The Congregation

    “Brothers and Sisters, Sisters and Brothers,” his anticipated greeting to the assembled. The cadence, the projectory, now a drone that had been dampened by age. He was tired, he was bored, a lifetime of promising hope.  He awoke every morning for the past several years feeling he had failed to deliver on the promises he expected himself to deliver.

     “We are gathered here today during this time of renewal, Spring, Easter, rebirth, rejuvenation, anticipation…” and then everything became silent as he slumped to the polished floor, as though overcome by the promise in his own words.

*

     Sirens echoing down the street, as the saviors from Mount Calgary Hospital raced to the call. The commotion, disruption, excitement, of a renewed promise of salvation accompanied the unresponsive body of Reverend Emanuel out the front doors of the church, to a waiting chariot that would carry him home. The epiphany that accompanies Christ’s resurrection, lost on the Reverend who floundered in the dark, seeking only answers to the elusive questions he had sought answers to his entire life.

     Josiah Emanuel reeling from the disruption to the routine he had systematically followed his entire life, looked at the ribbed ceiling of the ambulance through a fog of uncertainty; was he dying? dead?   

    The plastic bottle hanging above him, the mask over his face pumping oxygen into his lungs, felling like he was no more except for the pain, the effect of his head hitting the tiled floor; feeling a sense of guilt because… 

    He had officiated at hundreds of funerals, but somehow felt he never understood what he was actually being asked to do. He knew what he was expected to do, but did his words, truly help, or were they just recitations of the mummified doctrine of an exclusive club used to shepherd a life into the beyond.  A future with no absolutes, a beyond with only the promises passed down through stories attributed to the infusion of God into someone’s dreams.  Was that really all he did?

    His wife Jasmine complimented him on his unconventional manipulation of the versus; his attempt to take some of the cold staginess out of the repetitive mundane prognostications of a promised future that no one had as yet confirmed, least of all him. He appreciated the encouragement and affirmation of his battle with doubt, but his belief that he was just a conduit of conformity was confirmed by himself, after every event. He felt he’d ushered no one affirmatively through the pearly gates, rather he’d left them alone by the closed gate, and could only with his diminishing faith, provide them, no more than luck.

*

    I feel every pot hole, every burst of speed, every abrupt movement designed to save what life there is left in me, and although I found the effort comforting, I no longer care. I don’t know if I’d died amongst the brethren, or simply blacked out; it doesn’t really matter. Until one comes face to face with the inevitable, everything about ceasing to be part of life, is simply conjecture. 

    There is something about reality that removes the shaman’s idealism from you, and places it on the shelf next to your bowling trophy. Heaven means less with each passing day, year. Remembrances of past success, as well as failures, fall into a chasm of indifference, as though your experiences had happened to someone else. I don’t know if I can wear the shroud of pretext any longer.

    I’ve been feeling like a fraud for several years now. It has something to do with the fallibility of faith, I think. Perhaps the malleability that comes with the possibility you do not have all the answers, or the answers you believe you do have, no longer fit the structure of what you preach.

    Jasmine says, “it is just a mid-life crisis, it will pass, all aging people go through it, especially people of God.” She says, “it is the challenge God puts on those who represent Him. The continual questioning in the effort to believe in belief.

    Those that attempt to remove the questions, show themselves to be doubtful of their own beliefs, fear the questions as much as they fear the answers. When afraid, or unable to defend your beliefs, you are left with only doubt, and doubt becomes the sand that you have built your house upon. When you are afraid to challenge your own beliefs, you can no longer seek the solace of its protection,” her words, unadulterated truth.  

“You aren’t selling used cars you know.” She hasn’t lost her optimism, or her ability to feel the pea under the mattress.

    She may be right, mid-life crisis, attempting to explore the faith I once possessed, attempting to resurrect it. Something about life in the church, the responsibility, or at least the feeling of responsibility, for the sake of those that come for guidance; it illuminates the necessity. It is also that responsibility that chips away at your beliefs, leaving fractures in your doctrine, holes in your faith. 

    Their trust, their belief in what I tell them, has no merit, if I do not believe. Did I believe what I told them? Should I be asked to swear, I couldn’t. 

    It’s not as if I’m lying, it’s similar to having learned to ride a bicycle, once you’ve mastered the art of balance, you don’t forget. It is just that you question the reasoning behind getting on a bike again, after a certain age. You begin to consider only the downside, injury, pain, suffering, more than the accomplishment in the act itself. You find yourself pushing the button, changing the channel, not wanting to ask the questions for fear of discovering the answers. It is easier to allow yourself to be lost in someone else’s challenges.

    Jasmine says it will pass. “We just get jittery, unsure of ourselves after a while. We begin to not trust our instincts. We begin to pay attention to all the things we’ve warned people about over the years. We forget we are human, even though God does live through us, you are just a representative of His word, His truth. I don’t mean personally to claim any special relationship with God, I’ve got you for that,” she said I remember, looking in my eyes, and smiling.

    When I listen to her attempts to ease my apprehension, I realize that she accepts everything at face value. She does not add nor subtract from the evidence. How wonderful it must be to see only black and white, and be oblivious to gray.

    I’ve never known her to judge. That is my job, or at least the compartmentalized degrees of digression within the truth, or what we imagine the truth to be. It is just of late, I find it harder to do. Who am I to judge, that is really God’s job. And now with everyone wanting to believe it is their right to decide what is right and wrong for their neighbor, it complicates things even more. I am but a symbol of reality, truth is in the eye of the beholder. 

    I guess I always felt that what I do, how I do it, who I do it to, is between God and me; not you, not them. I don’t remember their being anything about a jury of my piers being invoked at my judgement. People attempting to dictate to others what to believe, what to read, who to pray to; seems like the epitome of arrogance, as far as I’m concerned. Actually it is one of the reasons my faith has begun to dissolve. I’m not a referee. I don’t intend to become one. I can tell you what I think, if you ask, and you can accept my response or dismiss it. I’m not asking God to intervene on my behalf if we don’t agree. Your debate is between you and Him.

    It is my fault, your fault, our fault; all this Brother and Sister comradery imposes a sense of family on us, that we all share. In part it’s true, but then again you know how families are. There is something about families that seem to permit, even encourage, any member to tell someone else, everyone else, how to live. Not only that, but they also become angry when their edicts are not adhered to. I have always wanted to ask, “who died and made you God,” but could never bring myself to be like that uncle everyone avoids, but feels obligated to invite to Thanksgiving dinner.

    I feel us slowing down, the siren finally stops screaming. It was stealing my hope. I wonder how many don’t just give up and leave in order to find a little peace and quiet. It crossed my mind, but then I reconsidered, maybe I needed more time to think about the what and why of what I’ve been doing. It is never too late to remember what a small role in eternity we play, in the totality of its presence. I do not wish to leave more harm behind than good, even if inadvertently.

    They’re wheel me down this hall, the ceiling a maze of florescent tubes that cast an eerie blue light. I feel it entering me like a spirit. I know that can’t be, but I don’t know for sure. God I know works in mysterious ways, or perhaps we attribute more to His mystery than He deserves, needs; but I find it difficult to believe even in my situation, that the light I’ve been promised my entire life, is florescent.

    Our beliefs change, our goals become lost, our wins become losses, but we continue to endure because there is no other choice but to accept that light, or the darkness that hides from it.

    Some people are embarrassed because of the virtues they’ve inherited. I can’t help but believe, God is not like that. Not embarrassed exactly, but not needing the attention, adulation, all of that. Seems like the hyperbole goes against what he extolled the last time he visited.

    It feels as if I am not as bad off as I imagined. No one seems too excited about my condition. The guy pushing the gurney stops to get some coffee from a machine. The one with him, slips out onto the balcony for a smoke. I expect the doctors to begin prodding and poking me soon, asking all kind of questions as if I’d know the answers. Then it becomes an ensemble of, I should cut down on this, do more of that, and all the while they know, and I know, it just isn’t going to happen; acceptance sometimes is all that is left, sometimes pretense is calming.

     I’m rolling again. Someone must have left a door open, quite a chill has surrounded me. We move past operating room 1, and then 2. Don’t know how many rooms they have for such things, returning life to the living, but it seems to be getting colder. Hope we get there soon.

    We get into an elevator; I assume we are going up. Always wanted to say that. “Going up,” like being in a movie where I play the elevator operator, maroon suit with epaulets, and a hat with a mirrored visor. Going up, the only line I have in my movie, so I don’t think I can mess that up. I think I’d make a good actor; rather I know I’d make a good actor.  I have been practicing for several decades, no complaints really except that one time, but then I was young. Fresh out of the God Factory, as we called it then. Expect they have another name for it now.

    The bell rings, and we roll on. Not as bright down here, it’s as if they don’t want to awaken anyone. We passed a lab, and a room that looks like what you’d imagine the future will  look like; tubes running everywhere, unauthorized keep out signs on every door. 

    Then we stop, surrounded by the drabness of sterility. One of my escorts pushes the door, holds it open, while the other pushes me through the opening. As I enter, I see above the door a sign. A lighted box with the letters MOR… and then I can’t see the rest. My escorts leave; one placing his hand on my head as though asking permission to go. 

    It’s a strange room, stainless tables, boxes built into a wall; everything labeled, numbered. There is a presence here, like that nagging feeling you get when you feel something is about to happen, and you don’t know what it is, but you know just the same.

    It is quiet, quiet as I can ever remember. Then I hear the singing. A song I remember, one I know, one I actually like. The singing sounds like it is coming from a long way off, and then it grows louder as if the assembled are marching towards me. I can feel the air growing warmer and then…

*

    “Brothers and Sisters, he’s come back to us. Praise the lord.” An echo thrown back from the abyss for acceptance, or rejection. 

    Jasmine is kneeling next to me holding my hand; I am surrounded by the faces of the brethren. My Brothers, and Sisters, I recognize some of them. They are all praying, and singing.

    That is the last thing I remembered until I woke up on the pew. I don’t remember why I was there, or much of the dream I had, if it was a dream. I do remember most of all though, that I need to change, or at least find a less taxing vocation, a less intimidating way of arguing with God, questioning my resolve.

    I no longer feel like I have a calling. It feels more like I am being called. Where, or why, I don’t know yet, but I do believe it will come to me. God does work in mysterious ways, and someday I hope to thank Him or… personally, for the questions. I know I’ll have to find my own answers.

    But for now, I’m going fishing. “No better way to find serenity than on a clear blue mountain lake.” I believe John Denver, said that. “I’ll let you be in my dreams, if I can be in yours,” I believe Bob Dylan said that, “Wah, Wah.”