ear-tickler in a growing pile of ear-ticklers. How you can . . .”

After the first few minutes, Cherie stopped listening also. It was a dressing-down such as she had never heard, at least since her father had died. The fact that it was addressed to Lester was somewhat gratifying, but still, the whole idea made her unsettled. So she just sat quietly for the ten minutes or so that John unburdened his soul, speaking with accumulating vehemence as he warmed to the topic of Lester’s uselessness in the ministry. He did not get quite as far as to say that Lester was a waste of perfectly good skin, but he came close several times.

Finally, after repeating several phrases unnecessarily (the sermonic equivalent of a blinking fuel gauge) John decided that he had to wrap up. He didn’t feel any better. He felt like he had just tried to give the tar baby a bath in vegetable oil. Lester didn’t look any cleaner, and John just felt gunked. So John stopped talking and just stared for another moment at Lester.

“Anything to say?” he asked.

Lester came back to the conversation, and shook his head without speaking.

“Are you sure no cops?” John asked, looking at Cherie.

“No. No cops.” Cherie had settled in her mind—when Lester had first called her that evening—what she was going to do. A story in the media is not subject to rules of evidence, cross-examination, and other such discomfiting things, and the media was the arena in which a slow-roast of Lester was already occurring. She would grant a silhouetted interview to Mercedes Hanson—Cherie called her Mercedes, but she was known to Rourke and Bradford as News Babe.

“Alright then,” John said. “You can leave now.” He jerked his head toward the door. Lester started toward the door, and as he began his exit, he clumsily slipped on a throw rug in the hall between the kitchen and the dining area, and lurched heavily into John.

John stepped back quickly, and without meditating at all on what he should do, and impelled by forces he only understood partially, unleashed a powerful right hook. He had done some amateur boxing in high school, and let us just say that all his old skills had not departed from him. His fist connected with Lester’s left eye in a satisfying grinding sound and feel—not at all like the thwack of the movies—and Lester straightened up, astonished beyond measure. As soon as he did, John’s satisfaction fled from him, and Lester, holding his hand over his eye, departed with a silent and upright dignity, like a butler leaving the drawing room of an English manse.

When the door clicked shut behind him, John just stood silently in the kitchen, and Cherie just sat in the chair. After what seemed like an interminable pause, John finally shook himself and looked down at Cherie.

“Are you going to be okay?” he said kindly.

Cherie nodded, no longer sobbing. She seemed very composed, given what had happened. “I’ll be fine,” she said. Picture perfect fine, she thought.

John sat down on one of the other dining chairs. “Can I pray with you before I go?” he asked.

“Sure,” Cherie said, and half-smiled. “But are you in any shape to pray?”

“No,” John said. “But we still should.”

A few moments later, he was walking toward his car. He got the parking brake released more easily than he thought he was going to be able to, started up, put the car in gear, and glided out into the street. Like driving into a thick fog, the ministerial guilt settled in around him.