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.