Reverend's shocking but true tale kept quiet
A friend of mine once got knocked flat when he tried to unhitch
some electrical wires of a blue cross that had glowed in the neighborhood
for a good many years. 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
Posted For November 20, 1999