1: Creation

“In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth...”

“It’s important to acknowledge, at this point, that when we say heavens, we’re referring not only to the ethereal and invisible world, or dimension, which God and the angelic hosts inhabit, but also the physical universe composed of planets, stars, and empty space that hangs, metaphorically speaking, above our stratosphere. To the ancients, these two ideas were one and the same. It’s a fascinating idea, my friends, you must admit it.”

Several slight nods of approval, a stifled cough in the second row, and a very quiet groan of approval from a bearded gentleman in the third. Considering the sparseness of the occupancy of the pews, Andrews considered himself wonderfully well-received thus far.

“Well, well. The bible tells us that God accomplished all of this in no more than six full days. Yes, brothers, in 144 hours alone, God did speak into creation, from scratch, the basis from which all you see has been formed. A remarkable miracle. Re-mark-able.

“There are those, it’s true, and perhaps even among us…” he eyed the congregation with one wide orb and the other eye squinted inquisitively, “perhaps even among us, who cast doubt on this detail as it’s been gleaned from the Word of God. They suggest that the allotment of six days is unreasonable, necessarily inaccurate. And, for the rest of us, we wonder how it could be that such a perspective persists. My dear brothers and sisters, we ask, do they question the Word so boldly? Do they not fear God?”

A short, quiet, reverent chorus of groans proceeded at this inquiry as if to say that this was indeed the one question that had been perplexing them all morning long. Two audible coughs from the mid-section, and a baby began to whine, followed by the hushes of the nervous mother.

“No, my friends, it is not that they do not fear God. Solomon tells us that fear of God is the beginning of wisdom. Yes, brothers, they do have the beginning of wisdom. But they lack that great quality which must be built from it. They lack faith!” The groan-chorus erupted half again as loudly in agreement. “Yes, my brothers, they lack faith. They do not believe that God, even God, could accomplish something so incredible so quickly.

“But faith greater than it takes to accept this simple fact must be had by those who are to inherit eternal life. What must they think when they are told that in some of the last of those 144 hours God formed soil into a likeness of Himself, a creature with hands and feet and a face resembling His Own, and breathed Life into the figure, and it became man! How they accept the latter and not the former is evidence of their contrary nature. But we have the mind of Christ! It is granted us in 1 Corinthians 2:16, do not take my word for it, brothers and sisters.”

A few elderly and a few young members flipped through the pages of the book in their hands, pretending to cross-check the reference, while many young adults carried on the same subterfuge with their phones.  The remainder of the congregation, a wide and comfortable majority, simply sat quietly, facing forward, as if to reassure Andrews that, in spite of his humble suggestion, they had implicit faith in his references and his trustworthiness.

“God created Adam. The first man. And…” He held the small, scattered crowd restless in anticipation (or did the two young brothers in the first pew always fidget their feet like that?) “... And the first Christian!” Andrews had expected some kind of exclamation, but all was silent with the exception of a habitual head-scratcher in the back row. Andrews frowned slightly down at his red-striped tie and polished shoes, but after a brief consideration he restored his determination in the spirit (he had suddenly intuited that the members of the church must be dumbstruck with profundity, rather than simply apathetic) and continued in good earnest.

“Some sharp minds among us will protest, I imagine,” at this a few nodders-off, hearing themselves referred to, rallied themselves and sat up straight, “They will protest that I have labeled Adam a Christian. How could such a thing be? Indeed, Christ had not even been born, and would not be for another 4,000 years, roughly. But I stand by my claim. Allow me to tell you why.”

But before divulging to his peers this inspired wisdom, Connor Andrews basked in the glorious suspense afforded him at this juncture. Good reader, you know as well as I do that pride is a sin, and yet I think you will agree that we cannot judge too harshly a man like Connor Andrews who, through no fault of his own, becomes keenly aware of his own intellectual powers and speaking prowess. We’ve seen often how a young woman changes so drastically in aspect when she becomes truly aware of her own fatal attraction towards the opposite sex. Gone are the innocent, winning ways that made her so blissfully delightful and these are replaced by the batting eyes and conspicuous gestures contrived to awaken some level of unrequited, carnal desire in the heart of any sightful man within a wide radius. A girl who undergoes that transformation can be easily forgiven her pride, and I propose that the same lavish mercy should be exercised upon one whose talents are not in the least physical, but spiritual in the highest order.

For Connor Andrews truly was not a visibly prepossessing man. Though only 32 years of age his large, angular forehead had long been deprived of nature’s adornment, yet short black hair still curled frantically around the sides of his cranium. His long face was close-shaven but for the unkempt sideburns which would have seemed very much more at home on the visage of a 19th century politician. His over-expressive facial contortions did nothing to benefit him in this matter, and we politely gloss over any description that might be objectively made of his torso and limbs. Suffice to say that no gambler, unless hoping to frustrate and defeat his wretched vice, would put a coin on his name in a competition of strength or speed.

If you are a diligent reader, then the time which you’ve now devoted to visualizing our friend Connor Andrews is comparable to the interval in which the congregation inspected the great orator while he beamed down upon them in silent, anxious suspense.

“What, after all, is a Christian?” He finally broke the silence to the spellbound congregation. “Is it merely a historical point of view? Is it merely a factual acceptance that Jesus Christ, Who was uniquely both man and God, that He died on a cross and was delivered from death by the Father? Is Christianity not more than that? Is it not more?”

The quiet grunts and groans emanating from the crowd seemed to intimate that it was, indeed, a great deal more than that.

“Do not forget, my friends, what James, the brother of the Christ, so wisely said in the second chapter and nineteenth verse of his letter: that even the demons believe in one God, and they shudder!” As he did not, this time, invite them to check his reference, the pretension of doing so was not even attempted.

“There is also faith! Yes, as you well know, faith is instrumental to our Christianity. A man or woman may believe in the factual death, and even in the factual resurrection of the Christ, but if he or she lacks the faith to put his or her own life into the hands of the God Who will deliver us all from death as He delivered His Son, what good is it? What good is it?”

Another temperate wave of emotion from the congregation suggested that it was no good at all.

“So there is the historical perspective of Christ, and there is faith in resurrection, but is there not more than that? Neither of these two things can we attribute to the ancients in their own time, but we are told that God, in His infinite mercy, sent Christ after the resurrection, to preach these things to those who could not have known them previously. Yes, brothers and sisters, it seems quite incredible, but this is what we’re told in 1 Peter 3:19.”

A muffled ring pealed through small the auditorium, the whining baby broke out anew, and these two things startled several congregants out of the stupor of ever-so-slowly drifting off.

Those of us who are blessed to frequently attend church know that procedure dictates that when a cell phone interrupts the service, it must be at full-volume and in the utmost depths of a large purse with jumbled contents. This causes the unfortunate owner to spend a minute or more (which feels like an hour under the circumstances) searching for the blaspheming device, and when finally it is found and brought into the open the ring reaches an insufferable pitch and volume until the owner, fumbling with both hands, manages to deactivate the incriminating siren. Such was exactly the situation at this interlude in the preacher Connor Andrews’ marvelous speech.

By this time the squealing baby was ushered out of the auditorium by the nervous mother, and Andrews breathed a sigh of relief while attempting to not make eye-contact with the pale-stricken member responsible for the disturbance. But whether or not Andrews realized it, this inconvenience would become a service to him, for now the entire audience sat perfectly upright and wide-eyed, several members felt refreshed from their abruptly broken cat-nap. And the morale of the congregation was strangely improved by his next few words.

“My friends, I see I am running out of time. Allow me to make a long story short.” It certainly seemed to some that that ship had already sailed, but this announcement was extremely well-received nevertheless.

“Christianity is also a culture, isn’t it? Yes, my brothers and sisters, a culture. This is what Adam had, and Eve when she was created from his rib. They did not have all aspects of culture, of course, for not all of them were necessary at the moment. The most obvious exception of course is in the matter of clothing and modesty. But Christianity is a culture of how we behave towards one another, isn’t it? How we talk to each other, and how we talk to non-believers. This was what God endowed Adam and Eve with from the start, and therefore I say indeed that they were the first Christians! This culture of Christianity affects what music we listen to, what movies we watch, what foods we eat, what stories we tell. This culture of Christianity is as important as factual belief in Christ and faith in our own redemption. And it is directly opposed to the unwholesome culture of the world around us. Therefore let us hold closely to one another to achieve this last attribute in its fullness. Join me, brothers and sisters, as we stand and sing the song for the invitation.”

At these last words Deacon Henry West stumbled out of his seat in the front pew and beckoned the rising, stretching, yawning congregation, “Yes, please, if anyone has a message for the assembly, a request for prayers, or if Mr. Andrews’ sermon has touched you, come and share your response with us.” By the time this sentence was completed Connor Andrews, himself, was passing through the silently swinging double doors into the hall and was seen no more. Henry stood quietly harmonizing to the final song while no one came up the aisle, no one offered a message or a request, no one came to respond to the message. Not one congregant had for the past four weeks. But the songleader, Erickson, belted out “How Great Thou Art,” and the broken harmonies from the drowsy group created a sound that really cannot be faithfully judged based on description gleaned by the human ear, for God Almighty listens not to the talent, but to the heart, and for their sakes it was a good thing.

Connor Andrews locked his office door behind him. As he knelt on the age-old carpet facing a small upper window, the first strains of the familiar hymn fell, pleasantly muffled, upon his ears and soothed his soul. He closed his eyes and clasped his hands and lowered his chin, and doing so he felt a ring of light shoot down from the little window, the clouds must have just now broken, but Andrews was well aware of Him Who directed the break.

“Thank You, Lord.” He said, quietly. “Thank you for giving me a message to preach and a people to preach to. I thank You that, for Your sake, I do not spend my days in idleness. I thank You that I will not be one who is saved only as one escaping through the flames. The confidence you have wrought in me, Oh Lord! The joy of my salvation, the hope that succeeds when all other hope is lost. There are many around me, Lord, even in Your family, who are stubborn-hearted as the Israelites, but let me be an example to them. Lead me in the way of the Good Shepherd, that I may, like Peter, care for your flocks. May my words be a light unto their feet. Dear Father, humble those who must be humbled. Let the message of honest repentance never depart from my lips…”

In a halting and reverent tone Andrews continued his prayer for ten more minutes, while the congregation filed out of their pews, the song having been sung to completion. A few well-meaning members congratulated Erickson for his metronomic arm-movements and perfect tone (to which Erickson confessed with a red face that perhaps he had pitched the third song too high). However, these advocates knew better than to look for the good Connor Andrews. He would emerge from his office when the time was right, and only then would he graciously receive the compliments proffered. In the meantime it was sufficient to exchange greetings with his dutiful wife, Karen.

Only 31 years of age, but her dark hair was beginning, ever-so- slightly, to gray. A kind face, respectable wrinkles, cool blue eyes, a few scattered freckles, she had once been a very beautiful woman, but Karen had never believed it. Her father had abandoned both his wife and his country when she was nine. Her mother had delivered to her courses and seminars of knowledge in the art of respectability, and little else. She told herself every day that in this she was most blessed. Respectability had been the safeguard of her marriage to Connor for the past eight years.

So every week she respectably paid out Connor Andrews’ humble appreciation to the kind words after the sermon. She engaged in conversation those who lingered over the free coffee in the fellowship hall. She marveled to the children at how big they were getting and stood in moral support behind Ms. Henderson while she berated the teenagers for playing their game of hacky-sack inside. She reassured the frantic widow, old Mrs. Wilborne, that animals certainly do have souls (aptly citing Ecclesiastes), and that she would be reunited with her deceased cat, Jangles, in paradise. When Connor emerged into the gradually dispersing crowd of Christian fellowship, Karen slowly strode to his side and met with kind smiles the few remaining congratulations that he was to receive personally for such an inspired sermon.

Andrews politely nodded to his congregants, a benevolent nod that might have been addressed to an entire flock of sheep, and reiterated, the same as the previous week, that he was only the humble vessel of the message of God, and all thanks be to Him for writing the lines to flow from a preacher’s simple tongue. The benefactors of his sermon said, “Oh, yes, of course,” and after retreating a few steps glanced back to marvel at his goodness.

At one o’clock sharp Connor Andrews gave his usual blessing to the cleaning girls for their volunteered service, and solemnly departed from the hallowed building. His wife, as always, was just a few steps behind and, as always, she called back as if it were an afterthought (though it never was), “and please don’t forget to lock up when you leave!”

And the cleaning girls never did forget.