Bouncy castles in the kingdom of God

The church council was girded for battle; the wardens had drawn the lines.  There was little the well-meaning, kind priest could do to stop it.  He was too young, too fresh, too loving, and the stakes were too high.  He didn’t have the cunning to avert the imminent bloodbath.  For weeks, tensions at Blessed Virgin of Loreto had been running high.

It all started with the dumpster.  The preschool that leased space from the church was overtaking the garbage with Snak Paks, fruit roll-up wrappers, and dirty diapers.  As much as they tried to reduce, reuse and recycle, those little “futures of our church” were filling up the trash too quickly.  Big discussion ensued:  4 cubic feet, picked up twice a month, 2 cubic feet, picked up weekly, what about the damage to the driveway with all those trucks, what about the ugly eyesore of a huge dumpster, is that the first thing we want people to see--the trash, make those damn teachers drive their trash to the dump, oh wait, those teachers are our parishioners, and on and on and on…  Debate outlasted the first vestry meeting and spread into the next week’s coffee hour.  Allies joined both sides; old grudges resurfaced to fuel the fire.

It had been quite some time since the last melee in the parish.  People had been pitching in, collaborating, communicating, and generally supporting each other--until the dumpster dilemma.  You see, a community can only take so much communing, before differences arise.  No matter how much time had passed, old grievances come back fresh.  The details of the disagreement don’t matter nearly as much as winning, and chalking a victory up for “our side” against the ones who “got their way last time”.

“Remember when THEY got the priest to agree to buy a new organ?”   “When SHE cleaned out the kitchen, she threw out my good tupperware and never even apologized?”  “Whose idea was it to buy new robes for the acolytes?  I should have known HE was behind it; he only wanted that color because it looks good on his daughter.”  "He's the one who said the acolytes shouldn't wear sandals.  I mean, if it was good enough for Jesus, why can't I wear open-toed shoes at the altar?"

Mrs. Clark, the leader of the 4 cubic-feet faction, soon drew to her side the Joneses, the Williamses, and the Lehighs (because everyone knows the Lehighs just follow the Williamses in everything.  They even bought the same car and the same breed of dog).  They also had unofficial support from the Davises, who were still mad at the Levingoods for their part in the purchase of the new altar rail, a big controversy.  The Levingoods headed up the 2 cubic feet faction, with support from the Murphys, who were probably just trying to curry favor to support their idea for a jazz service, and the Delafazios, who never walk away from a good fight.  Remember the Vacation Bible School debacle, the year of the parrots?  People chose sides and dug trenches for the long haul.

During coffee hour, ringleaders prepared their troops with versions of battle speeches, “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more!”, and Fr. Joe waited nervously in his office.  He said a quick prayer, “Lord, help me find the loving grace of Christ, so I don’t punch someone in the face.  I am supposed to be a man of God, here, for your own sake, HELP me!”

A knock on the door, “Father, I need some help out here!”

“Not exactly what I was hoping for, God,” the harried priest thought as he opened the door of his office.  A huge, burly, hairy beast of a man in a soiled tank top greeted him.  The mountain man spoke through a black beard.

“I need some help setting up the bouncy houses for the carnival tonight.  My crew couldn’t make it and I’m doing this as a favor to Joyce.  I am cutting you guys a deal, but I can’t do it myself.  Have you got a few people to spare?”

“Sure, sure, let’s go get them.  We really appreciate the discount.  We’ll be glad to help.  It’ll be fun!”  Fr. Joe tried to sound enthusiastic; he only managed to sound weary.  The coffee hour crowd had petered out, so only the vestry was left, staring daggers at each other across the social hall and plotting their next move in the war.

“OK, guys, before we sit down to business, we need to lend a hand.  We’ve got to get the bouncy houses set up for the kids’ carnival tonight and Bart here needs us.  You know what we always say, ‘Many hands make light work”.  The sooner we start, the sooner we’ll be done.”  Fr. J’s lukewarm rallying cry met stares of unbelief, sighs, eye-rolls, and shrugs.  Quite possibly, the only reason anyone moved was because the coffee was cold, and some of the warring parties were hoping to get a chance to “accidentally” smack someone with a tool.  Still, they went to work setting up the bouncy castle for the kids.

Thirty hot, sweaty minutes, later, there was a giant, red and purple castle-shaped obstacle course on the church lawn, awaiting a hundred kids for the annual church carnival.  The church leaders surveyed their handiwork, amid the scents of rubber, sweat, and candy.  Bart wiped his moustache with his dirty shirt and said in a baritone chuckle, “There’s some time before the kids come.  Anyone want to bounce?”  Nervous laughter, more eye-rolls, more shrugs.  

Then, Allen Levingood murmured, “It does look like fun…”  He nudged Nolan Murphy, who smiled.  

“What the hell?  We set it up, we shouldn’t leave all the fun to the kids.  Race ya, sucker!” Soon, the other faction joined in.  Even Mrs. Clark slipped off her heels for a chance. Within minutes, the entire governing body of the church was racing each other, helping each other scale rubber walls, shouting encouragement to each other, and generally having a good time.  Seven middle-aged adults, flushed faces shiny with sweat and joy, forgot their frustrations and petty arguments in the exhilaration of the moment.  Moments ago, they had been locked in a tangled web of hurt pride, righteousness, and stubbornness.  Now, they laughed with delight, hugging each other while they caught their breath.

Fr. Joe looked on in wonderment.  Could it be?  Surely, racing in bouncy castles could not solve the deep-seated conflict between the group.  At the end of the day, they would still have to come to a consensus on the ever-important, thorny issue of the dumpster.

Bart walked up behind the puzzled priest.  “Yep.  Things look different when you’re bouncing.”  Fr. Joe sighed, shrugged, and shouted, “Hey guys, I’m coming in!”  

In the midst of laughter and childlike joy, the church vestry bounced.  The bloodbath was averted by bouncy castles in the kingdom of God.

**** Disclaimer:  This is in no way representational of my church or any personal experience.  It is merely an experiment to see if I can write fiction.  And, let's be honest, wouldn't bouncy castles improve just about any situation?  ****