The Ecclesiaste

 

His grim visage surveyed the congregation:  the expensive, dark grey and black suits of the men and the pastel blue, green and pink outfits of the women beneath matching wide‑brimmed hats, the meticulous grooming of Haute Societe being mirrored perfectly here within this lavishly furnished Boston church.

His face, worn through the years, reflected the care with which he had tended his own rural flock through forty years of changes that few of them understood, helping them to stand firm in the face of two world wars, one of which now seemed near its end, a devastating depression which had brought insecurity to this urban church's world, but through which he had piloted people whose inherent firm constitution had provided a personal security that had helped them to survive and now, among the new insecurity of an increasing technology of which they had little experience or knowledge with which to deal and which presaged the end of the way of life that they had known.


It was a lean, grey face, seemingly carved out of tan‑colored limestone, lines in it resembling creases in a rock face, a slightly‑hooked nose strongly set above thin, firm lips and a determination‑bound jaw.  The steel‑grey eyes beneath dark, semi‑thick eyebrows had pierced through to the souls of many a congregation, although these people appeared undaunted by his gaze.  Above the lean features, the straight, white hair was strung loosely across the forehead and lay in wisps about the ears, "loose grooming" to these people, some of whom were apparently offended by it and some, almost openly amused.

He sharply closed the Bible from which he was reading.

"Amen," he said.

He turned respectfully toward the altar and intoned, "In the name of the Father" ‑‑ right shoulder ‑‑ "and of the Son" ‑‑ left shoulder ‑‑ "and of the Holy Ghost" ‑‑ forehead and chest.  Then he sat in the chair appointed to him.

He waited on his knees, silently, while the pastor led in the Eucharist, waiting to take it until all the parishioners had had their turn.  Then he followed the choir out of the sanctuary and through the nave to the side door as the recessional was sung.

"You didn't finish your sermon." the pastor told him.

"It was finished." he replied.

During the customary reception afterward, the congregation gathered in groups that he surmised were customary, talking, laughing and filling the room with their constant chatter.  Some few of the more important men gathered around their pastor, conversing in much the same manner as the other groups, in their own, exclusive way.


He sat down after the customary handshaking and congratulating on such a fine sermon, taking a seat at a table in a corner.

"Granpa," said the little girl sitting beside him, "you always seem to have a fun sermon."

"How is that?" he asked.

"I always understand what you're saying.  It's always about David and all those men in the Bible and how they did what was right all the time.  I want to do what is right."

"Well, that is good, Cynthia.  I am very glad that I am helping someone to do what is right.  What did you get?" he asked, pointing to the pastry she had in her hand.

"I don't know, but it sure tastes good.  Do you want a bite?"

"No, thank you.  We'll have lunch on the train.  I packed some fruit and I was hoping that you would eat some of it.  It's better for you than those pastries, you know."

"I know, Granpa."

He loved Cynthia dearly.  His daughter ‑‑ her mother ‑‑ had died recently in an automobile accident.  She was driving at night and had failed to see a sharp curve in an unfamiliar road.  The auto was found badly wrecked against a large oak tree.  Cynthia's father had died in the war during a large battle somewhere in France.


Cynthia looked just like her mother.  She had a round face that would soon grow beautifully slender, like her mother's, framed by very black hair and large, dark eyes that never failed to charm him.  She always smiled ‑‑ even now, so soon after her mother's death.

"I see you've taken advantage of our hospitality, Cynthia ‑‑ it is 'Cynthia', isn't it?" The pastor was now bending down, speaking to her, smiling broadly.

"Yes, sir," she said, "Thank you, Mr.  .  .  .  uh .  .  .  I'm sorry, I have forgotten your name," she said contritely.

"Oh, that's quite all right, Cynthia," the pastor said, holding his smile, "Don't be upset.  Most people that are here for the first time forget my name."

Then a member of the congregation came up to him and shook his hand, engaging in a brief, light conversation.   They both laughed and the man said he had to leave, then he put on his coat.  Then the pastor turned back to the old man and the girl.

"Why didn't you finish your sermon, Fred?" he asked, "I think the ending was the most important part of it."

The Boston pastor was the epitome of the well‑groomed urban minister, dark, well‑trimmed hair, kept in place by a hair oil with noticeable fragrance.  Everything about him was well kept: trimmed and cleaned fingernails, clothing that showed no creases other than those from ironing, plain black shoes that shone with a high gloss, white, well‑set teeth and powder to lessen the shadow of a beard that, even immediately after shaving, looked heavy otherwise.

"I had already given the most important part of my sermon.  I surmised that everything these people need to know, I had already told them.  The ending would simply be redundant."


"But you just cut it off, Fred, right there, with no powerful finish ‑‑ nothing to cement all the loose ends together."

"If they think about the sermon, they will be able to put 'all the loose ends', as you say, together for themselves."

"Okay, Fred, okay.  Your style is just different from mine, that's all.  But anyway, I'm certainly glad you came.   I think the congregation really liked to hear you preach."

On the way home on the train, he looked out the window at the passing countryside as the buildings and houses of Boston slowly merged with the Autumn colors of the rural fields that he loved.  Cynthia slept soundly beside him and he could be alone with his thoughts.

What did these people want, anyway?  He felt he had delivered one of his most powerful and meaningful sermons, one that should have riveted their attention and inspired them to action in their lives.  He expected thanks for the insight and commentary during the reception on how they were going to apply his words in their lives, yet everyone gave him a simple "Thanks for coming." and "I enjoyed your sermon."

The conversations he heard as they gathered in their groups were about the automobiles they owned and new clothing and hair styles.  Hardly anything was said about the war ‑‑ it was almost as if it hadn't existed and they were glad it was almost over so they didn't have to talk about or even think about it.


People had changed and these, caught up in a new prosperity and affluence, seemed to have their minds set on the new things ‑‑ the changes that would give them new things that they could purchase with their new affluence.

But these changes really weren't Change at all‑‑merely a difference in the physical manifestation of a deep‑seated desire in people for surface, quick, sensual gratification, ignoring the slow, tedious growth toward more whole personhood.  People clung to these things‑‑these comforts and conveniences‑‑these shiny, glittering toys‑‑much as a baby clings to its mother for comfort or is mesmerized by shiny, colorful baubles.  It was rushing from one new thing to another as the former became old, from one new thing to another, seeking fulfillment in these, yet finding none because it all was so superficial‑‑much as embellishments on an empty egg, becoming so damn (God forgive me) confused that none knew really what they wanted or what would really make them happy.

The old message of stability did not appeal to people who were beset now by sparkling trinkets and who seemed bent on selling an inheritance of steady, stable inner peace for these trinkets, much as the Indians sold Manhattan Island.  Or even as Esau sold his invaluable, infinite birthright for a bowl of beans that would immediately assuage a hunger that, had he waited and thought about it, would have been better satisfied later.  He could not stop them.  Their values seemed beyond his piloting.  He seemed useless.  His values now were valueless.  The new values of surface gratiation now were predominant.  He did not fit this new society.


They walked home from the train station, Cynthia running ahead to say "Hi!" to her friends.  He tried to keep up with her at first, but the heavy suitcases encumbered him.  He slowed down, finally making his way past the white, wood‑frame church with a steeple that was his pastorate and, from there, next door to his modest frame house.  The encumbrance of the heavy bags making the short distance seem longer than usual, he was somewhat out of breath as he turned into the sidewalk leading to the front porch.

He stopped on the porch that spanned the entire front of the house and set down the heavy bags, opening the door.  A neighbor passing by waved a greeting to him.  The late afternoon sun was losing its warmth and he began to feel a bit chilly.  He entered the house, passing through the living room that took up the entire front third of the house, through the dining room that also served as his study and into the bedroom in the rear where he set the bags down.   Then he passed again through the dining room and into the kitchen that was set at the side of the house almost as an addition.  He put some paper and wood in the cookstove and started a fire to take the chill off.  Then he opened the door, set in the red, green and yellow speckled white linoleum kitchen floor, that led to the cellar by a short wooden stairway.

In the cellar, he looked along the wall, searching among the Mason jars for a fruit to have for dinner.  As he touched one of the jars of peaches, it broke, startling him.  In the dim half‑light, he could not tell whether he had cut himself or not, but feeling a semi‑sharp pain, he felt he should return upstairs to make certain.


When he returned to the kitchen, Cynthia was sitting in one of the high‑backed, wicker‑seated chairs that were placed around the oval wooden table.

"What happened, Granpa?" she asked.

"A jar of peaches that I was reaching for broke in my hand."

Cynthia got up, concerned.

"But I don't think it is serious.  At least, it doesn't feel serious."

Inspecting his hand over the kitchen sink, he found he wasn't bleeding, nor could he find any cuts or imbedded glass.

"It was probably an old jar weakened by the pressure of canning," he explained, "and it only took my touch to break it.  I'll have to go back down and clean it up."

After cleaning the glass from the cellar floor, he came back up and prepared dinner.  The usual short prayer of thanks preceded the meal.  As they ate, Cynthia related to him her encounters with her friends on the way home from the train station.  When the meal was finished, Cynthia filled the dishpan with water from the hand pump on the sink and warmed the water on the cookstove and washed the dishes.


It was dark when he went over to the church.  The light from inside shone brightly through the arched windows over the door.  The arch was divided into five sections, the dividing mullions radiating out from a point on the door.  Each section had a diamond shape in the center, the corners of which were perpendicular to the level.  Entering, he saw a black‑robed figure kneeling at the podium that was situated in the sanctuary across the aisle from the pulpit.  The man looked up.

"Hello, Fred," he said.

"What's the matter, Howard?"

"Oh, just a little meditation and contemplation."

Howard was his replacement, he knew.  He was getting more and more unable to take on the responsibility of pastoring a flock and their inherent problems.  Howard Cook was sent here to "get a feel" for the congregation and be prepared to take over from him when it became necessary.  An older minister, it was evident that Howard was meant by the Diocese administration to be here permanently and not merely be in training as was the case with many younger ministers who had assisted him over the years.

Although only in his fifties, Howard Cook's hair was totally white.  It was well‑groomed in the same manner as the younger pastor of the Boston church.  He had clear grey eyes and a serious manner about him that bespoke the maturity appropriate to a minister in his fifties.

"Well, how did it go today, Howard?"

"Very well; in fact, several of your congregation congratulated me on my sermon."

"You are certainly experienced enough."

"And how did it go in Boston?"

After some hesitancy he answered, "The people struck me as not really being interested in the service ‑‑ only in the social aspects of the church."

"Does that mean that they were unreceptive to your sermon?"

"It was almost as if I hadn't spoken a word."


"I think that's to be expected, Fred.  Look, I hope you won't take this as something harsh, but .  .  .  "

"You're going to tell me what you've been telling me constantly for the two months that you've been here ‑‑ times are changing."

"That's correct.  Fred, you've led this congregation excellently through the hardest times in our history.  You have helped people through good times and bad.  You've shared their joy and sorrow: their joyful births, marriages, christenings, confirmations and many other such things ‑‑ and you have shared their deaths and sufferings also.  What you have been to these people is a rock.  But look at the times.  People can't stand still.  People will change and you must change with them."

"Tell me again, Howard ‑‑ how are they changing?"

"They do not adhere to the old ways.  They no longer want a stern voice directing them.  The want someone to speak pleasantly to them and let them lead their own lives."

"You know I cannot do that."

"All these times I've told you this and you've told me what you just told me and you still haven't told me why, Fred.  Can you tell me why?"


"Before this, I could not.  Now I can.  That young priest and his congregation showed me why.  They are a wealthy enough congregation to choose their priests and if a priest somehow preaches contrary to their own collective attitudes, they can choose another at their whim.  Anymore, a priest is a laborer for the overall organization of the church and he must remember that, receiving a paycheck from his employer, he must also follow the dictates of that employer rather than his own conscience.

"Yes, the world is changing and many think that I should change with it.  People expect and want different things.  The people in that Boston church are not accustomed to the ways I grew up with and have used to pastor a church for forty years.  In fact, it will be forty years tomorrow.  That is a long time to be with any single church, let alone in the ministry.  And that is my strength.  These people know me and I know them.  We have been spiritually together for so long that we are of the same mind.  I have guided them, I believe, in the right and proper manner to be right and proper Christians.  I have seen the fruits of my labors in their lives and I know that I am right."

"And if you are not?"

"I am the one responsible for these people.  If I were not to show them the way I believe to be right, then they would suffer the consequences and so would I.  But as long as I show them what I believe to be right, they do not suffer because they act out of faith.  Only I suffer because I am responsible."

"What if someone showed you that you were not right?"

"Then I would change.  But neither you, in all your two months of attempting to change me, nor anyone else, in all their "modern" sermons and magazines and other such idleness, has been able to show me that I am wrong.


"And as long as I feel that I am right, I will not change, even though the entire world were to change around me.  If I were to change, I would be compromising myself and if I were not true to myself, I would not be fit for the ministry."

"But Fred, your old ways are not accepted any more."

"But they are right.  My congregation knows that they are right and that is all I need."

"Fred, your congregation has received me with open arms.  They are almost glad to have new, fresh ministering.  You have seen how they come to me more often now.  They just don't want your ways.  In fact, do you know what my sermon was about today?"

"What?"

"It was about preparing turkey for Thanksgiving."

"But what does that have to do with religion? -- Where is there a lesson in that?"

"I used it as a picture that people should prepare themselves for Thanksgiving and that they should look back upon the year and be thankful for all the good things they have, such as fine clothes and the conveniences of electricity and telephones and automobiles and I told them that they should be changing along with these changes so that they can have these things if they don't already have them."

"If the Kingdom of Heaven is not food and drink, then how can it be all those things that people can get their minds set on instead of God?"


"See, that's an example of your way of thinking, Fred.  You live in the past, with a theology of the past.  You don't tailor your theology to keep pace with the times.  I told the congregation that these things can lead people to God because they are a demonstration of how well off they are and how much God has provided for all who live in this great nation."

"We are great because of the 'old ways' as you put it ‑‑ the right ways ‑‑ that really have led us to God."

"And these things are God's gift to us for doing that."

"And I want them to keep on doing that and not get caught up in all this nonsense."

"Times are changing, Fred."

"I speak what is right to me.  'Times', as you put it, has nothing to do with what I perceive as the truth.  I cannot do otherwise than speak so.  I did not become a minister just to have a job, as so many of these younger men are doing.  I did so because I saw a need and felt I could fill it.

"Because they are ministers in order to make money, these younger men must do as their employer says.  Because I am a minister in order to help, I will help and teaching what is right to me is the only way I know of to do that."

"Okay, Fred, have it your way.  You haven't convinced me of your way and I haven't convinced you of mine.  We'll just live in peace and let it go at that."

"I wish I could, Howard, but I see you undoing everything I have worked forty years for and I cannot tolerate that.  I wish you would peacefully request a transfer to another parish.  My conscience would let me rest much more easily if I did not have to think of having to tolerate your actions that are contrary to my own."


"I'm sorry you feel that way, Fred.  I knew we were going to clash head‑on like this sooner or later and, feeling that we should place this in front of the vestry for a vote, I have already approached the officers and they are prepared for the two of us meeting with the vestry so that we each may present his viewpoint.  I have spoken with several members of the congregation and I have much support from them as well as several people on the vestry.  I wish you would reconsider, Fred, and peacefully accept me as your assistant until .  .  .  "

The sudden stillness punctuated the conversation like the period at the end of the last sentence of a large, engrossing book.  He turned around and walked out the door and along the sidewalk to his house.  There was a finality in the conversation that couldn't be denied.  There was the inevitable changing ‑‑ of people, of attitudes and of teaching.  Where, then, was truth?

Truth, the Unchanging.  No one saw it for all the changes in their lives.  He had worked throughout a long life to keep that Truth alive; but, apparently, though he had achieved some degree of success, in the end the changes had overpowered Truth.

He felt the exhaustion of a long, bitterly fought battle in which, although change seemed the victor, it still had not defeated the Truth in him.

The walk back to the house was longer, and more filled with burdens than that earlier walk from the train station.  The encumbrances on his age were great.  Apparently, all he could do was accept these new changes when he really couldn't.  They were overpowering him, his resolve, his will.


The house seemed farther away than ever, now.  The ordinarily short distance to the porch now was interminable.   Inside his body, weakness prevailed.  Physically, as well as mentally, he was becoming obsolete.  The weakness seemed to be growing, even to his sight, for the house was becoming dimmer, even for night.  Cynthia was running out of the house toward him.  She seemed extremely concerned toward him.  His perceptions were dimming quickly.  Cynthia seemed a ghost, then he could perceive nothing outside of his own thoughts.

How, then, does one deal with changes?  One changes the changes in order to return to the Truth.  But where is the beginning of these changes and the end of Truth?  Over how many lifetimes must one look to discover how much to change the changes?

He felt like an empty, broken vessel, like the fruit jar, unrepairable, into which nothing could be placed and from which nothing could be taken.  He was worn, tired.  The only way he could see to counter the superficial new ideas was through a new, stronger vessel.  New wine needs new a wineskin.

This was all the perception he knew.  He had wanted to start again, but he was too old.  It would take too long.

Just to start again and fight this mentality with the vigor of youth.

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