chapter seven: Mrs. Hazelton doesn't receive word that church is cancelled and believes this means that the Reverend is in fact not dead.
"St. Mary Magdalene Church" oil
by Mayne Island artist Frances Faminow
Is the Reverend Dead?
Chapter Eight
The organist plays. Mr. Blue slouches in his pew. Within minutes, I predict he’ll be sleeping. It’s a typical Sunday. Except, where is young Ms. Matthews? She isn’t in her pew or anywhere else that I can see. She never misses church—not without broadcasting a reason weeks in advance.
The door to the vestry closes with a thud. Young Ms. Matthews walks into the church—back straight, head held high. She places the weathered leather-bound Bible on the pulpit, flips it open, and pulls out some paper. Paper? Is it a sermon? Does she think she can preach to us? Her? She leans into the microphone. “Like Saul on the road to Damascus, God has called me and I am transformed.”
Who does she think she is? I want to storm down the aisle and shake some sense into her. But that wouldn’t be Christian.
“Blink once,” she continues, “and I no longer sit amongst you but now am ministering to you, in this way. I hope I can rely on your support during this hopefully, brief period. I had my doubts but the Reverend insisted. So I stand before you at the pulpit. I hope we can continue to walk this faith journey together.”
“Hallelujah,” Mrs. Blue sings out. “Praise the Lord.” Clearly, Ms. Matthews’ charm has won her over.
The hymns are the same, but the sermon… Oh, the sermon… I find no fault with her delivery. I have no doubt that she has practised for hours, days. No, it’s not how she delivers it. It’s what she says.
“We are all God’s precious children,” she call us. “Bring all your cares and woes to Him. He will relieve you of your burdens.”
Coddling? The road to Hell is full of warm fuzzies. “Yea, though I walk,” I mumble, “through the valley of the shadow of death...”
Mr. and Mrs. Blue are still singing the last hymn when I leave the pew. Every Sunday, on the way out of the church, it’s traditional to shake the Reverend’s hand and thank him for the sermon. But I can’t do that today. I can’t shake Ms. Matthews’ hand and pretend that I’m a member of her flock. I’m no hypocrite. So I slip out of church early.
