By the Rev. Jon Rieley-Goddard

    Dear friends,

    First I’ll tell you some stories, then I’ll draw some conclusions.

    In fact, I’ll draw the conclusions in the same way you might, in the unfolding of the stories.

    So let us make this up as we go along.

    After all, getting there is at least half the fun.

***

    I was in a hurry, and the gas gauge shows almost empty. Pulling into a gas station, I got out, having remembered that the gas-filling neck was on the passenger’s side (or as my wife will say, mantra-like, if I forget, “My side, my side, my side.”).

    This time, unlike almost every other time, there was a problem. The cute red gas cap that clicks when you have turned it far enough, was hopelessly jammed. I rummaged around in the place behind the truck seat, knowing from long experience that the space behind a truck seat holds forgotten tools and other treasures. You probably could do emergency surgery with the stuff stashed behind the typical pickup truck seat.

    I found a long rod that has something to do with the tire jack, and I used it to pry (read that break) the jammed gas cap. Well, half of it anyway. After my auto surgery was done, I could see that a quick trip back to the house for some real tools would be in order.

    I’m driving back, and I’m thinking, thinking, thinking. What if the cap won’t budge. How embarrassing that would be. Etc., etc., etc.

    I get home, get a tool or two and begin. My first try fails, but my second choice, channel-grip pliers, does the trick. I discover that the part of the cap that is left still will work if I make it hand-tight. Cool.

    As I finish, I become aware of noises coming from the house. Someone is rattling the screen door, and I assume that it is one of the Jehovah’s Witnesses currently canvassing the neighborhood. I rehearse my line: Not interested; thank you very much; good day. A guy comes down the steps and sees me.

    Jon, he asks. Yes, I reply.

    He holds up my wallet, and I reflexively reach for my back pocket.

    Empty.

    Is this yours, he asks. Yes, I reply. Thank you, I say.

    I shake his hand and consider giving him a reward. Thank you, I say again.
Everything is there, he said. I only checked your id to get your address.
We part.

    I drive off, telling myself to slow down. Telling myself that I owe someone a favor.

    A big favor.

    A two-credit-card favor, in fact.

***

     We have been sitting in the part of the church known as the Lounge (don’t ask me why) for an hour or more. The Reverend (my wife), four 12-year-olds, and me. It’s the last Confirmation Class before we take them into our respective churches in a ritual during worship at Hyde Park, on Pentecost Sunday.

    I had asked the kids if Presbyterian churches have an altar, and instead of continuing to lecture them, I herded us all into the sanctury and had them sit down in the middle pew in the front, right in front of the holy object with the cross on top.

    What are these, I asked, tapping the legs.

    Legs, they said.

    And feet, I added.

    What is this, I asked, tapping the top.

    A table, they replied.

    What would you call this, I asked.

    A table, a table top, they replied.

    What do you do with a table, I asked.

   Eat, they replied.

    Now we’re rolling, I thought to myself.

    Do you see an altar?

    No.

    What would you tell someone who came into this church and asked, Should I place these flowers on the altar?

    It’s a table, not an altar, I wanted them to say, but by this time the Socratic Method had morphed into general noise and confusion. Their way of celebrating a moment of insight, I like to believe.

    Along the way, with the Reverend’s help, we established whose table it was.

    God’s, they said.

    I made an “L” sign with my finger and thumb, generally meaning “Loser” in Kid-Speak but also “L”. Lord, Lord’s, they said, as I mimed encouragement.

    The Lord’s Table.

    Will you ever call it an altar, I asked.

    I don’t remember their reply.

***

     Still hurrying, I retraced my steps to the gas station, got gas, and drove across town to pick up some materials from the church bookkeeper.

Not there. Nothing left for “Jon”. Be back in an hour or so. Leave a number.
No thanks.

    Leaving the building in a dark and stormy mood, I almost ran into a guy in a wheelchair.

    Can you spare a dollar, Sir.

    No. But said too softly for him to hear.

    Just keep walking, I told myself.

    Sir! Sir!! Sir!!!

    And as he shouted that honorific for the third time, it was as if a cock had crowed for the third time, and I remembered my vow of a half-hour before to pay back the debt I owed the guy who found my wallet, left my credit cards inside, and drove to my house, arriving within 10 minites of my own arrival.

***

    Conclusions?

    Here are mine.

    God is as soft and silent in voice as a mouse in a field.

    God stays in touch with us in startling ways.

    I owe someone a big favor.