Sidewalk Theology

Sidewalk Theology

Noel Laflin

7-8-14

“So, why don’t we ever sing, Shall We Gather At The River? the young man in a sweat-drenched, dirty tee-shirt asked the good pastor one afternoon.

“I love that song!” the kid added, whistling the chorus while sweeping an errant leaf from the church walkway.

“It’s a Baptist hymn,” pastor replied.  “We don’t do Baptist here.  We like something grander -  like Luther’s A Might Fortress Is Our God. Now, there’s a song!” he advised.

The boy thought for a moment, reflecting on a thousand past processionals for which he’d risen, Lutheran hymnal in hand - joining his fellow congregants in exultation.

“Yes,” he agreed.  “It’s not bad for an opening act – I’ll give you that.  But, you never hear it in a John Ford movie.  He used The River in five of his classics,” the shaggy-haired young gardener countered.

“Ford was no Lutheran,” the lean, be speckled parson replied with a sigh. “Obviously!” he added for emphasis.

“I think he was Catholic,” the boy said.  “Lutherans are kind of like shirt-tail Catholics, wouldn’t you say?”

Pastor gave the young man a wilting stare.

“We are NOT shirt-tail Catholics, you nit!  That would be the Episcopalians.  Have you forgotten your entire Catechism?” he asked sarcastically.

“Well, how come the Catholics and us both use the term catechism then,” the boy argued. 

“Because there are some universal themes throughout all of Christendom, you dummy!” the man nearly shouted.

The boy pulled out a pack of Winston’s from his back pocket and proceeded to light up.

“Give me one of those,” pastor demanded, looking cautiously over his shoulder in the event his wife should appear.

“She’s not here, Friar Tuck,” the boy said, handing over a smoke and a light.  You’re safe.”

“Don’t mention this to her,” the man of the cloth warned.  “She thinks I’ve quit.”

“Quit buying, you mean," the youngster  amended.  “Don’t worry, your secret habit is safe with me.”

“And, speaking of habits,” he dovetailed, Sister Mary Elizabeth pays me a lot better than you do.  I make four hundred a month at St. Anthony’s for a lot less hours – you guys only pay me two hundred.  What’s up with that anyway?”

“Have you ever thought of converting?” the  perplexed pastor asked.

“Yeah,” the cocky young man with the broom replied.  “I could at least then walk to church as it’s only a couple blocks from my house.”

Pastor stubbed out the cigarette on the grass and turned to head back into the church office.

 

“Make sure you pick that up before you finish today,” he said to the young gardener.

“Jawohl!” replied the boy with a grin and two fingers under his nose.

The minister did an incredibly swift about-face and kicked him squarely in the ass.

“Say,” the boy said laughing, “perhaps some old spirituals could be worked into a Sunday service or two as well.  It would be a nice nod to the underpaid help.”

“Speaking of Sundays,” the minister retorted, “why is it that we never see you on that day?”

“My gosh, pastor!” the boy mocked in reply, “I’m here six days a week as it is trying to make this place look respectable for that crowd.  Even the good Lord rested on the seventh.”

The older man tried to give him another kick, but the kid was too fast and sidestepped it.

“Alright,” pastor sighed in exasperation as he turned to leave a second time.

“Oh, yes,” he said turning around once again.  “I almost forgot.  There’s a wedding on Sunday.  There’s an automatic twenty-five bucks in it for you if you take care of the clean-up – mostly rice swept off the sidewalk, etc.”

“Count me in,” the boy said.  “College doesn’t come cheaply you know.  Well, maybe you don’t really know, but the Catholics certainly do as they pay better…”

“Enough of this tomfoolery,” the lean and be-speckled man admonished.

“Get back to work.  I’ve got a sermon to write anyway.”

“What’s the theme?,” the boy asked curiously.

“Patience and the suffering of fools,” the man replied, opening the door to his office.  “I think I’ll work in the verse regarding the weeping of our Lord too.”

“Cool!” the kid in the sweaty, dirty shirt replied.

“See you Sunday then!” he said, sweeping up the two discarded butts on the ground.

“Did you say, Sunday?” the pastor asked hopefully.

“Well, yeah,” the lad replied.  “There’s a wedding to clean up after.”

He turned and began to whistle loudly.

 

It was a tune favored by John Ford in at least five of his best Westerns.

He heard the church office door slam shut before he reached the end of the sidewalk.