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The Jevlir Caravansary

Author: jevlir

  • Nick May Wants You to Buy His Books

    (Megabelt is from my company, Energion Publications)

  • Farmer Jack’s Arsenal

    “Old Jack has quite an arsenal,” said one villager knowingly to another.

    The stranger sitting in front of the village pub perked up. This was the sort of thing he wanted to know.

    “Who,” he asked, “is Jack?”

    “Farmer Jack,” said one of the villagers.

    This is a work of fiction. All persons, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination.
    Copyright © 2012
    Henry E. Neufeld

    “Yes,” said the other. “We call him Old Jack or Farmer Jack.”

    “What do you mean that he has quite an arsenal?” asked the stranger. It was a risky question. People often reacted badly to someone who was too curious about their stock of weapons.

    But the two villagers just laughed. “You’d really have to see it,” said one. The other just snickered.

    So the stranger set about discovering just what kind of an arsenal it was that this Farmer Jack had. If his boss was to gain control of this village and the surrounding farms, he would certainly have to get rid of any arsenals that might be in the area.

    That evening he asked a few of the people in the pub about Farmer Jack’s arsenal. He wanted to do it subtly, but it was rather difficult. “I heard there’s a Farmer Jack around here who has quite an arsenal, ha ha, do you know anything about it?” That sounded rather silly, but the reactions he got just weren’t normal. Some people looked at him as though he was crazy. Others laughed. A couple of them finally explained that in the mountains behind Farmer Jack’s farm there was a cave which was filled with weapons. What weapons? Oh, swords, crossbows, crossbow bolts, maybe even a ballista or two. One never knew what Farmer Jack might collect.

    He thought he noticed a number of people trying to conceal their faces. He thought it might be that they were laughing, but he set that aside. What could be funny about a cache of weapons? That was one of the things his boss would want to know. He’d want to grab the arsenal first.

    Over the next few days he tried to watch people as they went about their business, especially as they went to surrounding towns. But he never saw what he was looking for. He wanted to see some town militia or maybe even one or two people going and getting weapons or putting them back there in the arsenal in the hills behind Farmer Jack’s farm.

    So he sent in a report to the boss and the boss sent a couple more scouts to the town. It was important to locate this arsenal before he made his move. His men would be spread thin, and even one well-equipped militia might be able to bring down his entire plan to control the area.

    The new men actually scouted the area behind Farmer Brown’s farm. They looked through the hills, but they didn’t find any weapons, nor did they find anywhere that weapons might have been stored, nor did they see a single person carrying weapons one way or another. Well, except for one hunter who was using his hunting bow to hunt deer. They thought the hunter hadn’t seen them. It was important that nobody realized they were looking for the arsenal. That would just make people start to believe they were planning something, and that would be dangerous.

    Finally the boss decided to make his move. In order to make certain that everything was safe, they decided to send the majority of their troops to secure Farmer Jack and to close off the path to the arsenal. It wouldn’t do, after all, to let people go get weapons from there.

    They swept across the farm, surrounded the house, and grabbed Farmer Jack. The captain in charge of the operation congratulated himself on his success. There wasn’t so much as an injury, provided one didn’t count Private Smythe, who had turned his ankle in a post hole in one of the fields.

    Farmer Jack was an old man. The captain thought he might be 80 or 90 years old. “Where’s your arsenal?” he asked. “We want your arsenal!”

    “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Farmer Jack.

    The captain slapped him a couple of times, but one of his lieutenants pointed out that with such an old man, a slap might even be fatal. So they just told Farmer Jack that he might as well tell them, because they’d be there until they figured out where the arsenal was. They’d find it eventually, so why not make things easy?

    But Farmer Jack seemed uninclined to make things easy. He just sat in his big living room chair and thought. In the meantime, the captain’s men made a thorough search of the area for the arsenal or for any path that might lead the the arsenal. They didn’t find anything that wasn’t part of the ordinary farm equipment.

    But at least, thought the captain, nobody else could find it either.

    Just after dark they heard the sound of horse’s hooves on the path leading to the house. Such men as weren’t still searching for the arsenal prepared to stop the approaching horses. But what met them was a knight on his horse and with him several men-at-arms. If they’d all been there, they might have stood up to him, but as it was, they had no chance. The men surrendered quickly, and it was only minutes before the knight was in the house with Farmer Jack.

    Now the captain was sure there was an arsenal, cleverly hidden. What else would make an obviously well-off and well-equipped knight show up at one very old man’s farm?

    “Your plan, and your boss’s plan is finished,” said the knight. “I and my brothers in arms have seen to that.”

    There was a long pause. Finally the captain couldn’t stand it. “I have to know,” he said. “Where is the arsenal?”

    “The arsenal?” said the knight.

    “Yes. Our spies reported that Farmer Jack had quite an arsenal.”

    The knight stood staring at the captain for a long time. Then he started to laugh. He laughed long and hard. Finally he got control of himself. “You think there’s an arsenal around here?” he asked.

    The captain nodded.

    “Well, I suppose there is,” He reached out to shake the captain’s hand. Meet Farmer Jack’s arsenal,” he said. “Well, part of it, at least.”

    The captain looked blank.

    “Yes, I suppose I’ll have to explain.” He paused a moment. “You see, Farmer Jack has been living here for a long time. None of us are quite sure how old he is. Twenty years ago his wife died, and since then he’s lived on his own. Well, except for one thing. Any child or young person could find a meal in Farmer Jack’s house. They could find a job on the farm. And if they’d hang around long enough, Farmer Jack would teach them to read and write and the basics of handling farm tools, and yes, weapons. He was once a sergeant in the king’s army. He had so many of them that people took to calling them Farmer Jack’s arsenal.”

    The knight turned to Farmer Jack. “I take it the current crop is safe,” he said.

    “They’re out in the hills,” said Farmer Jack. “That’s where I keep my arsenal when there’s trouble.”

    The knight looked back at the captain who still looked confused. “Don’t you get it, man?” he asked. “Half the government officials from here to the king’s court once found shelter here at this farm. We don’t talk about it, because Farmer Jack doesn’t like us to. He’s says it’s just what someone who has something ought to do. And yes, I said ‘we’, because I too learned which end of a sword was which right out there in that yard.”

    “People took to calling us Farmer Jack’s arsenal, not because we might help him, but because there were so many of us. But you heard me say he–and his good wife–taught us to read and write. Not one in ten people up in these hills can read and write. Not one in twenty know even the basics of using a sword. So when we left here most of us made good. We had the skills.”

    “So we really didn’t need to go after this farm at all,” said the captain.

    “Oh, it didn’t really matter,” said the knight. “Farmer Jack sent word to several of us a couple of weeks ago. The kids noticed your spies searching the hills and got suspicious.”

    “They said nobody had noticed them.”

    “Doubtless they never noticed the kids. Nobody ever does. But they were the arsenal, in more ways than one.”

    (This story was written for and submitted to the one word at a time blog carnival – arsenal.)

  • September Christian Carnival

    Christian CarnivalAccording to the host schedule, I’m to host the Christian Carnival for September. Please nominate posts for inclusion in the Carnival. You can nominate your own posts or those by others that you think are relevant. I’m planning to find some extras so we get a good cross-section of Christian thought in the blogosphere during the month of August. Any post written since the last carnival (August 1, 2012) is eligible for inclusion. So please head on over to the nifty submission form and submit a post.

  • What Does Reality Have to Do with It?

    After 30 years as a reality show star, Rafael decided he wanted to do something real. Something important. He examined his considerable bank account and decided to run for congress.

    So just as he’d done when he picked his next reality show, he started to research. After studying the various political consultants he found there was one, known just as Kev, who had a 100% win record. His real name, so far as anyone could tell, was Kevin Smith, but nobody called him that any more. He had his name trademarked. His prices were several times what anyone else’s were, but with his record, he could charge them and afford to be selective.

    This is a work of fiction. All places, persons, and events are the products of the author’s imagination.
    Copyright © 2012 Henry E. Neufeld

    Now Rafael thought of himself as a pretty special person, much superior to the blips. “Blip” was the slang term for someone who spent their entire life on Basic Living Payments. With the advance of automation very few people were actually required to work. Basic Living Payments were quite adequate to live a reasonable lifestyle. The only problem was that one felt rather useless, provided one bothered with such feelings. And there was plenty of entertainment to keep one’s mind occupied.

    Entertainment. That was the key. Entertainers still had jobs. One could, of course, fake it. Animated movies were barely distinguishable from ones done with live actors (if that). At the same time, however, there had been a revival of plays. Well, that, and reality shows. Shows that were certified to place real humans at real risk. Not massive risk, but real. And Rafael had been a reality show great.

    But now he wanted to do something important, so he sent off a message to Kev. (Nobody bothered with the “e” in e-mail any more. There was no snailmail.) He thought it was likely that Kev would ignore him. After all, he had no political experience at all.

    But Kev responded almost immediately. He asked for a face to face chat. Now this no longer meant that they would get together, but rather than they would communicate electronically in real-time complete with 3D video.

    Kev looked at Rafael for a few moments after they connected. “I already checked, and you can afford my services. The question is, do you want to work for me?”

    “I thought you would be deciding whether you wanted to work with me,” said Rafael. “After all, I’m a political novice. I might not be winning material.”

    “I already know you’re potentially winning material. You can afford my price. But can you work with me?”

    “I work well with others and under direction.”

    “Let’s see then. We need a “look” for you,” said Kev. He produced an image on the screen. It fit with Rafael’s body type and general size, but it was both more heroic in expression and yet more common in general appearance.

    “I see what some of that fee goes for. Plastic surgery.” Rafael looked doubtful.

    “Now we need a history.” Kev started to outline some points. It left Rafael with time for the reality shows he’d starred in, and it appeared Kev knew precisely when he’d been recording the shows and accounted for the time correctly. At other times, according to this time, he’d been involved in other sports and some intellectual activities, most of which he couldn’t really identify.

    “But what’s wrong with my own history?” asked Rafael.

    “Your history is very good. But it doesn’t guarantee a win. It only makes it probable. I guarantee a win.”

    “What about policies and positions?”

    “We’ll determine those from the polling.”

    “So what you mean by ‘working with you’ is that I accept plastic surgery, have my life story written, and let you pick my positions.”

    “I didn’t say anything about plastic surgery.”

    “But I don’t look like the picture you showed me.”

    “You won’t be appearing in public.”

    “Don’t I have to meet voters?”

    “I’ll have actors to do that.”

    “If I had done all the things your bio says I did, I’d be broke and wouldn’t be able to pay your fee!”

    “Nobody has to know that. Besides, isn’t the point of most of those things to have done them? Well, you’re just buying the ‘have done’ cheap.”

    “So none of it will be real.”

    “You’ll be a congressman. That will be real. Well, more or less.”

    “What do you mean?”

    “We’ll have actors to take care of actually appearing in Congress.”

    “But they’d have to vote the way I say, right?”

    “Well, actually we’ll use the polling data for that. We have to be prepared to get you reelected!”

    “So none of it will be real. None of it.” Rafael sounded discouraged.

    “Actually, what does reality have to do with it?” asked Kev, sounding a bit puzzled.

     

     

     

  • Of Banning Apples

    For once I’m going to contribute a non-fiction piece to the one word at a time blog carnival. Why would I do such an astonishing thing?
    Well, when I saw the word, the first thing I remember was the apple ban.

    So what, you ask, is an apple ban? Who could possibly ban apples? Are not apples truly wonderful fruit? Should they not be recommended, perhaps even commanded? (Well, unless you’re in the Garden of Eden as conceived by a medieval artist.)

    This happened in 1971. Well, it actually happened earlier than that, but it impacted me in 1971 so, considering I was a teenager at the time, it didn’t really happen until it impacted me. That year, in the fall, I traveled with my parents to Guyana. As I’ve had to explain many times, that’s not Ghana (which is in western Africa), it’s Guyana, South America (which is also not South Africa). I specify all these things because, when I was living in Guyana, my mail sometimes went to those other places. Often it went to South Africa because somebody wrote “Guyana, S. A.” as the last line of the address, and human error proceeded apace.

    After we moved to Guyana, my father was taken out of action for a period of time due to emergency surgery (a story in itself), and I got to explore the country alone. George Bernard Shaw said that the England and America are two nations separated by a common language. He was, perhaps, right, yet he would have been more right if he’d said this of America and Guyana. We’d been told that people in Guyana spoke English. They do. When they feel like it.

    But normally they speak creolese, essentially an English based creole. Back in those days people tended to regard a creole as a sort of illiterate version of a major language. In fact, it’s a naturally developed language that results from mixing of parent languages. And, as with all languages, the ravages of time and the foibles of human beings.

    Because of my father’s illness, I got to introduce myself to the country on my own. I got on the bus for downtown expecting to hear English, and I couldn’t understand a word that was said. When I talked to the bus driver in English, however, he spoke to me in English. I had to ask around in order to find out what was going on. Three years of life in beautiful (might I say gorgeous) Guyana, and visiting Americans couldn’t understand me any more, though I could switch to properly cultured English, as any of my Guyanese friends could as well.

    So what does all this have to do with the apple ban? Well, very little, except that it was during this time that I learned about it. One of my friends informed me that the government had banned the import of apples. Now apples don’t grow in Guyana. Many other wonderful things grow there, but not apples. So apples had to be imported. And apples were a specialty at Christmas. One had to have one’s apples for Christmas.

    The government’s point of view was that they had a balance of payments problem, and anything that wasn’t really necessary didn’t need to be imported. As a generally free trade oriented American–and at the age of 14 I already had many vigorous political opinions–I didn’t think much of this approach, but of course I didn’t have anything to say about it. And to be honest, except that some of my friends were feeling very deprived in that they couldn’t get apples for Christmas, I didn’t really miss them. Papayas, mangoes, pineapples, bananas, and many other wonderful fruits were quite adequate. One of the major benefits of living in Guyana for three years as a teenager is that I got to hear a very different perspective on political issues than I would have heard at home.

    I don’t know how long the apple ban lasted. It was still in effect when I left the country. And therein is another story. In addition to banning certain imports, the government eventually decided to ban the transfer of actual currency. By closing off the exchange, Guyanese currency could not be exchanged overseas without government permission, but you also couldn’t get foreign currency in country. When you entered the country, your currency was counted, and you weren’t allowed to exit with any more currency than you brought with you.

    We had entered the country before that law went into effect, so I could not take any U. S. currency out of the country with me. I often marvel at the things my parents accepted in my life. I wanted to leave before they did, so they got me the ticket, along with an Ameripass, which would allow me to travel anywhere in the United States by Greyhound bus for 30 days. They also arranged for me to go to the church offices in Miami after I landed and pick up some currency. I had to take a taxi, and I could only pay for it after I picked up the money.

    I was 17 at the time. I’m sure my parents’ prayer life increased, but they let me go nonetheless.

    Oh, by the way, there were apples in Miami. But after three years I wasn’t in an excessive hurry to eat them. And as I moved north, I started missing all those tropical fruits I had grown used to in Guyana. They weren’t banned, but they weren’t that easy to find.

     

  • July 18 Christian Carnival Posted

    … at Inspiks. Enjoy!

  • But I Was Just Witnessing

    “Hello Carl. I’m Victor, Pastor Victor.”

    “Thanks for coming to see me, Pastor.”

    Victor sized up the man across the table from him. He could see the young man’s eyes flicker around the room, noting the watching prison guards and the other signs that said, “This is a jail.” It was a county jail, but still definitely a jail. Victor saw an odd mix of defiance and serenity, determination and fear in the young man’s expression.

    This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of any persons, places, or events to those in the real world is strictly coincidental. Copyright © 2012, Henry E. Neufeld

    “The Sheriff said you wanted to see a pastor. What can I do for you?”

    “What church are you from?” asked Carl.

    Victor was surprised. When someone asked for a pastor and didn’t specify which, they normally went straight to their problem. It might be help with their bail, contact with loved ones, or some kind of spiritual counseling.

    “My church is called the 10th Street Gospel Fellowship. It’s non-denominational. But why don’t we discuss your problem here.”

    “I need to know who you are. Are you born again?”

    Victor paused. He was surprised by the question, but he had asked it of many who called themselves Christians himself. Every Christian should be born again and willing to say it. “Yes, he said. I’m a born again Christian. What about you?”

    “I am too,” said Carl, looking neither surprised nor offended. It appeared he expected to be asked as well. Then he added, “And do you believe the Bible? The whole Bible?”

    “Yes, I’m a Bible believing Christian.”

    “Good,” said Carl, and then he paused a moment, as though he found it harder to ask his next question. “Do you believe in the Holy Spirit? Do you believe God can speak to us today?”

    Victor was still puzzled. But again it was a question he had asked many times himself. “Yes,” he said, “I believe in the Holy Spirit. I believe He will speak to you. But we will only be allowed a limited time for this visit. Perhaps you need to tell me what you need.”

    “I need to talk to a born again, Bible believing, Spirit filled pastor. What did you think I needed?” It could have been belligerent, but it just sounded puzzled, as though there was only one possible reason for this visit.

    “Well, I’m used to being called here by people who need bail money …”

    “I don’t plan to post bail.”

    “… or need me to contact their loved ones …”

    “I have nobody who would be interested.”

    “… or perhaps have other financial needs …

    “I think they provide my needs here.”

    “… or who want spiritual counsel.”

    “Well, I don’t know if it’s ‘spiritual counsel’ I want. I just wanted to talk to someone who would understand. Then maybe you can pray with me.”

    “Well, how can I help you then? Would you like to explain why you’re here?”

    “I’m being persecuted for righteousness’ sake.”

    Victor couldn’t keep just a bit of tension from his voice. He was unaware of any outbreak of persecution in his Christian community. Apathy, false doctrine, worldly living, yes. Persecution, other than a bit of ridicule for those who were truly committed Christians, no. “What particular form of righteousness are you being persecuted for?” he asked.

    Carl didn’t seem to notice any veiled sarcasm. “I’ve been arrested for witnessing,” he said.

    “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

    “I would have thought you’d have some idea, if you are truly born again, Bible believing, and Spirit filled. If you are being a true witness for God in this place, you will likely be arrested.”

    “But what specifically happened to you?”

    “Well, I came into town, and I heard the Lord saying to me, ‘Chamber of Commerce’. I knew that meant that I was to witness to the business people of the town. I had already seen several shops involved with pornography, so the business community here is certainly corrupt, or they wouldn’t allow such things. When I got to the Chamber of Commerce I found that the parking lot was filled. There was a meeting going on. The Lord had gathered people together to hear from me.”

    Victor was listening with ever increasing horror. He was afraid he knew where this was going. Carl continued.

    “I went into the meeting and waved for attention. They ignored me. Then I shouted. Finally I went up on the platform and grabbed the microphone. I told them that they needed to repent for the sins of this city and invite Jesus to come in and rule in the businesses, the school, and the government.”

    “And then you were arrested.”

    “Yes. There were deputies right there in the room. Apparently the meeting was about businesses working with law enforcement. So I was arrested for disturbing the peace and brought here.”

    “Are you surprised they arrested you?” asked Victor.

    “I was just doing what God told me to do. I even told them that God had called me to speak to them. But they still arrested me.”

    “You can hardly be surprised. You could have chosen a better time.”

    “But God told me to do that. When Peter and James wanted to preach in the temple they just went ahead and did it. They said they had to obey God rather than men.”

    “But they didn’t go and interrupt a meeting of the Sanhedrin in order to witness. They preached to people in the courtyard. You went into someone else’s building, someone else’s conference room, and interrupted their activities.”

    Carl looked surprised and puzzled. “I thought you were a Bible believing Christian,” he said. “Surely you remember Paul preaching on Mars Hill. That wasn’t a church. Or in cities like Lystra and Derbe, where he was persecuted. He didn’t ask permission.”

    “But Paul was invited to speak on Mars Hill, and when he spoke in the Synagogues, he was invited to do so.”

    “But God told me to do this. You said you believed God speaks to people today. He spoke to me. He told me where to go to preach.”

    “Are you sure he didn’t mean you should start a business, join the Chamber of Commerce, and reform them from inside?” asked Victor.

    “You’re mocking me. Get thee behind me Satan! Quit tempting me to doubt!” Carl was standing up and shouting. Two guards were running over.

    As Carl was being led away, he heard the words “apostate” and “persecutor” amongst the many thrown at him. “But I was just witnessing!” was the last thing Carl shouted. What a fool! thought Victor. No common sense at all.

    It wasn’t until he was halfway back to his church that he began to wonder. What in the way I teach the Bible and listening to the Holy Spirit would prevent someone from doing what Carl did? Have I taught them any discernment? Any good sense?

    It was a sobering thought.

  • Which Is the Patriot?

    This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of the characters, places, or events to anything in the real world is purely coincidental. Copyright © 2012, Henry E. Neufeld

    Jeremiah, known just as Jer for short took in the scene in an instant. He was a sheriff’s deputy, and a good one. He could write the story in a moment. He instantly also regretted not calling for backup before he got out of his patrol car and walked into this field. But he had recognized his friend Billy amongst the young men in the field, and he had been certain he could handle whatever Billy got into. Billy got into little trouble, not big.

    Had been certain. Not now. The body lying on the ground didn’t look good. He thought he’d seen movement in the moment he had to take in the scene. He didn’t have his gun out. He didn’t see any guns on the young men there, but he was certain there was one under Billy’s jacket.

    Before he could say anything, Billy spoke up. “It’s not what it looks like,” he said. “He’s a terrorist, … a Muslim terrorist. We caught him and he attacked us.” Jer considered the half a dozen young men and the slight figure on the ground. The scenario was unlikely.

    “You’re going to have to come with me,” he said, looking at Billy, but taking in the group.

    “Listen, Jer,” said Billy. “You don’t have to do this. You’re the first on the scene. Let the others go, then I’ll claim self defense. He is a terrorist. We heard him talking about Allah and all that and how bad things would happen to this country. He was going to blow things up!”

    “Yeah,” said another of the young men. “We’re patriots! We’re defending our country!”

    Jer could see Billy watching him, hoping he’d be distracted. But even though he’d managed to get himself into this bad situation—why hadn’t he called it in!—he knew how to handle himself.

    “No, you’re not,” said Jer. “You’re breaking the law.”

    “I can’t believe you’d get soft on these terrorists,” said Billy, looking shocked. “I always thought you were a patriotic American!”

    Jer saw the slight movement of Billy’s right hand. Billy thought himself fast. He thought himself quite a marksman. But his expertise was largely in his own mind. Before his hand was halfway to the open flap of his jacket, Jer had his gun in his hand.

    “Don’t go there!” he said firmly.

    “You wouldn’t shoot your old friend Billy, would you?”

    “Put your hands on your head, or you’ll find out,” said Jer. His look and tone took in all the young men. A couple of them moved as if to run. “Don’t even think about it! Get down on the ground!” he said firmly, and just loud enough to make everyone hear.

    With everyone on the ground he made that call for backup.

    As Billy was being placed in the back of one of the cruisers, he called Jer over. “You’ll see! He’s a terrorist.”

    “No, Billy,” said Jer. “He’s just a student with some opinions you don’t like. He was walking home. He lives just a block from here. Luckily for you, he’s going to live.”

    “But he hates America,” said Billy. “Some time soon he’ll blow up one of our schools, and then you’ll be sorry you stopped us! I’m a patriot!”

    Jer just turned away. Someday he might just have to stop a terrorist. He figured it could happen. Or it might be one of his colleagues. But he was pretty sure it would be someone like him who did it, not someone like Billy.

    Which of us is the real patriot? he thought.

  • July 4 Christian Carnival Posted

    … at Thinking in Christ.

  • Can Either of You Recommend a Church?

    “So how have you enjoyed our church?” asked Pastor Fred. He was the evangelism pastor for First Community Church, and he was out following up with recent visitors.

    “It was interesting,” said Ed noncommittally. Ed had taken his family to First Community Church two out of the last four weeks, and had said that any Saturday afternoon would do for a visit when he filled out the visitor form.

    “We were delighted that you chose to come back and visit us a second time,” said Fred.

    “I like to get acquainted when I’m considering any major purchase, whether it’s a new car, a club, or in this case a church.”

    This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of any characters, events, or places to those in the real world is strictly coincidental. Copyright © 2012, Henry E. Neufeld.

    There was an pause as Fred tried to absorb this. He knew people shopped for churches. He just wasn’t used to having anyone put it quite that bluntly. Just as the pause was becoming awkward, the doorbell rang. Ed got up and soon returned with Pastor George, the associate minister at First Fellowship Church. Fred and George were friendly rivals. Both churches were large and growing. This was the first time they’d ended up visiting a prospective member at the same time.

    “I didn’t mean to intrude,” said George. “I can come back another time when you’re not occupied.”

    “I don’t see why I can’t talk to both of you at once.” Ed looked puzzled that anyone could see a problem with this. “I’ve visited each of your churches twice. I didn’t plan to get you here at the same time, though I suppose it was always possible considering I put Saturday afternoon as the best time to visit.”

    Fred and George looked at one another and then shrugged. “I guess it’s OK,” said Fred with a slightly forced smile. In fact, he was thinking that he would have to watch some of the things he usually said about First Fellowship. George might take exception!

    “Where’s the rest of your family?” asked George.

    “It’s hard to get this family in one place. My son’s at a school fundraising project, and my wife and daughter are at swimming class. Don’t worry, they’ll have their input. I’ll tell them what you had to say.”

    Fred saw his opening. “One of the reasons I felt that your family would fit well at First Community is his community involvement. His Sunday School teacher mentioned to me that he knew many of our young people from various activities.”

    “Yes,” said Ed, “he did mention how many of the young people he knew. My wife and I knew many people in our class as well. We would certainly see plenty of people we already know if we join First Community.”

    “We like to encourage networking through the church. Many of our people make the church the center of their social and business life. We like to think we’re a church for all your family’s needs.”

    George thought he saw an opening. It was his chief objection to his friendly rival’s church. What about spiritual needs? In fact, since both churches claimed to be Christian, what about Christ? He was about to open his mouth to say this, despite how confrontational it sounded, when Ed spoke again.

    “But what about our spiritual needs? Our Sunday School class discussed building a house for Habitat. That’s a good thing, but I’m already involved. My son’s class talked about toleration and how to get along with others at school and at work. Your senior pastor’s sermon had to do with facing life’s problems, but I heard something like it at a sales motivational meeting I attended recently.”

    George was feeling pretty good. It was what he wanted to say, but much more direct and complete with details.

    “We definitely believe in Jesus as our Savior at First Community,” said Fred, “but we think it’s important to be active in living out God’s kingdom in the world. We’re about action and the way that real people live their lives. We try to have messages that will help you make it through the next week.”

    George couldn’t leave this alone. “At First Fellowship,” he said passionately, “We are interested in messages that will help you live for eternity. We think that if you make Jesus Christ first in your life, these other things will come along quite well.”

    “But they don’t happen by themselves,” said Fred. “You have to be active. Just saying that Jesus died for our sins over and over every week doesn’t tell people how they’re going to deal with being laid off, finding a new job, raising their kids, or helping their neighbors.” He knew he should keep calm and be gracious, but he felt that he was under attack, and quite unfair attack.

    “Actually I’m quite satisfied that both your churches are very involved in the community. I did my research before I took my family to visit. I know you’re both involved in missions. You both do local service projects. Members of both churches are very much involved in the community.” He paused a moment.

    “But what good is all of this if we don’t preach Christ?” George regretted this as soon as he had said it. He’d say something like this to Fred over lunch, where he’d joke about Christianity Lite, but this was not a debate to have with a prospective member, especially one who didn’t seem to have any solid theological commitment.

    “That’s my question about your church,” said Ed, looking at George. There was stunned silence. Nobody questioned that Christ was preached at First Fellowship. They might complain about a certain doctrinal narrowness, and perhaps even a bit of evangelistic shrillness, but they wouldn’t say Christ wasn’t preached.

    “I don’t understand,” said George.

    “Well, the first time we visited was just before the ruling on the Affordable Care Act was announced. Our Sunday School class was supposed to be studying Romans 6, but instead we discussed the health care bill.” Fred was happy to note that Ed called it the Affordable Care Act. George was worried that he hadn’t called it Obamacare. “We didn’t really get around to discussing Romans 6 at all.”

    “The second time we visited,” he continued, “we were supposed to be on Romans 8. I can only imagine they just continued moving through the book even though we hadn’t discussed it. But now the Supreme Court had ruled, and we discussed the ruling. I had done my reading and I wanted someone to explain how Romans 8 related to Romans 7. Instead I got a critique of Justice Roberts’ logic in the decision. I didn’t say anything, because I gathered that someone who thought the ACA was a good idea wouldn’t really be welcome.

    “In the youth class they talked about homosexuality and how wrong it was. It was not done too badly. They spoke out against bullying and told the youth to treat their gay friends well, pray for them, and hope to save them. I’m not sure what was up in my daughter’s class. They did an art project relating to the name ‘Jesus’, but she couldn’t tell me what she had learned.

    “Then there was the sermon, which was supposed to be from John 15, but quickly go derailed onto politics. I quit counting the number of times the pastor said he wasn’t telling us who to vote for, but he clearly didn’t mean it, because we could definitely tell we were not to vote for President Obama’s re-election.”

    “I’ve frequently pointed out that First Fellowship tends to be politically narrow,” said Fred. “If you don’t accept the politics of the church you won’t be welcome, even if you agree with the theology.”

    George wanted to be angry, but he realized it was no more pointed than what he had said about First Community.

    But Ed wasn’t nearly as kind, apparently. “I wouldn’t put it that way,” he said. “Even though we didn’t discuss the ACA in class, someone brought it up in the hall and when I mentioned a question I had about the constitutionality of the individual mandate, several people turned away and didn’t want to talk to me any more. At my work place we debate this kind of thing all the time and we stay friends. Couldn’t we do the same thing at church?”

    “We really should,” said Fred. “But people are people.”

    “But why are they more tense at church then they are in the workplace?” asked Ed.

    “I don’t know,” said George. “But you do have a point.”

    “My problem,” said Ed, “is that I’d like a place where my children could learn about what Christianity is about without either having it rammed down their throats or having it ignored. I’d like a Sunday School class where I could find out just what Paul was up to moving from Romans 6 to 7 to 8. It doesn’t quite make sense, and I’d like to figure it out. Romans 8 sounds exciting!

    “I’d like to find a church that was involved in the community, but that didn’t expect my whole life to center around what the church was doing. My whole family gets involved in community service. The church doesn’t have to own everything. I’d like to be able to talk about ethics and spiritual things and how they would impact my vote without having people condemn me if I end up voting differently than they do.

    “Can either of you recommend a church to me that will meet those needs?”