Chapter 15
Jerry dashed up to his parents, gown billowing behind, cap in hand. His dad wrapped his arms around him and kissed him on the lips. His Mom allowed a quick hug.
“Didn’t think you were going to make it,” dad said.
“I didn’t think so either,” Jerry said.
His dad’s stomach pooched; his face sagged; his hairline…what hairline? Eyes, once pin prick sharp, were cataract clouded. His Mom clutched her handbag with both hands. She wore a tight smile and looked like she needed to be somewhere else.
“You are graduating, aren’t you?” she asked.
“I am.” He drew in a big breath. “But the Candidate’s Committee decided not to endorse me for ordination.”
“Oh no,” Marvin’s eyes darkened. “What happened?”
“Well, these vocation tests say I’m not right for the ministry. And, guess what? You’re gonna love this. They say I’m best suited for sales.”
Marvin burst out laughing; the sparkle returned to his eyes. “A chip off the old block.” He lightly punched Jerry’s shoulder. “You can be minister of Deoderex. We’ll start where you left off and work you up the ladder. That’s just great. It’s all taken cared of.”
“Uh huh,” said Jerry. He suddenly wanted to crawl back into bed.
His fellowship kids swooped over. They had their parents drive them up so they could see Jerry graduate. A flurry of hugs ensued that resuscitated him.
The ceremony took way too long, but it allowed Jerry time to ponder. No way would he work for his dad. He’d stay in Princeton and circulate his resume to churches on his own.
When it was over, mom and dad snapped some pictures, took him out to lunch and were on their way home ahead of rush hour, apologizing for the rush but they both had urgent work to attend to.
As Jerry drifted off to a much needed sleep, failure weighed down upon him. He had his degree, but so what? No church called him. The road was a dead end. Still, Rev. McCracken’s words lingered: If this was his calling, he must find a way.
Chapter 16
“Jerry, hey Jerry, how are you?” said David Crawford, the seminary Admissions Director. Just before he answered the phone, Jerry had been trying to get himself to mow the lawn of the Princeton house he was care taking for the summer.
“I’m fine, Dean Crawford. What a surprise. Where are you?” There was a din of activity in the background.
“I’m in Sacramento, California, which is why I’m calling. Say, do you have a job?”
“No.”
“Good,” he shouted. Maybe he was in a bar, Jerry thought. “Listen, I was talking to the head pastor of a wonderful social activist church out here, and they have a position open. I think it would be a perfect fit for you with your activist gifts. You’d be working on the hunger issue. You can draft legislation; you can help homeless people; you write your own job description. It’s a great opportunity. You interested?”
“My Candidates Committee no longer sponsors me.”
“How’d that happen?”
“The Career Counseling Center said I wasn’t fit for the ministry.”
“Aw, heck. Look, do you want the job or not?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Then I’ll take care of the rest. My secretary will call you with the interview appointment. You just be there. “
“Thank you so much Dean Crawford.”
“Say hello to your father for me.”
He sat down. He stood up. It felt like he had just reentered the current of his life after floating around in flotsam. He was going to be a minister!
Time to mow the lawn.
***
In a few days, he found himself in a fog at the corner of 13th and Capitol in Sacramento. A raw chill penetrated through his light suit. He peered up at a medieval-looking bell tower lost in a shroud of mist. Next to it, a circular rock hewn sanctuary was unlike anything he had ever seen. This church was better prepared to fend off barbaric invaders than entice churchgoers.
Jerry stepped inside. A fluorescent lit office buzzed with activity. While a copy machine spat out page after page, a matronly lady with a pretzel braid fixed to the top of her head flitted away with a stack in her arms, then returned.
Jerry poked his head through a service window and waited for someone to notice him. Her trained eyes refused to look up.
“Excuse me,” Jerry said.
She stopped in her tracks. Her piercing eyes took Jerry aback. “I’m supposed to be meeting with a nominations committee at 9 a.m. Where should I go?”
The woman appraised Jerry, and he passed. “They’re upstairs,” she said. “Across fellowship hall, go down the hallway a bit and to your left. That’s the head pastor’s office. I think that’s where they’re meeting.”
Jerry followed her directions. Upstairs he entered a dark hallway and heard voices further down. Jerry spotted a door ajar and pushed it open. Inside five people sat around a table.
“Well, here’s the man of the hour,” said a middle aged woman with a narrow face like a Modigliani painting. Her gaze sized him up as if he were in a bar.
Jerry wore a navy blue jacket, white shirt, burgundy tie with silver stripes and gray slacks. It was the only suit he had. He put forth his best smile.
They all stood up and introduced themselves: Bryce, with crew cut blond hair, was chairman of the Ministerial Relations Committee for The Sacramento Presbytery; Tom, with nerd pack in his breast pocket, was the chairman of the Candidate’s Committee; Jane, the Modigliani woman, was chairwoman of Session; Paul, still trying to rise, was pastor emeritus; and Helen, round and doughy, was a congregation member.
“So Jerry, what are your ministry goals?” asked Paul after they all settled back down.
“I’d like to work with children,” said Jerry.
“In what way?”
“Adolescence is a tough time. It’s easy to get lost. I’d like to help them find their way.”
“What are your feelings about the hunger issue?” asked Tom.
“It’s a disgrace that the richest country in the world has that going on.”
They all nodded.
Bryce asked, “What do you think you might accomplish as Pastor of Hunger Ministries?”
“Let me toss that back to you. I imagine creating a position like this involved extensive discussion in your congregation,” said Jerry.
“Oh yes,” said Jane. “Here we are in the bread basket of the bread basket where two thirds of America’s produce is grown, yet we have an extensive hunger problem. There are tent cities along the Sacramento River. That’s unacceptable.”
Jerry nodded his head. “These are the abandoned sheep Jesus is looking for; these are the ones we must bring back into the fold. But an even greater problem, if I might add, is spiritual hunger. Though we can’t see them, there are encampments everywhere of the spiritually starved. I will make it my mission to feed these people as well, with the body and blood of Jesus.”
“Jerry, Jerry Jerry,” said Helen. She burrowed into Jerry’s eyes with a knowing look. He felt a strange warmth. “Those words sound minty fresh from seminary. Now why don’t you just tell us who you really are. What you really think. Do you know why you’re here?”
There’s that goddamn question again, Jerry thought. Do I have a sign on my back that says “Lost?”
“No, I don’t, if you really want to know,” he said. “The telephone rang. I answered the call and came. Now maybe I’m not the best qualified candidate, but that’s not how I roll. Excuse my audacity, but my calling is from God. He called me to be here. And here I am. “
There was a long silence, then Tom coughed. “Could you excuse us for a moment?” he said.
Back out in the hall, under a Moroccan styled sconce hanging from the ceiling, Jerry pushed open an iron window grille. Too strong back there? Jerry wondered. He stuck his head out and viewed the courtyard below. A fountain in the center gurgled. A crushed granite walkway circled it. Fat gardenia bushes bloomed in each corner; their sweet perfume intoxicated the air. He inhaled deeply and let go. What will be will be, he thought. A shaft of sunshine sliced through the lingering mist and warmed Jerry’s face.
“Jerry, please come back in,” said Bryce.
They all stood.
“We prayed together and are of one voice when we say welcome to Westminster Presbyterian Church.”
***
“So, I heard you’re going to be a preacher,” snarled a bleary eyed Chris.
Jerry had come to say goodbye. Chris was enthroned beside the kitchen table in his bathrobe, double fisting, coffee steaming in one hand, pipe smoking in the other.
“I don’t know. It’s more a social worker job, fighting for the little guy. I don’t know if they’ll let me preach. I might rile them up too much.”
“Reinholdt Niebuhr said the good minister has the Bible in one hand and the newspaper in the other. Preach away, baby.” He appraised Jerry with a gleam in his eye. “I like you Jerry. You’re fresh. There’s something about you.”
“I like you too, Chris. There’s something about you too,” Jerry said with a smirk.
Chris laughed. “Shut the fuck up,” he said in his juicy way. “Don’t lose your edge, Jerry. Tell the truth. Serve the pain. There’s an awful lot of hurt out there.”
Jerry leaned over and wrapped his arms around Chris. “You’ve been like a father to me. Thank you so much.”
Chris allowed the hug, and then pushed him away. “Ok, Ok, get the hell out of here.” His moist eyes matched Jerry’s.C