Jenny and The Preacherman

The preacher’s Toyota Camry chugged along on the backroads from Jetmore to Kinsley. He knew he was going to be late but right now he didn’t really care. He was enjoying the cool ride and the company of Ms. Jenny Linn, singer extraordinaire and who knows what else. He looked at her from time to time. She had her window rolled down and her arm propped up on the sill. She played with her long hair and brushed it out of her eyes as the wind constantly blew it back. He thought he had seen her before at the tavern in Jetmore when he was doing some evangelism outreach. “Look at that dust devil, Jenny, that’s a huge one.” The preacher wanted to start some kind of conversation and figured that was as good as any, and after all, she was the one that wanted to accompany him, he certainly hadn’t asked her being he was a pastor and all. Jenny had already seen the dust devil that seemed to be running parallel with the slow moving car. It reminded her of when she and Darjeeling were down in Zacatecas, Mexico and had the run-in with the federales. She was winding her hair on her index finger and thinking about the Mexican dust devils and Darjeeling. She didn’t reply for a long time, she just looked out the window.
Preachers have a way of knowing when someone is under some emotional stress. And people, for that matter, know that when they are in the company of clergy they can express things that they normally would not discuss, even with close friends or family. Pastor Jack remembered the many times when he, wanting to be away from pastoral duties, would find himself at a bar or dance and ultimately have to just tell the waitress to put on the coffee and have person after person come to him and tell him their problems. He always listened but it had made him a bit jaded or, at least, burned out. He could tell that Jenny was about to launch into whatever it was that was bothering her and so he waited. He waited for five miles, the dust devil had long since turned and headed south, maybe to Mexico. He laughed to himself wondering if it was possible and then realized how dumb that was. He waited some more. She had that blank stare in her pretty eyes that said she was there but really wasn’t. She was detached from her immediate surroundings thinking about whether or not to say anything to this pastor who didn’t know her from Adam. Or Eve for that matter. He really wasn’t prepared for the questions she asked.
“So, Pastor Jack, what is truth?” Jenny didn’t turn her head, didn’t look at him at all, she looked straight ahead, glassy eyed and nonchalant. The Kansas wind whistled around the side mirror of the car, and the dust from the country road settled inside as they bumped along in the countryside. A meadowlark sang and the song came into the car with the dust. She often wondered how it was that you could be going down the road 70 or 80 miles an hour and hear the whole song of a bird or the chirp of a cricket. Pastor Jack showed little reaction as he drove along negotiating the potholes in the road. He thought about his early years in seminary and how he, too, had proposed the same question to his bishop who gave no answer except to expel him to his room. He asked the bishop if a horsehair shirt was required and that earned him even more problems. He had been problematic and recalcitrant, but hadn’t Luther been the same way? He likened himself to Martinus Lutherus in many ways. He fancied himself to be a modern reformer in a church that sorely needed reforming. The rainbow pin on his lapel attested to his liberalism much to the disdain of the presiding bishop. Pastor Jack reached up and pulled off his white clerical collar. The day was starting to heat up in more ways than one. He remembered how the bishop had called him back to his office at seminary and how he had stood there in front of this higher authority with his head up, arrogant in his chastisement and ready for any theological challenge.
“So, Jack, what is truth,” the bishop swiveled in his leather chair to face his library and put his back to the young theologian. Bishop Marks had long known that this one was trouble, if not just troubled, and even though he had compassion for the young man, he knew that this type of theology would not be tolerated in Western Kansas or anywhere else. It was hard enough to place anyone in the small rural towns, let alone a firebrand martyr like Jack. He knew of Jack’s past and the stellar career he forgave to enter the seminary. He knew of his brilliant studies at Northwestern University and his graduate and post-doctoral work in Zen Buddhism. But he wasn’t quite ready or pleased with Jack’s answer.
“The bite of an apple.” The young man turned on his heels and left as the bishop wheeled in his chair shouting that he had not been dismissed. The young monk headed down the hall prepared to pack and head for yet another life.
The little white Toyota skidded and fishtailed as Jack whipped the steering wheel left and right.
“What was that?” Jenny asked as she held on to the door post.
“Prairie rattler,” Jack said.
“Why didn’t you just run over it, are you nuts?”
“Two reasons: One, I don’t kill God’s creatures, and, two, it’s against the law.” He brought the car under control and slowed down, pulling into the wheat field entrance and shutting off the engine. “The bite of an apple.” He looked straight into her eyes until she had to look away.
“What?” She was a little scared now, alone in the country with a Lutheran minister that she barely knew.
“That’s the answer to your question,” He kept looking until she looked back at him, eye to eye. She opened the door and got out, gazing out upon the green winter wheat and breathing in the good country air, flipping her hair and putting her hands on the back of her head, swallowing hard and trying not to tear up. The preacher got out on the other side. He looked back to see the snake’s rattle disappear into the tall ditch grass and he was glad for its being alive and free. He walked to the front of the car, settled back on the dented hood and folded his arms.“I was asked the same question when I was in seminary and I gave the same answer. The bishop didn’t like the answer and I thought that I was going to be dismissed without earning my M. Div. degree,” The preacher elicited each fact point by point, like he was counting them on his fingers. “Do you know how I got out of it?” He smiled and looked at her waiting to see if she had an answer. He knew she didn’t so he continued. “I had to appear before the bishop and four other clergy and present an argument as to why I should be allowed to continue my last year of studies and graduate. So you know what I did?” She shook her head. “I washed their feet.” She knew what he was saying. “I took off my monk’s robe, tightened up my belt, got the water basin and cloth out from where I had put it the night before, and I took off their shoes, each one of them, and I washed their feet.” The tears were running down Jenny’s cheeks now, making tracks in the Kansas dust. She knew the story well. it was one of her favorites. She just didn’t know how to respond. He put his arm around her and gave her a hug. It was a hug of compassion and not one of passion and it made her feel better. She knew he was no threat to her. “Let’s get going, Jenny.” As the two of them got back in the car, they noticed the shiny gleam of metal at the top of the hill. Pastor Jack backed up quickly to get out of the way when he suddenly realized that the shiny metal object that was fast bearing down on them was no car, or farm truck, or tractor, or anything of the sort. Then the engine died and the car stalled right there in the middle of the road. The disc-shaped craft roared over them, spinning the little car around and turning it over on its side. They both screamed but got out of the car unhurt, watching as the aircraft went out of sight on the horizon.