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Let me tell you about Pastors. Pastors may all look the same but they are not. They
change every other year at the great Festival of Renewal. One Pastor comes and the
other goes but nothing changes. Pastors are like monkeys or ants: probably they can tell
each other apart but to a member of another species they are all pretty much the same.
The reason for this is that we do not inspect them too closely, especially when we are
young. A later age is required for the examination of detail and even for that bravery is
required. Faced with the Pastor a boy of eleven will notice briefly his garments: a long black robe so much finer than the scrawny robes a Sister wears, a dog collar, open toed sandals; on special occasions a cape with a crimson lining and an equally resplendent flat hat are added. Though the boy may dwell briefly on a high furrowed forehead, a tanned and balding scalp and strong, clean hands, all features which at close quarters are impressive, most likely he will feel drawn by the warm deep eyes, the wise and knowing smile and the mellow authoritative voice. Pastors are never contradicted; they are never wrong. If the boy does notice a difference between one Pastor and another it will probably be in the Pastor's voice because their accents differ considerably depending upon their origin. The language of Dentonsville is not their native tongue. They are missionaries; they live apart from their own kind and work among heathens and they are not all the same. There were fourteen years and two worlds difference between the Rev. Alun Williams and Carl Relyt as they first faced each other across the desk in the Pastor's study and to each the gulf was apparent. Carl entering that study for only the second time in his life, saw for the first time that other world which he had never known: a fountain of an inconceivable existence. He found the world unpleasant. The experience came too soon to be appreciated and once past was buried deep. The young missionary on his first assignment found the peasant boy's intrusion unpleasant and unwelcome. Hesat playing with a pencil and Carl stood before him. 'Your offence is serious, Carl. Your father says you are beyond his control and from the evidence it seems certain. What is the surest way to gain God's love?' 'To die in His service, fighting for the things He loves the best,' answered Carl mechanically. 'And what are the things He loves the best?' 'My Country, this Great State; my town of Dentonsville; my Church.' 'And which of these were you serving when you went to the enclave? Well which? You don't know? It's clear to me!' The Pastor leaned forward. 'NONE of those. Who else but yourself?' How could Carl match the Pastor's piercing stare? He looked down at his feet. 'Does God love those who serve themselves, Carl?' 'No, Pastor.' 'No, Pastor.' The Rev. Williams tapped the desk thoughtfully with his pencil. The boy showed no real sign of remorse. No sign of breaking. 'Then it's clear to you? You've done wrong. You've sinned against God. It wasn't your father, but God who sent you here to me. He wishes us to make one last effort to save you.' 'Yes, Pastor.' 'And I WILL try to save you, Carl. I will try my very best, though I know it won't be easy. What treatment would you recommend for yourself?' The boy did not reply. 'Prayer, Carl. Prayer and service. You must pray on your knees for four hours each day. And you must work and ask forgiveness that you may be restored to the true path and one day inherit your father's position in the world. Will you do this Carl?' Having no choice in the matter, Carl assented and left the room, from that foreign world into another where he must pray on his knees in the cold and wet, the heat and darkness; where, not praying, he must work and sweat at menial tasks; where the remainder of the day was taken up with study and there was little time to cry himself to sleep. |
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