Ethics: A Christian holding four aces (Mark Twain)

Stephanie Nelson was the last of the leadership team to arrive. She closed the door lightly (and quite thoughtfully) behind her, and walked through the eddying atmospheric tensions to her seat. At that particular moment, no one was speaking. They had apparently opened in prayer already and had even reached their first impasse. And Stephanie was only three minutes late.

Chad looked extremely sullen, and he may actually have been sullen. But of course the black eye would make him look that way whether he was or not. It was a garish overdone display, about a quarter of an acre, with deep magenta and black and a few isolated blue stripes. That is what had happened when Pastor John Mitchell had extended the right hand of fellowship forcefully to Chad’s left eye. Pastor Mitchell had laid hands on him in a way quite dissimilar to what had happened to Paul and Barnabas at Antioch, when relations between clergymen had been somewhat more amicable. John Mitchell had perhaps missed his calling as an amateur boxer, but he had clearly not missed Chad. Chad, still trying to look dignified, despite the purple affront to others, nodded at Miguel.

“Financial report?”

“Tanking. Giving down 35% over the last two weeks, and the trajectory doesn’t look promising. This week was significantly worse than last week. Interestingly, attendance is only down 10%, which means that people are still coming to watch the show, and are sitting on their wallets. This indicates some kind of thought-out plan on their part.” Miguel doodled furiously on the edges of his balance sheet while he was talking.

Bill Turner was on the leadership team because he was a world class bean counter. His many late hours spent in acquiring this valuable profit and loss expertise were a large part of the reason that his wife Mary was currently spending assorted hours in the arms of another man. A country song or two has been written about this kind of thing, and the Arkansas poet who wrote them knows whereof he speaks. Still, Bill knew how to count the beans, and it now appeared plain to him that 35 out of 100 of the beans were missing.

“That’s just unacceptable,” Bill said.

Chad Lester didn’t snarl at him, except on the inside. “We all know it is unacceptable, Bill.” Chad’s soothing outside voice said, sounding just like the library lady at story time. “The reason we are having this meeting is to determine which plan we will adopt in order to not accept it.” You sexless capon, he added when safe inside his own thoughts again.

Usually Bill would wither when subjected to this kind of thing, but he was feeling quite secure in his knowledge of the bean ratios, and this was coupled with the fact that Chad Lester was clearly in no position to be the hegemon at this meeting that he usually was. Bill moved in his seat in a way that telegraphed his continued defiance. He didn’t actually look under the table for the 35 missing beans on the floor, but his body language was as clear as Chad’s smooth and polished but sandpapery-anyway-response had been. Bill’s message was sent, then received, and Chad, appearing as unruffled as a black-eyed master of ceremonies can, looked inscrutably across the table for any other signs of rebellion. It was almost impossible for Chad to run the same kind of disciplined meeting that he used to run, although he was still laboring manfully away. His moral authority was apparently stuck in the sump pump, and this made it hard to control the flooding in this elder-meeting basement of his.

His usual technique had been to control comments and any renegade motions with an imperious glance. Not working well anymore, but maybe the shiner was not letting the withering glances all the way out. Part of this was because the previous week he had been the subject of two editorials in the city’s major paper, not to mention one (pretty funny) editorial cartoon, and on Wednesday the controversy had gone national when he had achieved the high water mark of two running jokes on Letterman. Then somebody took the AP wire, stretched it across the road, and waited for Chad to come around the corner on a motorcycle like some nondescript Nazi in pursuit of somebody important in an 80s WWII movie. That had happened on Thursday.

Chad could see that Bill the eunuch was still unsubdued, and this was unsettling. Bill was almost always the first to go over. If Bill had been a local potentate centuries before, and his city was under siege, neither of which were actually happening here, granted, but this just illustrates a particular Billonic character trait by means of an extended simile, and if he had been told by the randy and imperious besieger to “surrender all your gold, and let us ravish all your women,” Bill would have appeared above the city gates to say something along the lines of “okay!” And in real life, not just in the epic simile, Bill had known all about Chad messing around with his wife Mary the year before, and had done and said nothing. And Mary knew that he knew, and he knew that Mary knew it. And yet the closest he got to open confrontation was the time when he had asked querulously about the overdone lasagna. That conversation had lasted thirty seconds, he ate the lasagna anyway, but boy, there were undercurrents everywhere. Bill didn’t know about David and Mary, but the point was that it didn’t really matter whether he knew anything or not. And here was Bill showing signs of resistance. Chad knew the meeting was in a perilous state.

Mary Turner looked across the table at David. She arched her eyebrow, which meant in this instance, “Say something.” As promising as the sign of incipient feistiness in Bill was to everybody, nobody was counting on him to lead the charge. So David went ahead, clearing his throat first.

“Chad,” he began. “We need to do the same kind of thing here that we do with all the challenges and obstacles that we have overcome up to this point, um, here at Camel Creek. We need to run some contingencies, and we need to have a series of decisions made beforehand, based on each one of those, um, contingencies.”

Chad looked at him, waiting for the next step. David was not quite ready to take it, at least not without help from elsewhere around the table. He wanted to get Chad’s resignation as a mere possibility onto the table, even if only as a potential response to the seventeenth contingency, but it was clear that right now Chad would have to be the one to mention it first. And he was showing no signs of being willing to mention it first.

You know about me with Mary? Chad thought across the table. Well, I know about you and Mary.

Gotcha, David thought. I just thought . . . you know, contingencies.

After the controversy first broke, and the first emergency elder meeting, Pastor Martin had refreshed his own memory with a look at the counseling logs in his office, and realized there had indeed been a Robert P. Warner II in his past. Staring at the log, it all started to come back to him. He consequently thought that his verbal participation in this transparent maneuver by David would be . . . premature. David looked at him helplessly, knowing that Michael knew what he was trying to do. I need a little help here, David simmered. Got my reasons, thought Martin back. Maybe we can talk later.

It was Stephanie who came to everyone’s rescue, albeit thoughtlessly and without guile. “I am sure,” she said, “that Chad would be the first to resign for the good of the church, if that were ever to become necessary. When men of integrity are under assault, they always think first of others. If the flock can best be protected by the shepherd departing, I am confident that Chad will be the very first one to make that suggestion. I know I can speak for you in this, Chad, because it is a matter of principle—and you have taught us all very well. And I know that if you have not yet done this, it is not yet necessary” At this she bobbed her head perkily like a pony-tailed girl in a biscuit commercial from 1957.

Chad looked at her gratefully because she was clearly not interested in resignation at all. The others looked at her gratefully because she had actually mentioned the r-word, and it was now on the table, linked mysteriously to David’s seventeenth contingency. And a few of those others also looked at Stephanie in amazement, realizing for the first time that her innocence was entirely genuine, and that there was actually an attractive woman close to Chad who had no idea of his fornicating ways. No idea.

“Jeepers,” thought Kenneth, an elder hitherto silent. Danielle, who couldn’t say the same as Stephanie, rolled her eyes, trying not to be envious. Miguel, who had contingency plans all his own, didn’t care. Michael Martin had other things to think about. They all, along with the others, were nevertheless grateful that the mere idea of contingencies had been broached, however obliquely. At some future meeting, it would be possible to refer to Stephanie’s “very sad suggestion some days ago.” Chad was happy that no one was going to do that at this meeting, and the rest were happy that they were going to do it at a future meeting, perhaps as soon as next week. The two sumo wrestlers fell back a few paces, panting.

That out of the way, the meeting turned to other aspects of the issue. Chad spoke, after an awkward silence. “As I told you all before, the charge is monstrously false. If we allow charges like this to be leveled, unanswered, then what will the harvest be? I had a good meeting with the legal guys this morning . . .”

By this time, the only people in the room who believed him were Stephanie, who would believe anything, Michael Martin, who knew that Chad didn’t do it because he had, and Sharon Atwater in the corner recording minutes, whose reasons had more to do with her instinctive knowledge of the nature of Chad’s heterosexuality. And out of those three who believed him, Chad’s reiterated denial here was so hollow that two of them didn’t believe him.

“You’re right,” said David. “What will the harvest be? In the meantime, we need to do something about the pounding we are taking in the press. Maybe a congregational meeting . . .?”

“No,” Chad said. “No congregational meeting. The press would have to be there, and that would just be fat in the fire.” Everybody realized that that was right at any rate, and fell silent.

* * *

Chad’s sports car roared down the Interstate, and he took Exit 27A and headed south again. This was his third time around the city, and his automotive excursion reflected his state of mind—only the circles his mind was going in were much tighter, by about a factor of ten. No way out. No way in. No way. He was auguring in. Three miles down that stretch of freeway, he downshifted, and pulled off the highway on the next exit ramp he came to, turned right at the light, and headed off down a strip occupied by mobile home dealers, tattoo parlors, and numerous stores full of retail detritus.

It took about ten minutes to find one, and Chad parked behind the store and walked slowly around to the front. Chad walked into the liquor store, feeling reasonably confident he would not be recognized. He was in a different part of town, a part of town populated by a demographic that was not really the target group for his ministry. He had long ignored them and they, for their part of the deal, ignored him back. This part of town had their crazy pastors too, but they mainly operated out of store fronts with names like Knee Deep in Glory Gospel Center. And some of their pastors had tattoos, but these were tattoos that said, “I was in the Navy once, before I met Jesus,” instead of the uptown ecclesiastical version that said, “I am desperate to accessorize my iPod.”

Anyhow, that, coupled with the black eye, should draw a cloak over this whole business. Secure in his anonymity, Chad walked up and down the cinder block store’s four aisles, putting bottles in his small blue basket at random. He really had no idea, but was doing fairly well at it nonetheless. The majority of his selections were based on the bottle looking scary, but he also filled it out with some less scary items, beer and whatnot, to make his venture look more socially responsible—and less like he was laying the groundwork for a major bender.

The clerk, who had seen it all before, knew within the first few minutes that this was a customer laying the groundwork for a major bender. He leaned on the counter and made small talk with Chad as he walked around the store. “Yeah, that’s a popular one,” he said. “Hard to keep that in stock.” Quiet for a moment, he then added helpfully, “Nice little punch.” A helping hand for the novice, the sort of random kindness that helps make the world a better place. But the kindness was wasted because Chad just thought he was asking about the black eye, and quickly changed the subject.

When he was done, Chad walked up to the counter and began emptying the basket. The bottles gradually accumulated next to the register, looking like some architect’s rendition of a futurist silver city. When there were a sufficient number of high octane skyscrapers, some of them with lightning bolts all the way down the sides, Chad dropped a couple hundred dollar bills on the counter. Not a good idea to use the card, Chad thought. This guy doesn’t care, but somebody else probably does. “Have a good one,” Chad said, gathered up his clinking bags and walked out. The Hyatt was on the other side of town, and he would circle the city two more times before he came in for his landing.

* * *

It was Mindy’s first week working the check-in desk at the Hyatt. She was a sweet girl, and she looked every bit as sweet as she actually was. Her previous job was in the bookstore at Camel Creek, and she had moved here reluctantly. She had loved her previous job, but, of course, she was the kind of person who loved everything she did. Now she loved it here.

“Welcome to the Hyatt! How may I help . . . Pastor Lester!” she said. The black eye had obscured recognition for just a moment.

“Hello,” he nodded.

She recovered herself. “Checking in for just one night?”

“Yes,” he said. Feeling that to be insufficient, he added a lie. “Have an early flight in the morning.”

“Oh!” she said, perky as anything. “Shall I put you down for a wake-up call?”

“Uh, no, that’s all right. I may call down later.”

“Okay!” She looked down at the two brown bags he was carrying. “Do you need help with your, um, luggage?”

“No, my bag is in the car,” he lied again. Why did I come here? Oh, that’s right. People would find him if he did this at home. He would wind up naked on the roof if he did this at home. He had no idea how to predict the results of what he was planning. He had a vague idea that throwing up might be involved at some point. The housekeeper would ask about that at home. Chad took his credit card back, and made his way across the lobby to the elevators, clinking merrily as he went.

Just as the elevators were closing, Mindy’s cell phone sang a delicate little tune from her purse in the back. There were no customers, so Mindy went and picked it up. “Hi, mom!” She was silent for a moment. “Uh huh. Yes, I can pick that up on my way home . . . well, gotta go. On the job . . .” She had heard the sliding doors at the front of the lobby whisk open. “Oh, but you’ll never guess who just checked in. Pastor Lester! Yeah, he has a flight in the morning.” Mindy heard bags thumping in front of her counter. “Gotta go! Love you!”

On the other end, Stephanie Nelson slowly closed her cell phone. For the first time in a number of years, a thoughtful look came over her face.