Reverend Meningsbee (Part 43) Broad Shoulders… February 26th, 2017

 Jonathots Daily Blog

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Even though spring was less than two weeks away, the Windy City was still frigid, with sporadic snow flurries careening through the air.

Meningsbee had spent too much time admiring and devouring his deep-dish pizza, and so found himself hurrying the short distance down the street, to “The Illinoian,” a downtown hotel which in its salad days was dressed lavishly, but with the wear chasing the tear, had somewhat lost its flair.

Meningsbee was late to deliver a speech in Ballroom Three, for the “Midwest Evangelical Mainline Church Convention.” It was an annual gathering in Chicago, usually drawing about 5,000 pastors, church leaders, music directors and congregation members who found such seminars to hold some interest. Matter of fact, Bob Harborhouse from the Garsonville Church, had come, and Monique Jennings, the church secretary.

Meningsbee had been invited to speak on the subject of “Innovation in the 21st Century Church.” His first inclination was to decline, but on second thought, was quite grateful for the opportunity to leave Nebraska for a few days.

He was a little concerned about whether anybody would show up in Ballroom Three. After all, Monique had already decided to go shopping and Bob had opted to attend a different seminar on church finance, entitled “The Power of the Shekel.”

So Meningsbee was on his own and a bit out of breath as he stepped off the elevator on the third floor, and was suddenly surrounded by cameras, with a reporter sticking a microphone to his mouth. It was Katrina Middlesex, who was no longer with USBN, but had now joined a conservative think tank from the blogosphere named “The American Way.”

Meningsbee tried to wiggle past the entourage, but Katrina positioned herself in front of the door, prohibiting him from entering. With bright lights in his face and cameras poised, she began to fire questions.

“Do you think its hypocritical for you to be here?”

“Do you think what happened in Garsonville is your fault?”

Then it was the third question that shocked Meningsbee.

“Is it true that you have a problem with pornography?”

He could not disguise his surprise.

So she asked him again, “Are you involved in pornography?”

Frustrated, angry and beginning to feel some indigestion from his lunch, he snapped, “No comment.”

Katrina smiled and slowly backed away, allowing him to enter the ballroom.

Safely inside, he immediately realized it was the wrong answer. He should at least have denied it. “No comment” was an admission that there might be some substance to the question and that he needed to consult an attorney.

It was so stupid.

Meningsbee lifted his eyes to look at the room, peering at a beautiful hall with 300 chairs–speckled with about forty human beings. Worse, they had spread themselves all over the place, as if trying to avoid a contagion.

He took a deep breath and walked to the front of the auditorium, placing his portfolio on the podium, As he did, he saw a note. It read: “Dear Reverend Meningsbee: I’m sorry I will not be there to introduce you. Got all tied up. Just feel free to start on your own, and may God bless you.”

Meningsbee didn’t read any further. Knowing who had left him out in the cold would not make him feel any warmer.

He tested the microphone, which whirred and whistled a bit, causing some of the congregated to giggle, and then began to speak from his prepared text. He wasn’t even five words into his spiel when a hand was raised in the audience. He stopped, acknowledged the individual, and she posed, “Why were all the reporters out in the lobby?”

Another man sitting three rows in front of her threw a comment over his shoulder in her direction. “There was some sort of scandal in his hometown and they wanted to ask him about his involvement.”

Meningsbee stepped in, objecting. “It wasn’t a scandal. It was just people stuff, which they made scandalous.”

A fellow four or five rows over piped in. “Was it sex stuff?”

A lady all the way in the back responded, projecting her voice to cover the distance. “Yes. I think so.”

Meningsbee interrupted. “I’ve come here today to talk about innovation in the 21st century church.”

Yet another hand went up. Meningsbee reluctantly acknowledged the inquisitor.

“Did you use the scandal to advertise the church? That’s pretty innovative. You know what they say–there’s no such thing as bad publicity.”

Meningsbee was lost. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to do.

All at once, another voice. Male, younger–strong.

“If you don’t mind, Reverend Meningsbee,” said the young man, standing to his feet, “I would like to tell them what you did. If you folks are not familiar with the work that is going on in Garsonville, I’ve been keeping up with it through reading the blogs about the movement in the town, and also I have a cousin who lives there who fills me in on all the adventures.

“This gentleman, Reverend Meningsbee, wrote a book called ‘The Jesus Church.’ If you’ve never read it, you should. I know people always say that. In this case, it’s true. Basically, it asks the question, ‘What kind of church would Jesus run if Jesus was in the church running business?'”

People chuckled.

“So,” the young man continued, “the Reverend came to be a pastor in Garsonville, to see if he and the folks there can get together and form…well, I guess ‘form a more perfect union.’ But anyway, let me shut up, and let the parson tell us the whole story.”

The young man sat down, leaned back, crossed his legs and prepared to listen. The other people in the hall noted his position and followed suit.

Meningsbee was able to finish his speech. Afterward, he quickly found the young man, and thanked him for his kindness.

He replied, “Oh, you were fine. You didn’t need me. My dad used to tell me, ‘always travel with a little bit of grease, because most of the time you won’t be the wheel, but lots of times the wheel will need the grease.'”

Meningsbee found out that the young man’s name was Carl–Carl Ramenstein. He was a student at the Illinois Theological Seminary and was due to graduate in May.

“Come and see us,” said Meningsbee.

Carl smiled. “Why?”

The question took Meningsbee by surprise. He was just trying to be polite, but now the astute young man was calling him on it.

“Good question,” responded Meningsbee. “I guess because you’re young, good-looking, level-headed, humble and the Kingdom of God certainly wouldn’t suffer under your efforts.”

Carl feigned surprise. “Are you offering me a job?”

“No, no,” said Meningsbee. “Stale Danish, weak coffee–that’s our offer.”

Carl laughed, paused and considered. He reached out to shake the pastor’s hand, saying, “Well, I’ll tell you what. If I ever need stale Danish and coffee, you’ll be the first place I go.”

They shared a laugh. Meningsbee couldn’t help but be grateful for the intervention of the stranger.

Now all he had to do was figure out how to get out of Ballroom Three without seeing Katrina again. 

 

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Dump the Tub … September 8, 2012

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Everyone was so nervous.

We had come to Columbus, Ohio, from diverse points all over the eastern part of the United States to join in a rehearsal camp for a musical I had written, culminating in a twenty-five-city tour.

I was young–some people would say too young to be in charge of such an overwhelming undertaking–but I learned pretty early in my life that if you wait too long to accumulate the years, the years will keep you from accumulating success.

So I ventured. I was smart enough to know three things–a trio of needs necessary to maintain the integrity of such an endeavor:  the cast would need sleep, practice and lots to drink.

Now, this was before the day of bottled water, and also prior to the general public acceptance that something clear, colorless and drawn from the tap was actually a beverage. So I located two gigantic tubs. In one I made fruit punch and in the other, by the request of the cast, iced tea.

We finished our first session and everybody was thirsty, so they headed over to my display of beverage choices–and we immediately had a problem. Those who preferred fruit punch seemed quite happy–because if they thought it was too sweet, they just added some water. But those whose taste moved towards tea were disgruntled because some liked it sweet, some liked it lemony and there was even one guy who pouted a bit because we didn’t have limes.

The tea was a failure.

One of the young cast members stepped forward and made a suggestion. “So we don’t have to lose the tea, why don’t we just pour the tea into the fruit punch tub and mix them? Therefore we won’t lose our investment. It’s just like my mama says. You take the good with the bad and mix it all together and you get your life, so go out there and live it.”

Even though it sounds corny, the words were so inspiring in the moment that the cast burst into a cheer, and I believe one young lady from Birmingham, Alabama, sprouted a tear.

I saw no problem with it. After all, I was young and willing to try almost anything to move forward or keep peace. So we mingled the two containers, and at the next break, we ran headlong, at sixty miles an hour, into a wall of confusion.

It tasted terrible. The tea made the fruit punch flat and as one fellow said, the fruit punch made the tea taste “creepy.”

The producer of the show, in an attempt to save money, suggested that the cast endure this particular batch of distaste, and that next time we would get just fruit punch. Once again, being very young, I complied through one additional rehearsal session, which was unfortunately followed by a complaint convention. When everybody refused to drink the concoction and just sat there sweating, gasping for air, I walked over, grabbed the tub, went outside and dumped it.

Even greater cheers. Because contrary to what the cast member said, quoting his mother, life is really NOT about trying to stir together the good and the bad to come up with some unsatisfying concoction. It’s really about identifying what truly IS good, and as quickly as possible, abandoning the bad in favor of more pleasurable results.

I am often amused when people extol the virtue of patience. I know it seems noble to talk about it; I know we often feel grown-up when we consider pursuing it. But patience is something that makes you feel mature inside, as it completely rattles every other part of you. Patience is over-rated. I know there are those who will quote verses of scripture or bits of wisdom on the subject, but I must warn you–they are the same folks who will growl at you for using their parking space because they’re too busy to be nice, as they are trying to be patient … about something else.

Here is what I use as a determination of whether to continue to chase a dream or let it go and “dump the tub:”

1. Is it tasteful? Life should have flavor. If the choice you have made has created a blandness, a sense of repetition, or a feeling of meaningless activity, you might have just arrived for a visit with the Great Uncle in the family of Mediocrity. Life should have a zing to our palette and a sense of challenge.

2. Is it enlightening? What do I mean by “enlightening?”  Anything that includes as many people as possible instead of creating barriers, which human beings have great difficulty in overcoming, is born of the light of God instead of being snuffed out by the traditions and prejudices of men.

There are many thing I do not understand; there are things I do not agree with. I don’t care. What I’m looking for is a way to enlighten myself and the world around me towards God’s love and finding a way to create equality of appreciation for every human being.

3. And finally, is it productive? I remember when I was working at a college in Louisiana, they were planning an event. On the budget was the printing of five thousand flyers to hand out for advertising. I posed the question, “Do the flyers work? Has anyone ever come in because they saw a flyer?” The candid response from the room was no. So I asked them why they were still printing them. They immediately had two reasons: (a) “we always do: and (b) “we don’t want to hurt our printer’s feelings.”

You see, we cannot make decisions in our lives based on what we have always done or fear of hurting some proprietor’s feelings. Is it productive? Will it take us forward to our goals, or is it a repetition of a practice which has proven to be less than effective?

For verily I say unto you, a perfect example of an oxymoron is the phrase, “stagnation in progress.” If you’re willing to take a look at these three exercises, you can escape a treadmill of meaningless exertion, creating more sweat than muscle.

I dumped the tub. It changed the dynamic of our whole camp from a sluggish reluctance to a sense of anticipation that we were pursuing a better way instead of settling for fruity tea … with no punch. It takes a bit of courage. It takes a Godly impatience with unnecessary lack. And until our Father in heaven sees us desiring that His will be done on earth, He will not be impressed that we are patiently waiting for heaven.

Dump the tub. Start over again. It makes you feel smart.

It makes you feel like you have a life.

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