Smiling Madonna - Chapter Six

Fear of something
similar images
of the scene
imaginations of things unseen

Saturday George woke early, went to the chapel to pray, and by the time the morning meeting was done, his mind was already focused on the details of the sermon he had yet to finish.

Back at the Green Café, George sat down to ‘complete’ the sermon. He closed his eyes and tried to remember his time of prayer earlier, centering himself. He imagined the familiar sensations of kneeling before the altar table in his room. A plain burning candle in a glass votive revealed a woodpecker feather, a large black Mexican beach stone, and a small modern icon detail of the Transfiguration. George recalled the fondness he had for the scene. A central figure stood, clad in white, with extra large hands and body, feet just peeking from behind folds in the heavily draped robe. Jesus was surrounded by a purple oval with white piercing light shooting out from his figure. Beyond that mandorla, to his right and left, floating above the ground stood Moses and Elijah, both haloed only around their heads in gold leaf.
As George recalled these things, his breathing slowed, he felt less anxious about any one thing, and when he reflected on it later, he noticed he felt better about himself and the world. For now it was enough to focus on the texts and stories for this week.
About an hour later George felt about as good as he ever did about a sermon. It was “done.” There were always last minute changes directed to the specific audience and that morning’s news. But considering the events of the past week, this was quite a feat. For George, this too was evidence that there had to be something, someone, bigger than the human world, some view knowing which was broader than humanity’s. The sermon included some of his first feelings about the murder. George knew he had a lot of meditating to do on that before all the can of worms it spilled was caught. Fear of something similar, images of the scene, imaginations of things unseen. The sermon just touched the squiggling worms lightly, recognizing their presence among the people affected, nothing more.
The rest of the day was filled with mundane preparations and cleaning. George set the dinner table. Tim practiced guitar after putting the community’s evening meal in the oven. Jack returned from the shelter in time to join Stephen and the other two back in the chapel for a brief Service of Light, remembering that the new day begins with the sunset of the night before.
“George, we talked about me having a chance to speak about the shelter again this fall. Can we do that soon?” Jack asked.
“Sure, Jack,” answered George. “Do you want to have anyone else from the Shelter Board, or do you want to preach, or?”
“You know, I love to preach, but I get to do that on all my parish visits. I was thinking about just a coffee hour and education time event. Maybe in the Spring I could ask to preach again.”
“Sure, let’s set up the dates,” said George.

Travis moved over to his chair again. His drink spilled a little as he allowed his fatigue to overtake his dexterity. Travis looked at the glass, and through it, out the window, holding it up. He and Barbara had a nice view from this window. In the winter, they could see both mountain ranges, though the leaves interrupted the view the rest of the year.
Barbara was out at the office still. She had twenty-some years experience, and twenty-some years to go before she could retire. Barbara and he had discussed how she could advance in her specialty, which was small business accounting and management. Yet, in a city like Seattle, there were many younger and better trained women who were keen to advance quickly. Travis assured his spouse that there were none prettier, however.
Travis, on the other hand, saw few opportunities for advancement. He had served long in the churches he had been called to and had not advanced to the position of “Senior Pastor.” He always played second fiddle to men who were not always older than him. He was fed up. He kept that under wraps, but the feeling had gone beyond rubbing him like a constantly changing piece of sandpaper in his grip. Now it was pretty intolerable. Something was going to happen.
Focusing on his glass again, Travis tried to relax. He realized his grip on the crystalline tumbler was cramping his 43 year old hand. He wanted to be Senior Pastor at Green Lake Lutheran Church or somewhere, by his forty-fifth birthday, to finish his service in a comfortable position as either Senior Pastor at a bigger church, or as a “preaching pastor” at some even larger congregation. Travis imagined himself in that position. His friend John from seminary was already in such a position, down south. John occasionally even taught at the seminary from which they graduated. Travis heard about this from newsletters and communications from the school. Sure there was a little more than a bit of green in his eyes when he looked at his friend’s status and roles.