O'Donnell's Dream

Hear the story read by the author.

In the town of Normal, Pennsylvania, there’s a little church at the corner of Wilson and Elm. Last Sunday afternoon Pastor Henry O’Donnell flopped into the chair in his office with a sigh. It had been a long, exhausting morning.

Nothing out of the ordinary, mind you. Ralph Billings had snored loudly through the sermon. At coffee hour Henrietta Miggins had upbraided O’Donnell for twenty minutes with her opinion of the inappropriateness of a country-western song that choir director Shane Reed performed during service. Henrietta’s lecture would have been even longer but two of the Sunday school kids knocked over the coffee urn while fighting over a cookie. And then Del Winslow and Kevin Boyer had a minor fender bender in the parking lot.

Normally O’Donnell would have spent Sunday afternoon unwinding by working in his garden. But this weekend his in-laws were visiting. If he went home he would be expected to socialize and he did not find socializing with his in-laws to be relaxing.

So he told his wife Jennifer that he needed to study for a class he was taking on church history. The church encouraged pastors to take such continuing education courses regularly to improve their skills, though as O’Donnell opened up a book on Christianity in the Roman Empire he wondered what possible relevance it could have to the duties of a modern pastor.

O’Donnell devoured a fast food lunch that Jennifer would not have approved of and began working his way through dry text describing church culture in the fourth century. And, as so often happened when he studied after lunch, he soon fell asleep. And asleep, he dreamed…

In the town of Genoa in the Western Roman Empire there’s a little church at the corner of Palm and Olive. One Sabbath morning, Pastor Odonnellcus found himself having to shout to be heard over the snores of Ralphisisus. He wondered why none of the members of the congregation nudged old Ralphisisus awake. A part of Odonnellcus worried they preferred to have the sermon drowned out.

Following service, the worshippers gathered in the courtyard for fellowship. Before Odonnelcus could reach the refreshments table old Henrietta of Miggensagna stopped him.

“Excuse me, Pastor,” Henrietta began, “I wanted to ask you about the unusual hymn Shanistotle sang today. I’ve never heard it before.”

“It is of Syrian origin,” Odonnellcus told her. “Shanistotle recently learned it from an olive trader.”

“Ah,” Henrietta mused. “And you thought Syrian music was appropriate to perform in church?”

“Syrian songs are quite popular among the youth these days,” Odonnellcus pointed out. “Shanistotle thought it might attract more new converts if we introduced some new, popular musical styles.”

“In my day,” Henrietta noted, “we did not cater to the fashions of the youth simply to fill benches. When I was a girl we risked becoming a lion’s breakfast to attend church. And we took our worship seriously. We did not expect to be entertained. We didn’t even have music, let alone strange, foreign, degenerate music. Ever since Constantine legalized Christianity the so-called faithful have become so lazy I can’t imagine the church will survive the decade. Next thing you know people will be wanting to wear casual togas to services…”

Henrietta’s rant was interrupted by a loud crash. Two of the children had knocked over a wine decanter while fighting over a date. Odonnellcus could have kissed those two delightful tykes for giving him an excuse to cut short his conversation with Henrietta – even though it appeared a rug had been sacrificed for his rescue.

Once the mess was cleaned up Odonnellcus helped himself to a plate full of dates. He loved the sweet fruit, though his wife Jenniffia would nag him about eating so many. Thankfully women in this day and age were required to obey their husbands. No wonder Rome was the greatest civilization in history.

Unfortunately his enjoyment of the dates was interrupted by the sounds of an argument outside. Odonnellcus sighed and went to see what was going on.

It seemed Kevinicus had run into Delicus’s chariot while backing his own chariot out of its parking spot. “Look what you did,” Delicus screamed, gesturing at the minor scrape. “They ought to pull your charioteer’s permit.”

“You’re the pagan jerk that parked a four horse chariot in a two horse spot,” Kevinicus shot back, pointing to two painted horse silhouettes on the ground.

“All the full size spots were taken, you liberal nut,” Delicus grunted. “It doesn’t give you the right to just ram into me like a drunken Visigoth!”

“Gentleman,” Odonnellcus shouted. “There is no need for insults. It was an accident and I’m sure Kevinicus has insurance.”

The two men looked at him with confused expressions. “What is insurance,” Kevinicus asked.

Just then, Pastor O’Donnell was awakened by a knock at the office door. Church secretary Tammy Billings stuck her head in.

“Sorry to disturb you,” Tammy said.

“That’s okay,” O’Donnell replied groggily. “I was just studying.”

“Uh huh,” Tammy said, observing the small puddle of drool on his book. “Well, it seems our Internet access has gone down. I can’t get email.”

“At least Odonnelcus never had to deal with the Internet,” O’Donnell muttered.

Tammy frowned. She liked the pastor well enough, but sometimes he just made no sense at all.