Swain Clatchee and Formal Authority

by Charles C. Cole

Sunday service one settlement up the state highway from Weezer Township: pretty families sat together, the community sang soulful hymns, and the minister shared divine inspiration from the Gospels. But in the back row of the Lanford Church of Christ, in a corner to himself, visitor Swain Clatchee struggled. He felt like an intruder, like an imposter.

Back home where he was the resident lay minister, Swain would be shaking everyone’s hands and sharing fellowship and maybe leading the prayers, but today he was on a mission beyond his comfort zone. As the last of the procession exited the front of the chapel, a few congregants glancing over their shoulders, Swain lingered then made his way toward Reverend Tyrone Bell at the door.

The Reverend was in the act of closing shop, when Swain called out: “One more behind you, Reverend. Don’t lock me in.”

Bell smiled. “I was under the impression you wanted a little extra time. I’m fine with it, so long as you don’t play with the candles,” he joked.

The stranger extended his hand. “Swain Clatchee from over the hill in Weezer. I was in the area.”

“Tyrone Bell,” said Bell. “Swain Clatchee? I’ve heard of your good deeds. Always a pleasure to meet another man of the cloth. What brings you our way?”

“Do you think we could sit in your office?”

“Afraid I haven’t got an office; we’re not that fancy. But I can offer a pew.” Swain shook his head. “Tell you what: there’s an old picnic table out back. We use it as a classroom for Vacation Bible School. The teenagers like to carve their initials in it when they think God isn’t looking.” Bell shrugged. “God is always looking. But He also knows kids will be kids.”

The two men settled on opposite sides of the picnic table, just about in the middle. “I prefer something to lean my back against, but I’m older than you,” said Bell, noticing the sterling silver crucifix under Swain’s white shirt. “Nice accoutrement. Apologies for not commenting on it earlier. I take it this isn’t a crisis of faith then.”

“Yes and no.”

“That’s better than yes and yes,” said Bell.

“You might have heard we had an ordained minister last summer. It was a temporary position; Weezer doesn’t have enough souls for a full-time pastor.”

“Ah, you felt demoted,” said Bell. “Understandable. To be honest, for a split second, I thought you were here to take my job: a new face with a holier-than-thou glow.”

“I told everyone to go and to be welcoming,” continued Swain, “while I stubbornly stayed in my room. For three long months, I was the lesser man. And after our professional cleric, who was nothing but kind and attentive, went on to his next flock, when I should have been overjoyed to have the town to myself, I felt like a fake.”

“Do you believe in God, son?”

“I do. That’s not the point,” said Swain.

“Do you feel that God works through you when you offer comfort and healing in your ministry?”

“I do. I sure as heck couldn’t do it alone,” said Swain.

“But you haven’t been to seminary?”

“I never graduated from high school,” said Swain.

“And did this lack of credentials ever stop you from saying a prayer or holding a hand or giving a much-needed hug?”

“No, sir,” said Swain. “My friends ask for help with some trouble or another, and I respond as best I can.”

“And are they better after you’ve visited?” asked Bell.

“Usually. Never worse, and that’s the truth.”

“Did you ever tell them you’re a professional?” asked Bell. “Did you ever pretend to be something you’re not?”

“Reverend, most of these folks have known me since I was in diapers. I’ve got no secrets from them and no pretense of being more than you see before you. I am who I am, take it or leave it.”

“I’ll take it,” joked Bell. “And I bet they will, too. Once upon a time, people followed a calling, and they learned on the job. Electricians and plumbers still have masters and apprentices. I’d say you’re somewhere in the middle. That’s the awkward part, being more than an apprentice and less than a master. Give it time.”

Swain smiled for the first time that day. “You’re right, Reverend. That’s it.”

“I’m no Swain Clatchee, but I try to help when I can,” said Bell.

“Thank you, Reverend,” said Swain, feeling better. “I like the way you think. I’m not asking you to be my master, but could I visit again?”

“Sure. I’ll give you my number. It’s probably carved in this table somewhere,” said Bell with a wink. “And some future Sunday, if I’m sick in bed or on vacation trout fishing, maybe you could pinch hit. Nothing fancy. Remind folks to care for each other. We’ll see what happens.”

Swain drove home to Weezer Township feeling better than he had in weeks.