Sam hears a sermon like none he has ever heard before.
The “service” began immediately. The congregation stood and sang a hymn. Before they had uttered a dozen words I realized what the subject of the song was about and it had nothing to do with religious beliefs. The words made me shudder.
“Praise our Lord and praise our Leader,
We bow our will to God and Smithson
From his servant all blessings flow
Dear Smithson protects us from all harm.”
There were several more nauseating stanzas. When the song was over the counterfeit preacher stood and gave his speech. It was supposed to be a sermon but it was unlike any sermon I had ever heard.
“Brothers and sisters, some among you have rejected in your secret heart the will of Smithson, our beloved leader and the president of our nation. He and he alone, as a servant of the most high, is our protection against the godless heathen radicals. There are some among you that have complained when food stamps are scarce. That is a grave act of heresy against dear Leader Smithson. We must all share in the sacrifice necessary to defeat the terrorists.”
“Our leader’s burden is heavy as he labors in the capitol unceasingly to protect his children. Some complain at a loss of ‘liberty.’ That criticism is heresy and also it is unpatriotic. Better that a hundred innocent suffer than one terrorist escape to strike again.”
“Our new and revised constitution will ensure that no terrorist will escape and the long War on Terror will end at last. Meanwhile we must accept the laws and dictates of the president and his loyal assistants, the Congress. Blessed be the name of the lord and our leader, Smithson.”
There was a loud chorus of Amens.
The “Reverend” stopped and searched the faces in the audience.
“It is time to give your testimony.”
An old man in the row behind me stood and began in a singsong voice speaking haltingly. As he warmed to his subject he became more energetic.
“I did not do my fair share in building the new crucifix on the front lawn of the Grover Public High School. I was ill; I could have worked harder. Forgive me, Oh lord. Forgive me beloved Leader Smithson.”
He sat down and Mirabelle stood up. She reported Snively, her admirer, as she had told me she would. Her friend had tried to bribe her into a clandestine love tryst in return for food stamps. When she had sat down the Reverend Bocus gave her a smile (it seemed lascivious to me).
He said, “Thank you my child. Your strong morals in resisting Snively’s advances will be recorded in the official church book of Public Morality. After the services come to my office so that we may pray together for your continued strength. The miscreant’s unwelcome attentions, without my knowledge or approval, shall also be reported and he will be properly punished.”
This inane series of confessions and tattling for minor matters went on for another half-hour. The preacher closed the services and the congregation filed out silently. Mirabelle turned to me, her face serious.
“I must say goodbye for now, Sam. I hope I will see you again. I cannot let you walk me home. I must go to Reverend Bocus’ study and pray with him.”
I had a feeling I knew the kind of prayer the phony preacher had in mind with his pretty young parishioner.
“May I go with you, Mirabelle?”
“I wish you could. You can’t. The preacher only holds private prayer meetings. I feel terribly embarrassed when Reverend Bocus calls me to private prayer. I know I shouldn’t feel this way with a man of God; he makes me feel uncomfortable. Although,” she added, “What ever he asks me to do I know it must be our leader’s will.”
“I’ll wait for you, Mirabelle,” I said.
I wanted to know more about this priest that behaved like an Inquisition Policeman. In minutes the church was empty and Mirabelle had disappeared into the preacher’s study. I was alone. In my 80 years I have learned a thing or two and I was certain this hard-eyed fake was up to no good with Mirabelle. She was the only person I knew and she had become my charge. I waited another five minutes and then I heard Mirabelle cry out. I charged up the aisle and barged into the back room. I could always apologize for the intrusion and, if it became sticky, I would identify myself as a Secman. There was nothing he could do to me.
Next episode: Father Bocus is a wolf in cleric’s robes.
Gene Paleno is an author and illustrator living in Witter Springs.
