He had been searching for the wires for a couple of weeks because of neighbors' complaints. As pastor of the church, he felt it was important that he climb into the church's attic, find the wires and rip them asunder.

The Reverend, as my friend will be called, finally found a safe path from the organ loft into the utmost reaches of the church's south gable, where the blue cross had been perched since 1968. In that year, the Old Rev. Fuss died in the pulpit on Sunday morning, and his widow donated the blue cross as a symbol of his ministry.

Almost immediately, people in the neighborhood began complaining about the blue haze that hung in the air every evening. People sitting outside in the moonlight said the cross turned their skin a sickly color. Others said it brought to mind the last rites of deceased relatives. Another morbid contingent said it made them feel as if they were living in a funeral parlor ... and couldn't get out.

My friend was not a patient fellow. He talked with the church council, and they reminded him of the wonderful ministry of the Rev. Fuss. The church council's feeling was that as long as there were people who remembered the Rev. Fuss, the cross would stay at the top of the south gable.

But my friend, the Reverend, knew some things about the Rev. Fuss that were not in keeping with the legacy. For instance, the jabber of the rumor mill was that ol' Fuss always drove a car keenly beyond his financial means. That was one rumor he never stopped, and it persisted until the day Fuss keeled over and rolled out of the pulpit, his body stopping at the side of the pipe organ.

So the years passed, and two pastors who had served the congregation with dignity tolerated the blue cross. Then my friend, the Reverend, came to serve and the complaints from the church neighbors bothered him profoundly. Over a matter of weeks, the Reverend built up many intellectual reasons why the cross should be crippled. Therefore one day he found himself high inside the church with one foot resting on a roof beam and the other foot dangling in midair. With one hand hanging onto a small platform, he reached up with the other toward the wires he believed were hooked to the blue cross.

With a great heave, the Reverend threw himself toward the wires. He connected and, with a muscular downward jerk, dislocated the entire apparatus. The cross, the neighbors say, teetered and fell onto the sidewalk below, just missing Jack the janitor, who stepped over it and continued clearing away snow.

Meanwhile, inside the church, the Reverend had been hit by a wave of electricity. It was of such a force that he let go of the platform and fell about five feet, banging his head against roof beams and other structural barriers until he landed on his butt just south of the stairway.

There he sat for a full 10 minutes as his head cleared and he began to understand that he was inside the church.

His hand was burned, his head ached and his leg hurt just above the ankle bone. As he regained his senses, it became clear that he had to scramble out of this predicament or his ministerial career would be in jeopardy.

During the next week, the phony story about his leg passed through the parishioner's lines of communication. They also talked about the blue cross and Rev. Fuss and his ministry. On Thursday evening, the church governing board had its regular meeting and Emily LaChance had the final say.

"I had my mind made up," she said. "So many people have complained about that cross, I was prepared to tear it down myself. I say good riddance - it's God's will."

Just at that moment a terrible bolt of pain shot the full length of the Reverend's gimp leg. He sat up straight and grunted a bit.

"The Lord works in mysterious ways," the Reverend said with a grin.

And all around the room heads were nodding.

Clark D. Morphew