It all began one Sunday in church. A wonderful day. A happy one. Or so it seemed. The applause was overwhelming, and life could not have been better for Corwin Creed.
This is the story of Corwin Creed, pastor of the Third Congregation of the Faithful. A likeable man, and yet a man like so many of us. A man whose opinion of himself is just a little too high. God is faithful. He knows how to help His servants, even someone like Corwin…
Chapter 1
The First Crack
What time I am afraid, I will trust in Thee
Psalm 56:3
Finally.
There was success.
Waves of applause and cheers of admiration rolled over Corwin Creed. A wide smile stretched his cheeks to their limit as he drank in the praise. It caused a pleasant ache in his jaw. Wonderful. Just wonderful.
He blinked and inhaled the atmosphere as he stared over the sea of faces before him. Legs firmly planted on the stage, arms raised in the air, as if he were pulling down power and joy from the heavens.
He had seen other pastors do that on YouTube, and he copied them to a T.
Yes, this was his day.
While the church was never very full when Corwin preached, today people filled the church to the brim.
They were everywhere.
Well-to-do business owners in fine-pressed suits. Pretty ladies with their seductive and adoring smiles. Old men, young children. It appeared the entire town had come out to see him.
It was only right, of course. Memories of his years of fruitless labour flashed by. The long nights secretly copying sermons from other pastors, the difficult meetings with his ungrateful staff, and the low attendance every Sunday.
But no more.
All the hardships were gone. The world had seen the light. The truth had finally seeped in.
Pastor of the Year.
That’s what they called him. Corwin Creed, a man for all seasons.
As he delighted in the worship, someone pulled his jacket.
A grey-haired gentleman, a fellow he had never seen before but who carried an air of importance, spoke words of endowment and pinned a glorious medal on the lapel of his suit.
Oh Lord, may this never stop. May this go on until the end of time.
But not all was as it should be.
A strange, unearthly light, rippling and shimmering from the stained-glass windows, illuminated the multitude of awestruck faces below.
Odd.
That wasn’t normal. Just recently, Ebony Parnaby, the assistant pastor, had insisted on taking out money for better lighting. A waste, truly. There was nothing wrong with the old stuff. But the board outvoted him. So typical.
But the glow that now hung over the congregation was different. Almost eerie.
Never mind. This was his day, and nothing could disturb the glory that washed over him.
At least, so he thought.
Near the back of the church, he noticed a young man.
A strange fellow he was, with greasy long hair and a wild beard. He almost resembled a descendant of the Russian rebel Rasputin. What a weirdo.
Who had let this fellow in?
Hemingway?
Must have been. Hemingway was the doorkeeper today. Always was. The lazy janitor hadn’t been paying attention.
Typical.
Corwin fixed his eyes on Rasputin. He had never seen him before; his malevolent glare and the heavy, oppressive air around him screamed of foul play. He did not wear the right clothes for the occasion. His smudged, food-splattered T-shirt and ripped jeans, stained with what looked like marinara sauce and grease, clashed horribly with the polished pews of Corwin’s church. Nobody in his church dressed like that.
Corwin cast a desperate look at a nearby usher, hoping the man had also seen the weirdo and would remove him. The usher, however, saw nothing and missed the silent plea for help. It seemed he was all eyes for the medal on Corwin’s lapel.
A sigh of frustration escaped Corwin’s throat. Where were the ushers when you needed them?
And what about the muscled security men the church hired for such occasions? How had Rasputin slipped past them? Corwin made a mental note to address these problems at the next board meeting. This was simply unforgivable.
Then, to his horror and almost as if in slow motion, Rasputin sprang into action. Corwin’s breath stopped, and he broke out into a cold sweat.
They locked eyes.
A chill ran through Corwin as the intensity of the man’s stare overwhelmed him.
Rasputin grinned.
With a toss of his messy hair, the sinister-looking man produced a big red firecracker.
“Stop him.” Corwin yelled at the top of his lungs. He jabbed a finger into the air with such vigour that the medal slipped off his jacket and landed with a thud on the ground before the confused onlookers. They stared at him with glazed eyes. They saw no Rasputin. Was he the only sane one around?
Corwin tried again. “That man is going to throw a firecracker!” He noticed his own voice. Hoarse, fearful, panicked. Almost weasel-like.
No help came.
Rasputin lifted his hand.
Corwin blinked. His lifted finger disappeared and became a tight fist.
“No!”
But it was too late. With a victorious cackle, the intruder lit his firecracker and hurled it toward Corwin.
“This is for you, Pastor of the Year,” the scoundrel yelled. “This is what God thinks of your reward.”
“No, somebody stop him! Arrest that unbeliever.”
But nobody did. A cacophony of screams and loud shouts erupted.
He looked to the right. No help.
He looked to the left. No help there either.
The firecracker exploded. A terrifying boom with a dazzling light and a thousand sparks everywhere.
He heard the wood underneath his feet groan and crack. When he looked down, he froze. A gaping chasm had opened right around his feet. A putrid scent of sulphur and brimstone accompanied its slow rise from the darkness.
Oh God, have mercy.
This couldn’t be. No, it shouldn’t be. He threw his arms in the air and let out a desperate scream.
“Help! Somebody help!”
But instead of help, darkness enveloped him. Did he still hear the sinister cackle of Rasputin?
By now, the sturdy wood was gone.
There was nothing to stand on. The murkiness swallowed him up. He lost his balance and fell forward into the gaping chasm. Everything around him was fading to black. Inexplicably, he picked up speed. Faster and faster he fell.
Another scream.
Then he hit the unforgiving bottom of the abyss, accompanied by a deafening crash.
Dazed, he scrambled around, trying to figure out where he was. Something silky, carrying a familiar scent, wrapped around him.
What was that?
He hollered another scream. “Let me go!”
His hands grabbed the silky stuff and tore at it with all his might. As it ripped in two, he realized what it was. These were not the arms of some drooling monster from the underworld, wishing him to be chained to everlasting darkness.
It was his own silk sheet.
As he clawed around, his fist bumped into the rough, worn wood of his bedpost. A plastic water bottle tumbled onto his head with a dull thud.
A water bottle in a dungeon?
Impossible.
Slowly, the world faded back into perspective. He was in his own bedroom.
He opened his eyes. His heart was pounding, sweat beaded on his forehead, and crumpled sheets twisted around his legs.
He rubbed his eyes and shouted, “A dream! It was just a silly dream!”
Something stirred in another part of the house.
“Corwin?”
From downstairs, a worried, lilting voice, tinged with anxiety, called his name. “Are you alright?”
Corwin froze. That was Annabelle, his bungling wife. No doubt she had heard his screams.
Most unfortunate.
What would he tell Annabelle?
That he had a nightmare? Not a good idea.
Good pastors don’t have nightmares. At least, not a pastor like him.
He cleared his throat and yelled back, “I am fine. Nothing to worry about.”
For a moment, he listened to hear if she would reply.
She didn’t.
Good. That gave him some time to pull himself together.
As his thoughts became clearer, he tried to make sense of what he’d just dreamt.
That firecracker had seemed so real. The explosion still lingered in his mind. What a noise it had been. But it had not been real. Perhaps Annabelle had dropped a frying pan on the marble tiles of their renovated kitchen. In his dreamy state, it had appeared as a firecracker.
He nodded to himself. That made sense. Annabelle was as clumsy as an ox, and the devil’s firecracker had been nothing more than her latest kitchen disaster.
So typical.
All because Annabelle couldn’t even put a frying pan down, his most rewarding dream had turned into a nightmare. Gone was the award, along with the medal and the comforting echo of honour.
He gently slapped his cheeks to fully wake himself up. What a horrible start to this day.
A deep sigh escaped his throat. He was still trembling, but at least he was back in his normal world.
The only sound in his silent bedroom now came from the comforting, quiet tick-tock of his clock.
“Corwin?”
Annabelle called out again. “Do you need help?”
Corwin groaned. Why would he need any help?
“Of course not,” he yelled back. “I am fine.”
“Do I need to come up?”
“No! I said, I am fine.”
He wiped the last beads of sweat off his forehead with the top of his sheet and pulled himself up from the ground by holding on to the bedframe.
The words of Rasputin hit him again like a poisonous arrow,
This is what God thinks of your reward.
So real. Why were dreams so real sometimes?
A heavy weight settled on his chest; an unwelcome reminder of his own limitations.
Would God really think bad about him? Surely not. God was loving and kind. The Almighty knew how hard he worked for the Kingdom and saw his sacrifices. Jesus Himself would have pinned that medal on his lapel, if only He had been present.
Would He, really?
Something caused Corwin to waver, but he did not understand. Years of dedicated planning, study, and hard work had brought him to where he was now: Pastor of the Third Congregation of the Faithful. True, the church never filled up when he preached, but that wasn’t his fault. The congregation did not know how hard he worked. If heaven kept a leaderboard, surely he was climbing it.
And yet, something wasn’t quite right, and he didn’t know what it was.
The face of Willy Menace appeared.
Another groan escaped Corwin’s throat. Willy Menace was that irritating hillbilly he had thrown out of church. The old farmer with his sagging cheeks looked nothing like the miscreant in his dream, but, like Rasputin, the old geezer had challenged him publicly too.
Brazen and impertinent.
It had happened one Sunday morning, not too long ago. Willy Menace had walked up to him after the service when he was shaking hands with the faithful.
Menace’s words had cut deep.
“You say your prayers, Pastor Creed. But do you really mean ’em?”
“Excuse me?”
He couldn’t quite shake the vision, and he shivered as the entire episode with Menace played again in his mind. He thought he’d never think of it again, but here it was. Full color, complete with the crackly, irritating voice of the farmer with his matchstick legs and his constant, unholy chewing of tobacco.
“In that day Jesus will say, ‘Son, I never knew ya.’”
How dare he?
Of course, Jesus knew Corwin. What did that peasant on his rusty tractor even think?
Thankfully, that day Hemingway had done his job for once. His janitor had gotten rid of the fellow quickly. The next day, Corwin had convinced the board to throw Menace out.
Peace in Corwin’s heart had been restored.
Somewhat.
The farmer’s brazen questions had lingered in his mind for a long time. Some scars take a long time to heal, and apparently this one was still festering somewhere deep in his heart.
The dream showed it.
It hurt. And it hurt badly.
He needed to get the firecracker out of his mind fast. That part of the dream had not been from God. Whatsoever things were true, just, and lovely, think on those things. That’s what Scripture taught. The horrible encounter with Rasputin did not fit the loveliness of God’s Word.
The first part of the dream, yes. That had been from God. But not the last part.
A bitter taste filled his mouth as he tried to relive the dream’s beginning. If only he could bask in the feeling of joy and reward once more, but nothing came.
Instead of the ecstatic waves of worship and the weight of the shiny medal on his lapel, he felt weak and tired, and a dull ache was growing behind his eyes.
What time was it anyway?
A glance at the alarm clock told him it was eight.
Eight already?
He reached frantically for his house shoes. His hand knocked the clock to the floor, setting off the alarm.
The jarring sound pierced the morning silence. It shook him to the core.
Idiot.
He grabbed it and set it back on the nightstand with a gentle curse.
He had to hurry.
He had his weekly board meeting in an hour at his church.
Annabelle should have woken him up. Why had she not done so?
Another grunt rolled out of his mouth as he slid into his slippers. Did he have to do everything by himself?
Usually he’d spend at least ten minutes in private prayer before showing himself to the world, but not today. Too late for private devotion. The Lord would have to wait. Perhaps he could listen to the recording of his own sermon from last Sunday. He’d already listened to it yesterday. And the day before that, too. But it just had to be. Such was the life of a busy pastor.
And yet, faint and deep within, something stirred.
A gnawing unease.
The distinct feeling that somehow things were off. Worse, they weren’t off with Annabelle. A silent intruder had found its way into his heart and was now rummaging around in the dark recesses of his inner life, sowing doubt and fear. Somehow, that fellow with his firecracker had not altogether left.
He slammed the bathroom door behind him. The cup with the toothbrushes vibrated dangerously on the stand by the bathroom sink. He steadied it and, while fishing out his own brush, the red one with the engraving ‘Serving God, one tooth at a time’, he started brushing. He sought comfort in the aggressive, short, sharp strokes of his toothbrush. The wild scrubbing echoed harshly against the bathroom tiles.
Life just wasn’t fair.
Nobody understood. It seemed not even Jesus Himself did. His flock didn’t seem to like him; the elders doubted his talents, and even his own wife seemed unable to recognize his sincerity and goodness. What was he even doing here?
He sloshed the water around in his mouth so violently that it spilled onto his bare chest.
Another groan.
No, this day did not start well. Not at all. As he stared at his own image in the mirror, he forced a smile onto his face. It didn’t come naturally, but at least it was a smile of sorts.
No worries, Corwin. You’re doing great.
He stepped out again, ready to face Annabelle and the day. And one silly dream that wasn’t even of God should not have such an impact. He’d forget about it in no time.
Still, a hollow ache lingered in his chest.
Even the almost overwhelming scent of the extra layer of his luxurious pomade did little to settle his doubts.
For the first time, his carefully crafted life of good deeds and religious devotion seemed to unravel. And all because of a dream? It was all the more unsettling as the heavy, dark feeling seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his heart.
And the devil hadn’t even really started yet…
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