c. 2024 Rod Ice
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(2-24)
Pastor Cabe Forester from Thompson Township’s Church of the Lord Jesus in Heaven was slightly miffed when sitting at his desk in the Geauga County house of worship. He had heard that two residents of Evergreen Estates, a trailer village located down the hill from his sanctuary, pledged to take their marriage vows in a ceremony on the park property. Yet this blessed union would take place without his involvement as the de facto spiritual leader of their community.
The thought of being sidelined for this ceremony caused his stomach to ache.
“I’ve read out of the holy scriptures at nuptials of all sorts around these parts! My name was always the first one mentioned when plans were being made. Generations of families have started under my careful stewardship. So, what happened now? Where did I go wrong with the current crew? Am I too old, or too conservative, or just too darned boring for kids who like to play video games and make cellphone posts on the Tik Tok app?
His secretary adjusted her wool sweater, and pushed the half-frame reading glasses backward on her perky nose.
“Cabriel, I don’t have a clue. Jenny Ann and Klondike have been sweethearts since going to high school by the ledges. Their parents are solid citizens, members of the local Republican Party. They all like to hunt and fish and play cornhole in the summer. But there’s a new fellow in that development of mobile homes. He’s attracted quite a following. They’ve got a congregation meeting in a long shed, made of plywood sheets and pallet boards. This guy wears a camouflage suit, and a cross made out of scrap metal around his neck. With a pistol hanging from his belt...”
The traditional clergyman coughed and wheezed.
“A pistol? God help us!”
Sally McNamara shook her head in disbelief. Her gray curls bounced with a lively flip of indifference.
“I heard it from one of our parishioners who lives there. She said people are going to services now, that never read a Bible before. Even some bikers and malcontents that have their own corner district, a whole row of boxcar dwellings. This fellow has been baptizing sinners and preaching the gospel like a traveling, big-tent evangelist. It has the population riled up and excited. At the beginning of this week, there were fifty residents packed into that ramshackle barn! Nobody ever stirred up so much fervor in our area, before. I think you ought to meet with him, and get a feel for what he really believes...”
Forester felt slightly disgusted.
“Meet with him? I’m the legitimate one here! Ordained by the official church, and sanctioned to teach God’s word! If anything, he should be seeking an audience with me!”
The record keeper rubbed a string of pearls that was draped lazily around her throat.
“This isn’t a time to argue, Cabe! Reach out and greet him in a spirit of Christian love!”
Weeks passed by as the mainstream reverend found multiple excuses not to visit the rural oasis in person. He had a conference to attend in Columbus, the state capital. Then, a gathering of clerics from across the Midwest. One of his children was finishing her work as a missionary in Honduras, and had been scheduled to return while he was busy with other responsibilities. Finally, he needed to direct fundraising for a restoration project on their rooftop steeple, which had begun to sag visibly after years of neglect.
When the wedding day arrived, he had all but forgotten about its controversial presence on the calendar. Many members of his flock wanted to participate in some fashion. But he chafed at it being allowed to happen without his oversight. Curiosity gnawed at his insides however, like a parasite. He wanted to know what was transpiring. Would this clandestine joining of souls take place with a pagan ritual of some kind? Perhaps a recitation of satanic perversion, or new-age heresy? Might it be rendered in a foreign brogue, or a language lost to antiquity?
He cloaked himself in a dark overcoat and a plaid, wool-lined hat of the Elmer Fudd variety. After other guests had arrived in an upper field that bordered the trailer enclave’s maintenance garage, he managed to sneak into the crowd surreptitiously. No one noticed him being situated near a makeshift enclosure, covered with blue tarps bought at Home Depot. He crept close enough to see the bride walking up an aisle of armed veterans, with a bouquet of plastic roses in her hands, from Dollar General. She wore a veil over hunting apparel and combat boots.
Her prospective husband was already at the altar. He carried a shotgun under his arm, and a canvas pouch with the wedding bands secured. His long hair was matted and slick, and protruded from under a NASCAR cap with Dale Earnhardt’s national number 3 prominently displayed.
Preacher Buck Jones from Gallipolis, by the Ohio River, stood with his good book open to 1 Corinthians 13.
“Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away.”
Gasps and tears began to fill the air. The pastor trembled as he witnessed this display of humility before the Holy Spirit.
“I don’t understand... this isn’t what I expected, at all!”
The folksy rector raised his hand in a respectful tribute to saints in the heavens.
“For many centuries, this forging of a sacred bond has been important at every corner of the world. It is the foundation of our society. The bedrock of nations, tribes, and cultures, everywhere. Some might want to use it as a sword, to mete out judgment. To condemn those who are perceived as being unworthy. To charge infidels with defiling what has been accepted. To frighten those who might stray from a familiar path. But I tell you here and now, this is God’s word in action. A pledge of truth one to another. A rock upon which bloodlines that have endured for thousands of years has been constructed. There is no greater value, no greater promise, to behold...”
Rain had begun to fall on the mass of patient attendees. Forester dropped to his knees in the mud. Suddenly, he voiced shame and regret.
“This is not how I thought it would be!”
Buck ended his sermon with another passage from the same book.
“And now these three remain; faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love!”
He took the hands of both bride and groom, then clasped them together. Dramatically, his voice boomed from the improvised shelter.
“In the name of our creator and beloved parent, the one who brought this universe into being and everything within, I proclaim that you are a new creation! Let not pride or prejudice or pretentiousness put this union asunder! Cleave to each other, boost and uplift your helpmate, and enjoy the bliss of matrimony. In the name of Jesus and all the prophets, Amen!”
A procession of 4x4 pickup trucks plowed through the muck. Blasts of ammunition were fired overhead. Gadsden flags and Betsy Ross banners waved in celebration. Slabs of fried turkey and containers of potato salad were waiting on folding tables, by the park office. Bud Light and Miller High Life flowed like champagne. Firecrackers exploded in the sky.
And Cabe Forester prayed silently to himself.
“Forgive me Lord, for my arrogance. Forgive me...”
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