The Organist Wore Pumps (The Liturgical Mysteries) (15 page)

Deacon Mushrat yawned.

“
Don’t forget the Christmas parade tomorrow,” said Elaine. “Two o’clock. The youth group will be selling hot chocolate out on the steps. Proceeds go to the youth mission trip fund.”

“
Money changers in the temple,” said the deacon with a sneer. “I may mention it in my sermon on Sunday.”

“
Oh, give it a rest,” muttered Marilyn.

“
What time are our Christmas Eve services?” Mushrat asked. “I presume I’ll have to get my sermons ready.”

“
Five o’clock and eleven,” said Bev. “The one at five is a family service. You’ll have to tell the Christmas Story. No sermon.”

“
No sermon? On Christmas Eve?” Deacon Mushrat was incredulous.

“
You can preach at the eleven o’clock service. Twelve minutes. There will be three hundred people here for communion. We’d like to get finished before one in the morning.”

“
I have to preach what the Holy Spirit leads me to preach,” said Mushrat. “Twelve minutes or forty.”

“
Twelve,” said Bev. “Practice in front of a mirror.”

Deacon Mushrat sniffed. “We’ll see,” he said. “By the way, I had seven people come to my Wednesday night series on Malachi. We had an awesome prayer meeting for the leadership of St. Barnabas afterwards.”

“
How nice,” said Elaine, sweetness oozing from every pore. “I would have come, but I had choir practice.”

“
Me, too,” said Joyce, even though she didn’t. She shot me a quick, apologetic look.

“
And since I’m going to be here for six months,” said the deacon, “I’d like to continue my Wednesday night Bible studies. In fact, when the new year starts, I’d like to begin leading my awesome, Biblical weight loss program.”

“
What?” said Joyce, not sure she’d heard correctly.

“
Many people want to get in shape at the beginning of the new year,” said Mushrat. “What better way to do it than through Biblically-based teaching? I call it
Jehobics: God’s answer for losing weight and feeling great!
”

“
What?”
said Joyce again.

“
We’re going to take back the health and wealth the devil has stolen. We shouldn’t make our members go to the ‘world’ to lose weight. They don’t need Jenny Craig. They need Jesus! And we need to give them an awesome opportunity right here at St. Barnabas.”

“
So,” I said. “
Jehobics.
Great idea, Donald. You’re going to have to start it on the 13th, though. We’re going to have our usual Epiphany service on January 6th and it’s a Wednesday evening.”

“
Don’t forget our ‘Cocoon’ program,” said Kimberly Walnut. “Donald and I were just working on it. The kids will be here on Tuesday, the 5th.”

“
If Epiphany’s on a Wednesday, we should have a church-wide supper,” said Bev, still reeling from the
Jehobics
suggestion and trying to get back on track.

“
Pot-luck,” added Elaine. “I love a pot-luck supper.”

“
Absolutely. And as the highlight of the service—and I’m not kidding about this—we’re going to have the bones of one of the Three Kings on display.”

Everyone looked at me like I had just suggested hiring a praise band for Sunday mornings.

“
The Three Kings, as in
We Three Kings of Orient Are
?” said Joyce.

“
The very same—but just one of them.”

“
Someone has their bones?” asked Marilyn.

“
Yep. They’ve been in Germany since the Middle Ages. They were originally kept in Constantinople, but moved to Milan in the fourth century. Then to Germany in 1164. In fact, the cathedral at Cologne was constructed to house the relics.”

“
You’re kidding, of course,” said Mushrat.

“
No, really. Here’s the deal...”

It took me another fifteen minutes to explain and answer questions, but when we were finished everyone was very excited. Everyone except the deacon.

“
We should not condone the worship of bones,” he said. “The Lord hath said, ‘You shall not make for yourself an idol, whether in the form of anything that is in heaven above, or that is on the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth.’ Exodus 18.”

“
Exodus 20, actually,” I said.

The deacon sniffed.

“
We’re not worshipping them,” said Joyce. “Sheesh!”

“
It’s a relic,” Elaine said. “Possibly a relic of one of the Three Kings. It’s...it’s archeology.”

“
It’s medieval idolatry,” said Deacon Mushrat. “Simple people were told by corrupt monks and priests that, if they prayed to the bones and gave money to the monasteries, they’d receive a miracle and be healed. Even if they weren’t sick, the monks would have them give their money to the church and pray to the bones in hopes of a better future and salvation.”

“
Gee,” I said. “Sounds like there’s a parallel here somewhere. Isn’t that what televangelists do? Send in your thousand dollar seed-faith gift, I’ll send you an anointed vial of oil, and you can ask for whatever you want.”

“
It is
nothing
like what televangelists do,” said Mushrat, bristling. “Televangelists do the work of the Kingdom.”

“
I’m afraid I must agree with Donald...” started Kimberly Walnut, who’d been silent up to this point. “I’ve never even heard of Nantwich.”

“
Well, it doesn’t matter,” I said with a dismissive wave of my hand. “It’s done. Gaylen already gave her okay and the contract’s been signed and faxed to England. Not only that, but I called Bishop O’Connell. He’d never heard of Nantwich either, but is happy to come to the service in full regalia. Put it on your calendars. Our Epiphany service on January 6th will follow a pot-luck dinner.” I looked around the table. “That sound about right?”

“
Yes,” said Elaine. “That sounds about right.”

Chapter 15

Saturday morning was cold and clear. It was a perfect day to find a Christmas tree, have lunch downtown and see the Christmas parade. Then home to decorate, drink hot mulled wine, and listen to a new recording I’d received from my classical CD subscription service featuring a Christmas oratorio by Gottfried August Homilius. I was anxious to listen to it, partly because Gottfried Homilius was a student of J.S. Bach, but mainly because I’d never heard of this particular oratorio.
The Joy of the Shepherds Concerning the Birth of Jesus.
The title sounded better in German.

Baxter jumped up into the bed of the new truck and found a seat before Meg or I had reached the doors. He looked at us over the tailgate with an anticipation that made us both laugh out loud. Meg was bundled up in a sweater, a heavy winter coat, gloves, Ugg boots, a red scarf and matching knit cap—all color coordinated to make her the most stylish Christmas tree hunter in the county. I happened to be wearing a pair of khaki canvas insulated overalls and an old jacket that I could manage to fit around my cast. I had a hat as well, one that covered my ears. Not stylish at all, but warm. Very warm. If past Christmases were any indication, Meg would be the one picking out the tree and I’d be standing idly in the wind for the next hour while she carefully inspected each prospect.

“
See,” said Meg. “I don’t mind driving this truck a bit. It’s just your old rattle-trap I don’t like.” She clicked on the stereo. I had a Burl Ives Christmas CD in the player and the strains of
Have a Holly Jolly Christmas
sounded forth from eight very expensive speakers.

“
I’ve never heard Burl sound so lifelike,” Meg said.

The drive up to Pine Valley Christmas Tree Farm was dazzling. Most of the snow we’d seen on Wednesday was still hanging on the boughs of the pine, spruce and fir trees, and the ice that glittered on the bare rock jutting from the cliffs reflected the sunlight like diamonds. We discovered, upon our arrival on this frigid morning, that we weren’t the only ones to be hunting for our tree in mid-December.

Kimberly Walnut was exiting the parking lot as we drove in, a big tree tied and strapped to the top of her black Chevy Tahoe. She waved to us on her way out. Elaine and Billy Hixon were out talking to Ardine, and I recognized Dr. Hogmanay McTavish’s old gold Cadillac and saw his familiar rotund form out on the lot sizing up some Fraser firs. Brother Hog, as he was known to his flock, was an ex-evangelist who had been lured off the tent revival circuit by the prospect of full-time ministry at New Fellowship Baptist Church. He never looked back. Bud trailed behind Brother Hog carrying a chainsaw, and following Bud was another, smaller person whom I couldn’t quite make out. Ardine waved to us as we got out of the truck and crunched across the snow to the trailer that served as command central.

“
Nice wheels,” said Billy. “I almost got me one of those Tundras, but then I realized that it cost more than my house.”

“
It’s a rental,” I said. “I’ll be back in Old Rattle-Trap before you know it.”

“
The blue spruces are on the lower lot,” said Ardine. “Y’all go pick out the one you want, and I’ll send Bud over as soon as he’s back from helping Brother Hog. Billy can cut his own.”

“
I brought my own saw,” said Billy. “I even brought Elaine so she could carry the tree back to the truck.”

“
Yuk yuk,” said Elaine. “You’re a riot. We’ll see you guys at the parade?”

“
We’ll be there,” said Meg. She pointed down the hill into the lower lot. “Ooo, there’s a good one.”

“
Who’s with Bud?” I asked, looking in the opposite direction, shading my eyes and squinting against the sun.

“
Some girl he met called Elfie or something like that,” said Ardine.

“
Elphina?” asked Meg.

“
That’s it. Elphina. She told me it was her vampire name.” Ardine frowned. “If you ask me, she could use a few good meals. That, and a smack.”

I chuckled. “Well, tell Bud to watch his neck. We’ll wait for him down on the lower lot. Tell him to take his time. We’ll probably be a while.”

•••

It took us most of the morning to pick out the perfect ten-foot spruce, have Bud and Elphina cut it down, tie it up, and put it in the back of the pickup with Baxter. We headed down the mountain to St. Germaine with plans to have lunch at the Ginger Cat. We drove into town, slipped into my reserved parking place, stashed Baxter in the police station and walked across Sterling Park to the restaurant. It was a quarter to two when we finished our flaming Christmas pudding (the chef’s special) and walked back across the park to the judges’ stand. Nancy was standing at the top of the courthouse steps and gave us a wave when she saw us. We climbed up and joined her.

The judges for this year’s parade were already at their table and appeared to be taking their job very seriously, going over each applicant’s entry sheet and busily making notes before the festivities commenced. The St. Germaine crowd had already gathered around the edges of the park, as well as up and down Main and Maple Streets. This year’s head judge, Mr. Christopher Lloyd, looked up, smiled, and went back to his notes. His cohorts were Roderick Bateman, owner of Blueridge Furs, and Kimmy Jo Jameson, widow of Jimmy Jameson, the race car driver.