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 Introduction: The following is a short story divided into six parts. A young man devoted to the church is confronted with existential angst of ecclesiastical proportions, and meets a sage who guides him through the abyss and onward to purpose and meaning in faith.
Part I – The Nature of the Quest
In the late nineteenth century, Pope Pius IX asserts papal infallibility and vehemently seeks to defend God against the attacks of liberalism (and modernism). Sensing that God is “down for the count” and on the verge of eternal defeat, Pius IX arrives on the scene just in the nick of time to save the day.
In the late twentieth century and into the dawn of the twenty-first, some Baptist leaders assert pastoral authority and all but insist upon the infallibility of leaders and seminary presidents. Like Pius IX before them, they also vehemently seek to defend God against the attacks of liberalism (and postmodernism). Apparently sensing that God is “down for the count” and on the verge of eternal defeat, Southern Baptist Convention leaders arrive just in the nick of time to save the day.
It is said that history is redundant, that it repeats itself, that the same things happen over and over again.
Pius IX?
Al Mohler?
Maybe so.
If indeed the same things do happen over and over again, if the Church is bound to general, recurring cycles, then what is the meaning in being “the Church”?
I set out on a personal quest for an answer, and I am directed to someone known only as “Qoheleth.” It's an odd name to be sure, but even more odd is where I find him. Qoheleth does not reside in houses of learning, nor inside expansive cathedrals or houses of worship. No, this sage sits regularly in a truck stop restaurant along an interstate highway.
I enter the restaurant. Engulfed by the thick suffocating haze of smoke, I clumsily try to find the counter. I inquire about this mysterious man with the strange name, and, waving the smoke away from my eyes, try to follow in the direction of the waitress’ pointing finger. I end up in the back of the restaurant, slightly disoriented, and staring at the lone occupant of a corner booth.
This lone occupant of a corner booth appears taller than average, easily six foot three or four, though it’s hard to tell when a person is sitting down. His scraggly, graying hair falls almost to his shoulders. An equally scraggly, graying beard dangles an inch or so from his face. His lips pucker around an old pipe. He is wearing old, comfortable clothes and small, gold-rimmed circular glasses (the kind John Lennon always wore).
Exhaling a long, ever-ending breath of pipe smoke, he motions for me to sit down and asks with a hint of agitation, “What took you so long?”
Stunned, I remain standing. My eyes browse the few items on the table. A cup of coffee. An overflowing ashtray. A collection of Far Side cartoons.
“Are you the one named 'Qoheleth'?”
“I am he for whomst thou seekest,” replies the lone occupant. “But you can call me . . . ”
He pauses.
“ . . . 'Jim'. Now, please, have a seat. We must get started.”
“Get started? Don't you want to know who I am, why I'm here?”
Qoheleth, or rather “Jim,” shoots up from the table, throws down his pipe and stomps up and down on it.
“John Calvin! Pio Nono! Pat Robertson!” he screams, and disappears. A few seconds later, he’s back, short of breath, hair windblown, sitting down at the table.
“Why bother with what I already know, Quester?” he asks. “You want to know if Church history is destined to redundantly repeat itself over and over again, and if so, then where's the fun and meaning in it! Don't bother me with trivial matters again, Quester, for I am an impatient man when it comes to such trivialities.”
“But . . . How . . . I . . . ummmm . . . Where did you go?”
“A taping of The 700 Club.” He tapped his rear pants’ pocket and breathed a sigh of relief when he felt his wallet.
“Fortunately, I escaped unharmed. Now, let's see, where to begin? Ahhh, yes! Of course!”
The lone occupant I now know as “Jim” inhales a long, deep draw on his pipe and exhales slowly, firmly, and directly at me. Violent coughing overtakes me. My eyes burn something awful. My head spins.
And, just as quickly as it starts, it stops.
I rub my eyes again and notice that we are no longer at the truck stop.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The Quester's Odyssey continues next week with …
Part II – The Protester in the Pub
in which we hear Martin Luther exclaim, “For the love of Zwingli!”
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