One.3 - The Norwegian Mafia

I work as the assistant pastor of Saint Olaf Lutheran Church in Saint Paul. The church is located on the campus of Martin Luther Seminary, where I spent two years grinding my spiritual axe. I am the holy ghost of the churches trinity with Pastor John Nielson playing the role of father and his son, Sean, well, playing the role of the son. It’s like being a member of the Norwegian mafia and we’ve got a stronghold on Lutheran souls in Saint Paul. Of course, everything is a number’s game and the soul is just another racket. Its import and export, heaven and earth are full of your glory but everything in between is up for grabs.

The Nielson’s believe in the benefits of weightlifting which gives them uncharacteristically large torsos while their legs remain normal size—like cartoon superheroes and they wear the strain of their heavy lifting upon their handsome faces at all times. Pastor John is a fine figure of a man and handsome too. He has the look of a dignified business man with his nice suits and slicked back, graying hair. He is sort of a celebrity in the Lutheran world, well known for his passionate sermons that are televised weekly. Admittedly, he does offer a rare combination of knowledge and persuasion, while his looks see and close the deal. He is the Elvis of my world because even with my ability to remain aloof of most persons of position, I find myself taken with his charismatic personality.

The church is Pastor John’s private business. Everything in our world is now business and must be taken seriously. The church provides goods and services for a price; the exact sum however, remains a mystery until the end. I’m certain that Jesus has a spreadsheet to his make his own return more efficient complete with a labeling system which, perhaps is color coded. I can see the last day turning into mass confusion and God’s sakes, can we risk that one soul not intended for heaven to slip through the cracks? Or worse, another soul, worthy of God’s highest honor being overlooked and sent to Hell. Mistakes may be made but we have to forgive and forget. I mean think about it—just by the shear volume of souls one or two may be inadvertently forgotten but really, who can pass judgment.

The Nielson’s have a poetic way of uniting the spiritual and economical aspects of our large church and one must truly admire them for that. They’ve all but carved their names into the side of the building. Just a hammer and a chisel away, or a slap and a tickle; it all adds up to good clean fun and if a few souls get saved in the meantime, well then good for that.

Sean is a 34-year-old replica of his father, although less assured. When his father isn’t around he always seems to be looking for him. He also has the habit of talking through his father and when the three of us are together I have the feeling that I’m being entertained by an incredible ventriloquist and his life size dummy. When Sean’s personality does emerge beneath its wooden surface, I do see glimpses of humor and warmth but his father is quick to put the kill on those rare signs of life.

Dr. Wagner, the President of Martin Luther Seminary, assured me of my good fortune when being placed at Saint Olaf for my first year. At the end of my tour of duty I will be called to a wanting parish in need of a rare personality. It’s like franchising where I will have my own church with complete backing and support from the corporate office. To be honest, as my one year trial comes to a close I feel more prepared to sell life insurance than I do being put in charge of a parish. It’s not that I’m bitter, although I usually am, it’s the idea of something that one creates in the mind is always better than the reality which one must face. When I thought about becoming a pastor I had Jesus in mind, minus the beard, and some kind of social and spiritual relevance that would nurture my quivering soul. However, as it is, I feel more like a game show host and although the contestants leave happy, some more so than others depending on the size of their parting gift, I return to my apartment or my office empty handed, empty hearted and without any of those beautiful product models to stroke my ego.

One

Last night I had dream that I was in a rowboat with Christ. We were in the Dead Sea and I was rowing while Jesus was talking about how his father was really pressuring him to take over the family business. “You know, I, I don’t even like woodworking. All the dust and the splinters, you know, I’m just not good with my hands and hours are lousy.”

Suddenly, he stopped speaking and looked upon me in the way only Jesus can look upon you and he said, “You seemed burdened by something. Tell me what it is my brother?"

“Well,” I said, “I was just wondering if you were going to help me row?”

Most of the people I deal with as an assistant pastor believe that God is truly interested in their daily lives—helping them row. No concern is too big or too small and they believe that God hears every prayer, every request, even the ones they cannot articulate. They believe that the miraculous happens in life’s smallest events, where like a slight of hand, God reveals His goodness in the most unexpected ways. How else can one explain the good fortune of free coffee and donuts after Sunday services?

To be honest, I think of God more like Woody Allen—a neurotic Jew who wears glasses, paces the floor of Heaven incessantly while nervously rubbing His hands together and lamenting the world that He’s created. “Geezus, what, what the hell is going on down there? You know, I don’t really want to be God anymore okay? I’ve got these terrible headaches, my ears are constantly ringing, which is probably cancer or some rare neurological disease that doctors have never heard of. Does anyone else hear that ringing? (He pauses).

“It’s awful, you know, ahem, all those people running around like ants and they’re all counting on me to make life have some sort of meaning for them when , you know, I’m really just kind making it all up while I go along. Hey, did anyone else read in the Times where matter is decaying? Am I the only one who saw that? (He hears laughter). “Hey Adam, go tickle Eve someplace else, will ya.” (Watches as Adam and a scantily clad Eve exit stage left). “Although, I must admit that when I created woman, I think that I, you know, did a pretty decent job.”

It’s not that I don’t have any faith. Perhaps I simply expect too much. I believe this comes from my mother’s early expectations of me; when I was five and asked her where I’d come from she told me that I was gift from God. Since my father had left our family three-years earlier, leaving me with few distinguishable memories, I took her story to be absolutely true. This belief caused me to be a serious child, although somewhat an outcast among my peers.

As I got older and discovered the story of Jesus I felt as though I’d found the perfect role model and I quickly substituted myself in the role of Christ. When I had to write a poem in fifth grade I wrote out the Lord’s Prayer and tried to pass it off as an original work. It’s funny because even back then I knew that I wanted to either be a professional baseball player or the Pope. The fact that I wasn’t Catholic didn’t diminish my desire—The first Protestant Pope in the history of world, right? Unfortunately, not only was I not Catholic but I was not a gifted athlete either. So rather than being a player on our high school team, I become the teams first official mascot. Our nickname was the Saints and I was a real crowd pleaser to be honest, although after the first home game, the manager insisted that I no longer dress up as Jesus and stop parading around the bases in-between innings while carrying a cross.

One.2

I shower and I dress as I do each day—wearing the whole armor of God. Having my loins girt about the truth and putting on the breastplate of righteous; putting on the helmet of salvation, wielding the shield of faith and the sword of the spirit, which is the word of God, and oh yes, my glasses. As I look out of my apartment window and witness the daily chaos I feel small, helpless. Or perhaps, more realistically, it’s the feeling of being under whelmed that is doing me in and I think that maybe a prayer will steady me, although I doubt it. This one way relationship with God has grown old to be honest. It seems that I do all the talking and I’m tired of hearing my own voice, especially when I’m begging. I tell myself, “I’ll make it,” and unfortunately I know that it’s true.

Yes, I know that I’ll make it but what I’m not so sure about is whether it’s faith or resignation that makes me believe this—devotion or doubt. I’m 30-years-old, that landmark year for Jesus when he decided to go out and preach. Those 40 days and 40 nights in the desert half starving to death and being tempted by the Devil being taken to the top of temple to look upon the world. At least Jesus traveled. I’ve been to Iowa and drove through Wisconsin and meanwhile, I’m still waiting to be tempted by my next door neighbor, Esme. I need an event, something to assure me that this is my true calling. I’m tired to being the one who has to carry the cross around the baseball field. I need a sign, you know, just a hint like if God would sneeze or I’d meet a homeless person that was really an angel in disguise or, you know, if I could get a date.

My first temptation came in Becky Nelson’s basement at the age of six. We sat on an old sofa and kissed until her father came downstairs and mentioned something about cleaning house. It was my first time fleeing. In high school, when I became the state fleeing champion, I could look back upon that summer afternoon in Becky’s basement when a bit of pride. Still, it seems that I’ve never overcome being in the basement in one sense or another. After my first go around at college when I became a comedian for a short while, I was always the first guy on, the cellar dweller, competing with the $4.95 fish special for the audience’s attention. There always seemed to be a Becky in the crowd and how I tried to seduce each and every one of those girls from towns like Davenport, Cedar Rapids, Omaha or Rapid City. Seduce them, bring them back to my cheap hotel room and kiss on the couch until their father’s came to get them.

As I get ready to leave, I wait for the sound of Esme’s door opening. I have been under her spell for the entire seven month’s that she’s lived here. She is broodingly beautiful; an oval, pale face cropped so neatly by her black bobbed hair—so perfectly framed, if only I could hang her on my wall. I wait twice a week, alternating days so as not be too obvious. Her boyfriend, who is one of those squarely-built guys who wears his ball cap backwards, has thwarted my attempts on more than a few occasions.

I hear her rustling about her door, wait and then finally open mine, fumble my keys for a delay until she appears in the dimly lit hallway.

“Hi, Alexander.”

“Oh, hi Esme. How are you?”

She makes a face, thinking. “Okay I guess.”

“Really? Just okay? You know I’m always miserable and then if something good happens I work my way up to being a little less miserable.”

She smiles and Jesus it’s like a flame when she smiles. “Interesting approach. What are you doing today besides saving souls?”

“I don’t actually save souls,” I explain. “I just lease them out with an option to buy. I’ve got a meeting this morning actually and then I’m visiting old people at Martin Luther Home, which is always a lovely experience.’

We’re walking down the stairs and if I had any courage at all I’d ask her to marry me right then and there. Right beside the cracked drywall and the coffee-stain on the carpet.

“Don’t you like old people?”

“Not so much. They’re like big wrinkled kids who think that because they’re old they can do whatever they want. Honestly, when I get too old and start drooling on myself and you know, can’t hear anything and am all hunched over looking like the goddamned Hunchback of Norte Dame, I hope someone has enough sense to take me out to the woods and shoot me.”

She’s smiling yet, concerned. “Did it ever occur to you that you may be in the wrong profession?”

“Once, twice maximum.” I pause for dramatic affect. “Old people are fine it’s just I don’t want to be the last person they see before they die. Every Thursday when I walk into that place there’s always that pressure weighing on me that I may be the last living person they see and I don’t even want to be the last living person I see before I die, so….”

Esme was laughing as we stepped outside. Her laughter spilling into the cool air and that laughter was like a wave I felt I could ride to some unknown happiness I’ve never known. “Good Lord, Alexander. You always make me smile. I swear I can be having the worst day and you can make me forget about it.”

I nervously rubbed my hands together, “Well, there’s not many us out there but I do what I can.”

And then, we parted. Her towards the university and me six-blocks toward the church, still riding that wave of her laughter like some crazy magic carpet. That was it. A sign from God—a beautiful young woman laughing on a cool, crisp morning. God had created woman and your damn right—it was good.