Okay!  We’re back with nightmares, flames ‘o fire, and self-righteous leaders….back to the Saga of Sal.  Here we go:

Sammy was shaken to the core at the implications of the dream.  He couldn’t believe that the Lord was lifting his hand off of Sal.  Sammy paced in front of his fireplace all morning, leaning on his cane with each slow step.  The wood floors squeaked under his weight, and the fire crackled back.  Sammy wept as he prayed aloud and pleaded with God to change His mind, though he knew the Lord had spoken.

Sammy’s mind went a hundred places, wondering how God would take Sal out of his position.  He only hoped he wouldn’t be part of it, though he doubted that would be so.  Sammy’s grief over Sal, the church…his beloved church, the arrogance that had come to nest under the members seemed too much to bear.   Sal’s arrogance was so obvious you could almost touch it, yet so many were blinded by it.  He knew that Sal was greatly popular with the people; he was witty, handsome, and confident.  But he also knew from day one that something was wrong, something wasn’t right in Sal’s spirit.

As Sammy paced, his mind went back to a time when Sal had been extremely harsh with his eldest son, John.  Sammy had been sitting in the back of the church watching the worship band practice on a Thursday afternoon.  John was an amazing teen with his father’s good looks and confidence, yet appeared to be unaffected by it all.  He had a heart for God and for music.  Sammy’s memory replayed the night it all had happened, how Sal had plowed in and interrupted the band, ordering them to fast.  He never knew Sammy was sitting in the darkened pews.

With waving arms and exaggerated expressions, he threatened the whole team not to eat one thing until Sunday after church.  They would fast.  And they would tell the congregation about it before the worship began.  He said it would give them a more spiritual appearance.  

When his son, John, came in late unaware of what his dad was doing and sucking down a chocolate milkshake, Sal exploded!  He grabbed the plastic cup out of John’s hands and threw it on the ground, splattering chocolate goo everywhere.

John’s surprise and shock drenched his face.  He froze as his father began to rant and belittle him as he used a pointed finger to push on his son’s chest.  John tried to interrupt to tell his dad he didn’t know anything about the fast, but Sal refused to listen.  He told John to get out, he was fired from  the worship team.  John turned and ran out.

The room was silent.   The worship team stood awkwardly, glancing downward. Sal pierced the silence by turning on his heels and pointing to the band, “I don’t play games!” he snapped.  He turned on his polished Cole Haans and blasted out the door.

As Sammy sat in the rear of the chapel enveloped in shadows, his anger toward Sal ignited.  What man would belittle his own child in front of his friends and coworkers?  Sammy headed out the door looking for John.  The leader of the worship band took off looking for Sal. 

After heated discussions and an intervention (before interventions were hip) Sal reluctantly recanted on his dismissal of his son and gave him his job back with a “One more chance” delivered with a pointed index finger and clenched teeth.

As Sammy paced, his sorrow began to turn to anger as he started recollecting all the havoc that Sal had caused in the short time he had pastored The Shepherd’s Gate.  He knew he had filled his people’s minds with pride and self-righteousness.  Sammy saw that God seemed to be getting smaller, and Sal seemed to be getting bigger in the congregation’s devotion.  Reminiscing about all the damage sharpened Sammy’s reasoning,  and he now saw things more the way that God did.  Sal had to go.  But who would do it?  And who would replace him?  Sammy knew the Lord well enough to know that He already had a replacement somewhere.  Sammy was dying to know where.

Mama was livid when she had heard about what happened to Sal’s son.  Her journal entry was fast and furious.  Mama always said to me that ministry started at home.  She lived what she believed.  That is not to say that she never got cross or disciplined me, but she knew that words were one of the most powerful gifts given to us by God.  They could be the staff that herded us to a wonder and love for life itself, or they could be weapons of mass destruction.  I remember Mama telling me as she brushed my long tangled hair one night that if you were unable to live the gospel at home, not to bother with taking it out to the masses.  Looking back, I realize she was referring to Sal and his family.   She had seen and heard it all:  Staff members and parishioners that would preach Jesus to strangers and speak the Devil to their kids.

I know as a child I embarrassed my poor mother more than once.  I broke my arm when I was little trying to fly.  I got caught looking up our neighbor’s skirt when I was laying down on the carpet near her because I was so horrified and curious about the poor woman’s spidery varicose veins running up her square legs …so embarrassing.   (I’m sure I made her day.)  

In high school I fell off my super tall wedgeys (remember those? and Dittos?) and broke my ankle…(yeah, I fell off my shoes.) 

But Mama’s ministry started at home, it started with me.   She never belittled me or humiliated me.  Don’t get me wrong, I was punished!  (Not for falling off my shoes, but I got it for clapping both hands over my mouth when I saw the veins.)

But her words were always telling me I’d get it right next time, or that she had done the same thing when she was my age.  Mama allowed me the luxury to try new things. 

I played the piano, the clarinet, the flute, the violin.  I took horseback riding lessons and learned to macrame. (Look at my poor sick owl.)

I ditched most of them, but she let me try.  She let me find out who I was meant to be and find my own way.   

I remember on one birthday card when I turned 18 she had scribbled on the inside, “The greatest gift I can give you is the freedom to be who God designed you to be.”

(By the way, I have some instruments and a horse for sale if you’re interested.)

Such a stark contrast in the way that Sal handled his children and Mama handled me.  Sorry, but after hearing that song Mama used to sing to me, I don’t feel like celebrating anymore.  I’m sad.  So sorry, no recipe,  no fun, no nothing.  When I’m sad, I expect you to be sad too.  Thank you. Here’s a hankie.  

See you next week.