Read Online A Stranger in the Kingdom by Howard Frank Mosher - Free Book Online Page B

received one more hot covered dish he’d be able to open a restaurant at the parsonage, this got him a ripple of laughter and broke the ice. I glanced over at Nathan and grinned, but if he noticed me he didn’t acknowledge it. He looked as bored now as he had at the Ridge Runner Diner, and as uncomfortable in his jacket and tie as I felt in mine.
    Reverend Andrews’ sermon was blissfully brief. I can’t remember much of what he said, except that he talked about hope and concluded by saying that he personally expected, on this most hopeful of all days, to resurrect the tradition of a minister who would do more than show up in church for an hour on Sunday morning and drink tea in the afternoon with his lady parishioners, which got him another general laugh. Speaking easily in that pleasant and resonant tone that had fascinated me in the diner and again in front of the parsonage during the snowstorm, he enumerated a couple of the goals he hoped to achieve: reestablishing an active youth group and a Bible study class for adults, mounting an organized fundraising drive. Finally, he did one small unexpected thing by inquiring whether anyone in church that morning wished to add to these objectives.
    This was many years before young activist Protestant clergymen routinely solicited impromptu participation from their congregations during Sunday services, and there was a brief awkward silence. But before anyone had time to be more than slightly surprised, my father was on his feet. “I think you’ve covered all the bases yourself, Reverend Andrews,” he said in that harsh voice of his that sounded displeased even on those occasions when it wasn’t. “Welcome to the Kingdom.”
    What happened next was totally unprecedented, so far as I know, in the entire history of the church. Spontaneously, the entire congregation stood up as though for a hymn and gave Reverend Andrews a rousing welcoming round of applause. Looking back, I suppose this demonstration of support was meant in part to show both him and ourselves that we had no reservations about having a black man for a minister. Even so, it was a sincere gesture, and I believe that he was genuinely pleased by it, though all he did was smile and nod at Julia, who launched into a gallumphing rendition of “Onward Christian Soldiers.”
    Five minutes later and no more than fifty minutes after the service had begun, we were back outside in the warm sunshine on the top step of the church, shaking hands with the minister.
    â€œI enjoyed your talk, Reverend,” my father said after introducing himself. “As a matter of fact, this is the first time in fifty years that I haven’t been bored silly in church.”
    Reverend Andrews laughed. “That’s good. I’ve always regarded boredom as the eighth deadly sin. By the by, editor, thanks for bailing me out in there. I thought I’d be bombarded by a list of chores as long as my arm.”
    â€œDon’t be impatient,” Dad said. “The bombardment’s coming.”
    My father stayed to visit with Reverend Andrews a minute longer while my mother and I continued down the steps. “Well,” Mom said when he caught up with us on the flagstones, “what’s your opinion of the new minister, Charles?”
    â€œThere are two things I liked about him right off the bat,” Dad said as we crossed the street and headed along the heaved slate sidewalk in front of the courthouse. “He isn’t afraid to stand up on his two hind feet and say what needs to be done around this place. And he can speak good plain English and get his point across without taking all day about it.”
    â€œIt sounds as though you might actually go brook trout fishing with him,” my mother said mischievously.
    â€œWe’ll see,” my father said. “I just might.”
    â€œI wonder what his son’s like,” I said.
    â€œYou can ask him yourself in an