Reverend
Reverend Rice walked steadily down the center aisle of the empty sanctuary in the semi-darkness. Under his feet and the faded fuchsia carpet, the floorboards creaked with each of his steps. Everything familiar. He must have done this litany a thousand times — unlocked doors, flipped light switches, adjusted the thermostat. He was tired tonight but looking forward to teaching the class, especially being on home territory. He’d started teaching one class a semester at the community college last year to fill up his “spare time,” as he always said. But really he’d finally taken the job to stimulate his mind and give himself a challenge. That’s what he needed he thought: to challenge himself. And that first semester had been a challenge. He was assigned the “18th Century Philosophy” class. It wasn’t the course material that was the problem. Yes, he’d had to dust off some old books and brush up, but that was the part he was confident in. It was the classroom that proved the difficulty. He wasn’t accustomed to it. The little room with rows of desk chairs and blinking students, the SMARTboard and laptop station — it all felt like foreign ground. His twenty-four years in the pulpit hadn’t prepared him like he’d thought. Preaching was a totally different animal, wasn’t it. He’d long since grown comfortable and confident giving the Word from that sacred desk. Stirring up the passions and convicting the heart. But his students weren’t there to be moved. They were there to learn the material and pass the class, to graduate and get good jobs to make good money. The first couple of weeks in the classroom were awkward. Seven of the eighteen students dropped the class. That, as least, was a development he was well-prepared to handle. Slowly things improved, and he found his footing. Then the lockdown came.
But that was almost a year ago now. Some form of normalcy had reemerged. Classes were in-person again, but the college didn’t have enough large classrooms to accommodate the distancing requirements. Rev. Rice offered to host classes at his church. He was surprised but pleased when the school took him up on his offer. Everyone was desperate enough not to care. The students didn’t seem to mind. They were just glad to be back in class even if it was in a church sanctuary. Since it was a three hour class once a week on Saturday evening the class was mostly continuing education students. Rev. Rice found he liked this format better than the one-hour, three times a week sections he’d taught before.
He checked the red digital clock at the back of the sanctuary. 6:38. The students would be arriving soon. Time to turn the rest of the lights on. Rev. Rice always preferred to leave most of the sanctuary lights off when he was there alone. An empty sanctuary seemed improper somehow — filled with bright light but no souls. He felt a shift of air and heard the sound of the church door closing. Amanda came into the sanctuary and sat in her usual seat, halfway back and to the right. She was usually the first one to arrive. Rev. Rice recalled she had a grown son and daughter, and at least one granddaughter who she watched regularly. He didn’t remember how he’d learned this. She must have mentioned her kids and granddaughter in the conversations they’d had after class once or twice. His ability to retain the offhand details of people’s lives impressed even himself sometimes. Within a few minutes of Amanda’s arrival his dozen or so pupils sat scattered throughout the sanctuary, dutifully distanced and masked. Most had notebooks or laptops open, ready for the class to start.
- -
Rev. Rice instinctively glanced up at the clock. 9:54. How did it take so long to cover so little. He needed to wrap up the class, but the long answer he was in the middle of delivering wasn’t landing. He knew it. He was experienced at reading an audience. He could tell when he was connecting and when he wasn’t. The first two segments — Berkeley and Hume — had gone well. The class seemed interested and engaged, but now they were struggling with Kant. Or was he the one struggling with Kant? Rev. Rice wrapped up his overly complex answer with an unconfident, “Does that answer your question?” The student who’d asked the question was an older man, probably in his late fifties, who was never shy of speaking up in class. What was his name? Ron, wasn’t it? Rev. Rice wasn’t quite sure enough to throw it in at the end: “Does that answer your question, Ron?” as he would have liked to.
“Not really,” Ron responded. “I still don’t get the whole ‘sensible thing’ concept.”
9:58. Not enough time. Rev. Rice knew himself well enough to know if he started in again he’d go well past 10:10, and a few of the students in the back were already packing up. Not enough time. They needed to move on. The class was already lagging behind the syllabus as it was. He needed to speed up, not slow down. They were on the precipice of falling impossibly behind.
“Sorry that didn’t clarify things for you. Unfortunately we’re out of time for tonight. We can come back to your question next time. Let’s talk after class, so we don’t hold everyone up. Okay? Have a good night everyone.”
The rest of the classed packed up and began to leave. One of the younger students in the front row asked, “Don’t we have a paper due on Kant next week? Can we have an extra study session or something?”
Ron and three other students had come down to the front and were standing in an awkward half line half huddle waiting their turn to talk with the professor.
“We can definitely do that,” Rev. Rice responded before yelling out to the receding students who were mostly in the foyer by now, “Hang on a minute! If you’re interested in a study session.”
After twenty minutes of back and forth, the huddle of students wanting an extra study session wrangled a time they could all meet — 3 o’clock tomorrow afternoon. Sunday. It wasn’t a good time for the Rev. Rice, but since it was the only time that week which worked for all the students he agreed to it. He knew he’d be tired, and he wouldn’t have much time to prepare, but it would be better than falling fatally behind. The study session students left more or less as a group. The cold winter air flowed into the building as their conversation faded out. The sanctuary was quiet again. Rev. Rice turned out the lights. 10:30. His wife would be in bed already, reading or on her phone, wondering when he’d be home. He walked up the carpeted aisle by the dim light from the foyer under the red eyes of the clock.
- -
Rev. Rice rolled over in bed. His wife was breathing softly in her sleep. Her warmth was a familiar comfort to him. He was tired. It didn’t feel like he’d slept long. He reached for his phone on the night stand hoping it would be only one or two o’clock in the morning. 5:54. His alarm would go off in six minutes. He closed his eyes again. His mind on Kant.
- -
By ten after seven, Rev. Rice was unlocking the main doors at the church. He’d already unlocked the side door — the one everyone used because it faced the parking lot. The main door was the formal entrance, the one facing the street, the one with the curved driveway and shrubs, the one with a covered drop off, the one hardly ever used, except for the hearse when there was a funeral. But he unlocked the door anyway. Sister Edna came to church on the senior bus. She’d properly trained most of the weekend drivers by now. They’d all learned to drop her off at the side door not the main door. “It’s closer to the bathroom,” she’d always say with a laugh. She’d be one of the first ones there today, because of the bus schedule. Jerry too. But he took the city bus, except when the weather was nice. Then he would walk. He hadn’t had a car since losing his license for drunk driving eight years ago. He was always cheerful about it. “God gave me two legs, and they don’t cost me nothing.” This morning sister Anita too would be among the early arrivers at church, because it was her week to prepare lunch. It would be a good lunch. They’ll be a person or two more in church this morning. They know it’s sister Anita’s cooking they’ll be having after service.
Rev. Rice went over his sermon notes in his office. His text was 1 John 4:7–10, but verse 10 really was the focus of the sermon. “Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that he loved us, and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins.” He was glad it was an easy text this morning. Or was it an easy text? Well, it would be hard to go really wrong with that text anyway. Which was good because his mind was on Kant and the study session that afternoon. And he was tired. He was thankful once again the class was meeting at the church. After lunch, and cleanup, and the last lingering conversations he’d have a little time to prep for the study session before the students arrived. Maybe he’d find a better way to answer Ron’s question. Rev. Rice glanced at the class notes on his desk beside the sermon notes. In the shower that morning he’d tried to come up with a different example to use to answer Ron’s question, but every illustration he could think of was a Bible story — parting of the Red Sea, floating ax head, water into wine. But an example from the Bible wouldn’t do. He’d probably have to explain the whole story for them to understand. He couldn’t just allude to it and expect them to know what he was talking about, like he was so used to doing in his sermons. He tried to get his mind off the study session. He needed to run through his sermon before people began to arrive. 7:25. As he walked out of his office toward the sanctuary, sister Edna pushed in through the side door with her walker.
“Good morning! How’s sister Edna this morning?”
- -
Sunday school had concluded. A few of the kids were showing off their crafts to their parents and grandparents. Rev. Rice popped in to the kitchen to check on sister Anita. “Well, this smells delicious, as always. What culinary masterpiece have you whipped up for us today?”
“Good morning, Pastor. Chili and cornbread. Good for a cold February day, I thought.”
“It smells wonderful. The sermon will have to be good this morning. Everyone’s mind will be on lunch before it even starts. Thanks again for cooking today. It is a blessing to so many”
“Don’t chat too long after church, or you’ll miss out again,” sister Anita said in kindly jest. “I’ll set one aside in the fridge for you.” She turned back to the giant pot on the stove. Evellyn was playing the prelude at the piano now. Rev. Rice worked his way into the sanctuary and toward his seat at the front, greeting as he went. He was surprised when Pastor Russel appeared and shook his hand firmly.
“I didn’t quit, you know.” Pastor Russel grinned.
“What’s that?” Rev. Rice responded more from confusion than from not hearing what Pastor Russel said.
“I didn’t quit,” Pastor Russel repeated, “I’m still pastoring my church. I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m here and not at my church this morning. Well, I didn’t quit. And I wasn’t fired either. At least not yet,” he went on with a cheerful grin. “I hope they’ll let me know when they do.” He laughed.
Rev. Rice caught on to the jovial track, “Well, they’ll have enough sense to wait till after Easter, I’m sure.” Did that sound harsh? Pastor Russel didn’t appear insulted. He rolled right along. “What happened was our furnace went out at church. It’s ancient. Should have been replaced years ago. They can’t get the part till Wednesday so we’re online again. I recorded my sermon on Friday. This morning I told my wife we’d get a good message if we came to your church, so here we are.”
- -
The music was good this morning, a little more lively than it had been lately. It was harder to sing in masks, and you couldn’t hear everyone as well. But mostly they’d gotten used to it. “Every praise is to our God, every word of worship in one accord.” It was a good song. Rev. Rice liked it. He liked most of the songs. Normally he’d have been singing loudly, more loudly even than usual to overcome the mask, but he was distracted again. His mind kept moving between thinking about the study session and trying to stop thinking about the study session. “Thoughts without content are empty; intuitions without concepts are blind.” The song ended. Time for the sermon to start. 10:37. Rev. Rice looked out over the congregation. Pastor Russel and his wife Naomi were in the second pew. Jerry had made it. There was a young man in the back row Rev. Rice didn’t know well. He hadn’t been to church in long time. His mother came often, and Rev. Rice had met the son once, but didn’t remember his name. He’d been working construction out of state, Rev. Rice thought. Had he moved back home? The young man’s mother wasn’t in church today. He was sitting by himself in the back pew in the corner. “Beloved, let us love one another: for love is of God” Rev. Rice heard himself read.
- -
The sermon had been scattered but was coming to a close. Rev Rice knew he was rambling a bit here at the end, trying to land a few more solid points before closing in prayer. His own thoughts like most in the congregation had turned to lunch, when he saw two police officers enter the sanctuary. One sat in the back pew by the center aisle, the other remained standing, back to the wall. A few people in the back rows heard the sound of the sanctuary doors and turned around to look. The young man in the back row looked too. Fortunately Rev. Rice was an autopilot as sermon glided to an end. Otherwise, he might have been interrupted mid-thought and drawn everyone’s attention to the scene unfolding in the back of the sanctuary. The young man became visibly agitated. He’d half stood up then sat back down again. Both officers had spotted him and were fixed on him. The young man got up again and moved quickly to the exit. The officer sitting at the other end of the back pew got up too. The standing officer was already running for the door. Rev. Rice ended quickly and began to pray, more loudly than he usually would. There were raised voices coming from the foyer. In the quiet of the prayer everyone could hear the young man yelling, “Let me go! Get your ------- hands off me!” No one was listening to the prayer. They had all forgotten about lunch. By the time Rev. Rice said “Amen” gasps and murmurs rose throughout the sanctuary. All heads were turned to the back or to each other. Rev. Rice strode quickly up the aisle toward the shouting in the foyer. He called out, “Sister Evellyn, why don’t you lead us in a closing song.” Sister Evellyn roused herself with great calm and dignity, and the congregation stood amid the continued muttering and shouting. Deacon Gray met Rev. Rice at the back door to the sanctuary. As the two churchmen left the sanctuary, two more officers slipped in the side door. The young man was on his stomach on the foyer floor.
“I didn’t do anything!” He was yelling over and over.
One officer held him while the other handcuffed him. Rev. Rice calmly addressed the officers as he drew near, “Is something the matter officers?”
“Stand back, sir” the officer commanded firmly. “Stand back!” he raised his voice the second time. Rev. Rice and Deacon Gray stopped where they stood.
The second officer said, “This man has a warrant out for his arrest. We had a tip that he had come here today.”
“You couldn’t wait until the service was over? You had to grab him during worship?” The accusation in Deacon Gray’s voice was thick.
“Who was it?” The young man managed to grunt out as the police officers hauled him to his feet. “Was it Natalie? That -----!” The young man started struggling again and the officers dropped him roughly to the ground. His face and chest hit the thin carpet with a soul rending sound. Rev. Rice lurched forward toward the young man. “Wait! For goodness sake!” Good thing the young man’s mother wasn’t at church today. Just then a third officer came from behind and took Rev Rice by the arm.
“I need you to stand back, pastor.” It was a female voice.
The sanctuary door opened and the piano and singing voices flooded the foyer. “Thou my best thought by day or by night.” And faded again as the door closed.
Pastor Russel’s voice rose to fill the space, “Why are you arresting people for not wearing masks? This is a church! We’re exempt! You have no right!” He was rushing toward the officers. “Show me the law that says you can do this. You can’t!”
The female officer let go of Rev. Rice’s arm, turning to confront the charging Pastor Russel. All three officers started yelling at Pastor Russel, “Stop!” “Stay back!” “Stay back!”
He kept coming and yelling. “You have no right…” The female officer stepped in front of him and put her hands up to confront him. He shoved her aside. The other two officers jumped up rushing toward him. Rev. Rice yelled out, “Hey, hey, hey!” as if to say “Calm down, everyone clam down.” Deacon Gray was shouting “Shut up!” at Pastor Russel. The young man on the ground groaned. All was yelling and chaos. Like Babel. The thought floated through Rev. Rice’s mind from somewhere. Then Pastor Russel reached into his suit coat, down at his hip. The officers saw it. Rev. Rice saw it. They both thought he was going to pull a gun. One officer reacted, pulled his gun and shot twice. Rev. Rice ducked to the ground instinctively then stood up and put his hands out forward, as if to stop the madness. Pastor Russel twisted to the ground. And away off down the hallway, sister Edna who was just then coming out of the bathroom made a short cry and slumped onto her walker. At the sound of the gunshots, the yelling stopped. In the sanctuary the singing stopped, the foyer a ringing silence.
- -
Rev. Rice was chest down on the ground, cheek to the carpet. An officer’s knee on his back. It was the female officer. She was putting handcuffs on him. He turned his head. He could see Pastor Russel squirming on the ground. He’d been shot in the shoulder. The ambulance was on its way. One of the officers was tending to him. Rev. Rice could also see down the hall sister Edna’s body. Someone had moved her body to the floor and put her coat over her. Rev. Rice didn’t know where the young man was.
“I must see her. Let me see her. I need to see her.” Rev. Rice pleaded through tears.
“I’m sorry Reverend. We’re taking you in.”
- -
Rev. Rice didn’t remember seeing the police van pull up. It was parked outside the main door, in the drive up lane where the hearses parked. The church was empty now. He was hungry and sore and tired. Most of all tired. He wondered if anyone had gotten to eat sister Anita’s chili and cornbread. Then he remembered Edna. Sister Edna. His soul ached. His head ached. They shut the police van doors. He was in the semi-dark again. The ambulances had already gone. The other police cars had already gone. The bus that had come to take sister Edna home had left, empty. They were the last to leave. What time was it? Suddenly he remembered the study session. Soon his students would be pulling in. Walking up to the side doors. The church would be dark, the doors locked. They’d be huddled in a group by the door, looking up his number in the syllabus and texting him. Then calling him. No answer. He’d have a dozen missed calls and messages. Where was his phone? He thought of his wife. Then he prayed. Would anyone remember to lock the church doors? The side door maybe, but not the main door. No one would remember that. Maybe one of his students would walk around and try that door. They’d get inside, walk to the sanctuary, and find it dark.
