The alarm blared 7 am. Jerry rolled off his bed into a squat position and sprang up to standing, stretching his long limbs. The sun beckoned through the window.
He stared at his few clothes, then pulled out a bright orange, seer sucker short sleeve shirt with splashy travel postcard images festooned all over. He loved that shirt. It put him in the spirit of adventure, and today would certainly be that, traveling to points unknown and exotic. Finally, he pulled on his jeans, broken in to perfection.
Racing into the kitchen, he screeched to a halt. Before him, Professor Beker, ensconced in a chair, slouched over The New York Times at a table for two. His teal blue bathrobe hung open revealing a faded white tank top and paisley boxers. He stirred Carnation evaporated milk into his coffee. The spoon rang out like a school bell.
“Good morning, Professor Beker,” Jerry said, “I’m Jerry Cradleman.”
Looking like he had just bitten into a lemon, Chris inspected his new housemate.
“Thank you so much for having me here,” Jerry said.
“Hunh,” he said. His gaze pierced Jerry’s. “Do you know what you are doing?” he said with thick Dutch accent.
“I think so,” Jerry replied, not moving a muscle.
Chris scrutinized him further. “I don’t think you do,” Chris said.
A stare-off continued, then Chris’ countenance transformed into a smile.
“You’ll find out,” he said and returned to his paper.
***
Jerry hoofed it across the quad. The fallen maple monolith had been removed. Not a chip, not a leaf remained. The lawn was its manicured self again. Jerry had the distinct feeling the surrounding buildings were judging him. “You don’t belong here,” they whispered.
Jerry climbed up Stewart Hall’s stone stairs and entered its vestibule with dark wood paneled walls. Up the staircase he proceeded, on groaning stairs rutted by the thousands of pilgrims’ feet preceding his.
A long dais anchored the front of the room, behind it, a wall of blackboards streaked with whorls of chalk dust. A podium stood center. 200 seats bolted to the floor with immovable desktops filled the lecture hall.
Jerry observed one student squat beside a chair, pivot around the desktop then plop down for a landing. Jerry followed his example. He squatted, pivoted and plopped into a rear seat and waited.
So, ministry was not solely the domain of nerds, he thought as he surveyed the classroom. He was surprised to see how many people were in their 40s and 50s, how many were international students, and how many were cute women. He wasn’t surprised to see the prevalence of Princeton men. The Presbyterian Church was full of them.
The Princeton man had quarterback good looks: full heads of hair shaped like they had just been to the barber, strong jaw lines, Grecian noses, clear complexions, and radiant smiles that beamed Manifest Destiny. When Princeton men wanted something, they got it and God said so. Their credo was work hard and thou shalt profit.
Jerry wanted to punch the Princeton man in his face. He didn’t sport these classic good looks. Perched atop a lanky body, his head was overly large with an early receding hair line and a prominent nose. His lips were thin, the upper lip sometimes disappeared altogether when he was stressed. He had no innate sense of Manifest Destiny. Jerry’s credo too was work hard and thou shalt be rewarded, however it was tempered with a disclaimer: Maybe not. Some people work hard and fail. As well, some people don’t work hard and succeed.
Professor Cullen Story took the lectern. “Welcome to Orientation to Old Testament Studies,” he said. “We will assume nothing here. This is an historical work that we will explore as if it were newly discovered. Now let’s pray before we start.”
That’s different, Jerry thought. His hands and feet grew clammy.
“Our heavenly Father, we ask that you open our hearts and minds to your word. Let us once again revisit this great story and be reminded of your everlasting love beyond all imagining. We pray in your son’s name. Amen.”
Professor Story explained that the Bible was a tapestry of voices woven together through the ages. With careful analysis, each author’s words could be tweezed apart from the others.
For example, the Bible has two Adam and Eve stories. One story, Genesis 1:1-2:4a, claims that Eve came from Adam, his rib to be exact. Scholars attribute this to the Priestly source. The second creation story, Genesis 2:4ff, claims that Adam and Eve were created together at the same time. The Yahwist source wrote this.
Any editor over the centuries would have spotted this redundancy, as well as how they conflict, and cleaned it up. But no, both stories remain. Why?
Such tension within rendered the Bible more dynamic, more provocative. A work he had dismissed as dogmatic pablum, he now learned challenged the best and the brightest.
New words, like exotic butterflies, flitted about the lecture hall: hermeneutics, exegesis, teleology, zeitgeist, Occam’s Razor, existentialist, eschatology.
Jerry scribbled notes furiously. He had lost track of time when the campus bell rang.
Back at Mackay Center, Jerry passed through the lobby and into the dining room. The ceiling was high; the room was bright. Round tables lined up in neat rows.
As he stood with a full tray of food, he had the distinct feeling of being watched, no, dissected. And perhaps that wasn’t so paranoid. After all, he was a new student in a den of returning students.
Where to sit? Several crowded tables gushed frenzied conversation, punctuated by outbursts of laughter. Others were quiet, less populated.
He steered towards a tepid table in the corner and parked next to a woman with aquamarine eyes that emanated pastoral care.
“Is this your first year?” Jerry asked.
“Mmm, yes.” She covered her mouth with her hand and tittered. Her shoulder length, straight mahogany hair with short cut bangs framed her lightly freckled face. After swallowing, she said, “Yes, I think, in fact, I’m in your Old Testament class.”
“Cullen Story?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, I’m in that. I didn’t see you.”
“I’m not surprised. It’s such a large class. I was sitting in the front row. I got there early to make sure. It helps me concentrate better. I’m Nancy.”
“Jerry. What did you think?”
“Well, it’s not what I was expecting. I thought it would be more faith based. This is seminary after all.”
“Explain?”
“Well, his lecture secularized the Bible. I’m afraid we might lose the power of God’s word if we just treat it like another book of literature. And describing it as written by various authors. This is the word of God.”
“Written by God?”
“Yes.”
She spoke with conviction, her eyes now fierce, yet Jerry noticed tiny pearls of sweat clinging to her peach fuzz mustache. He wondered if her faith might not be developing a few cracks. Perhaps this was what Dr. Byers had been alluding to in his orientation remarks.
“I’d like to pray with you,” she said with an inviting smile.
Jerry’s eyes widened. “Why?” He was nonplussed. Was this a seminary pick-up line?
“I sense that you are troubled.” Her guileless smile continued.
Praying in public? Oh my. Then again, this was seminary.
“OK,” he said.
She took his hands into hers. Jerry felt their coolness, then a calm moved through him. She bowed her head and closed her eyes, and he followed.
“Our Father in heaven, we pray for your servant, Professor Story. We pray for all the Princeton faculty that they may stay true to your word and show us your way and your light. We are here to learn how to proclaim your Good News. Help us through these coming years. And shine a special light for my new friend, Jerry. You have given him a special mission. Show him the way, be by his side, especially when he is troubled and confused, that he may be your everlasting servant. In your son’s name, amen.”
Jerry opened his eyes and noticed that hers were still closed. Her hand squeezed his in earnest. He realized she was waiting for him to say something. It was his turn. He closed his eyes and panicked.
“And…uh…help Nancy enjoy her Old Testament class. Amen.”
They both opened their eyes and smiled. Her eyes probed his.
“Are you OK?” she asked.
“How do you know what to say when you pray?”
“It’s the holy spirit speaking through me.”
Jerry nodded, as if knowingly. Say whaaaat? he thought.
Jerry pondered as he headed home.To be honest, he didn’t pray. Never. Sure, when he was invited, he bowed his head and closed his eyes. He listened to the words, but he didn’t feel anything special. What was he supposed to feel anyway, some live connection to God now that the prayer hotline was open? What made prayer different from regular thoughts? Couldn’t God hear everything anyway? He laughed. Wow. Yes. Seminary will be a time to question everything.
***
“Well Jerry, what did you think of your first day?” asked Chris when Jerry returned.
Chris was still sitting at the kitchen table. Instead of a bathrobe and boxers, he now wore a faded short sleeve shirt, unbuttoned, with a gray undershirt and khaki pants. From the kitchen counter, a black fan grated back and forth.
“It gave me a lot to think about,” responded Jerry.
Chris shoved tobacco into his pipe, tamped it down, and lit up. Puffing away, his cheeks heaved in and out like bellows till the tobacco had a bed of embers.
“Like what?” asked Chris.
“Well, for one, the Bible is a brilliant opera with complex harmonies. And also, God is a raging kook.”
“Humph,” grunted Chris as he disappeared behind a cloud of smoke.
Terry came through the door with bags of groceries. She dropped them down on the kitchen counter, then scooted over and gave Chris a kiss. Chris’ eyes lit up. They rubbed noses and giggled like a couple of kids.
“Hey, let me help,” Jerry said.
“Thanks. Here, we’ll give you the bottom shelf of the fridge and the bottom shelf of this cabinet.”
Jerry took groceries out of the bags while Terry put them away.
“So how did you two meet?” Jerry asked
Terry stopped and gazed at Chris, “You remember?”
“Of course I remember,” he said.
“I was a waitress at the Nassau Inn. Chris was a regular.”
“I was hungry.”
“And I liked feeding him.”
“So, you two hit it off,” Jerry said.
“No one could believe it. None of my friends, and especially not my family,” said Terry.
“When I first met her father, who’s younger than me, that was an evening.”
“Yeah, but you both had something in common, so it went OK,” said Terry
“What was that?” asked Jerry
“Scotch,” said Chris with a wink.