A Man Who Likes Coats

There once was a man named Michael who lived in a red brick house. Though a little run down it was a respectable house in its own way. It was two stories high with a small, dusty attic, and a somewhat mouldy smelling basement. It had maple wood floors, and it had oak doors and trim throughout. Two broad flights of concrete steps led up between two maple trees from the street below to a screened-in porch, on which he had strung a hammock for relaxing on warm days, then through a small entry where he had hung some of his many coats. 1

He was fond of coats. He liked their weight and their warmth; and he felt that he could somehow express himself with them as one would with so many hats: a long, dark wool coat for more formal occasions; a heavy, water resistant coat with a downy inner lining for cold winter days; a light jacket for brisk, energetic mornings; a simple black leather jacket which his brother had given him to wear when he was feeling more up-town; and his favorite brown canvas coat with a warm, comfortable, flannel inner lining. 2

Today he had been wearing his favorite brown coat as he walked through the front door into the small entryway, removed the coat and hung it on its brass hook. He had been out tramping along one of the many trails outside of town. It was late September and the weather was having trouble making up its mind whether it should stay summer a little longer or if it was quite ready to be getting on with fall. Yesterday had been warm and sunny, but today was a little overcast and rather cool. 3

He loved to ramble through the woods, but they were different here from what he was used to. At his old home, in the Ozark hills, the rocks were all flint and limestone; the bedrock was riddled with caves and the rivers were fed from clear, icy springs. The rocky glades were overrun with stunted red cedars and blue jays screamed at him from forests of mostly black walnut, sweet gum, and oak. But he was fascinated by the features of his new home and loved exploring the new topography. Here, in south central Wisconsin, the earth had been scraped down to the ancient granite by the advancing and receding glaciers of ice ages past. There were more maple, birch, and even a few aspen in the wooded areas. Until he got used to it, he was awakened at dawn on many mornings by the unusual trumpeting of cranes flying from the river.4

He walked across the living room and sat at his desk intending to work on what little bit of paperwork mounted there. The old wooden desk chair squeaked and rocked as he sat in it. It was a bit of salvage from the administrative wing of an old building that used to be a nursing home. His foot kicked the side of the desk as he swung his legs around and the end fell off. He muttered as he flipped it back into place, and then began to tackle the short stack of bills. Most of his furniture was low-end or second-hand or both, but he did have a few nice items. Under the prairie-style windows along the farthest wall was a beautiful wood upright piano that he had inherited from his mother’s side. It had been in the family for five generations. Propped in the corner beside it was a cello. This had been purchased from eBay, slightly used and for a reasonable price. Unfortunately he didn’t know how to play either of them, but they displayed well in his living room. He also owned a nice maple bedroom set that was inherited from his deceased grandmother. The rest of the house though was furnished with a hodgepodge of low-end items. But they were his, and he kept them clean and cared-for.5

Having finished off the bills with a somewhat violent pasting of stamps, he got up and wandered into the library just off of the living room trying to decide what to do with himself for the rest of the evening. There wasn’t much to do by one’s self after all. Though he thought he might like to get married some day and have children, he wasn’t and didn’t have any. Being new in town, and the neighbors being of the sort that should be avoided if you wanted to stay out of trouble, he also didn’t have any friends. He also didn’t have a job yet, but had recently had some very promising interviews. And he wasn’t at all interested in bars or the people who frequented them.6

He wandered past the bookcases and lovingly caressed the spines of his books while trying to decide what sort of world he wanted to immerse himself in that night. His books weren’t particularly valuable monetarily, but to him they were his most valuable possessions. He marveled at the stores of knowledge contained in the blocks of bound paper. By leafing through the pages he could explore entire worlds, all within the minds of their makers. By reading their words it was almost like meeting the authors themselves. Their dreams, their ideas, their very personalities endured through those books long after their souls had passed on and their bodies had rotted into the earth. It was one thing to know of a person’s deeds but quite another to know their thoughts and personalities. He loved the adventurous scientific explorations of Jules Verne, the loving yet robustly masculine poetic tales of Kipling, and the succinctly deep and beautiful wisdom of Kahlil Gibran.7

He finally selected Journey to the Center of the Earth, poured himself a small scotch (neat), and climbed the somewhat narrow stairs to his bedroom. Tomorrow was Sunday and he was looking forward to attending a service at one of the numerous churches in the small town. 8

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The next day was sunny and cool. He got up, brewed some coffee, shaved, and settled down to read for a bit before attending church. He sipped away at his favorite vice while the morning sun crept its way through the library.10

At about ten o’ clock he put on his leather jacket, walked down the concrete steps between the two maples to his car, and drove two blocks to the nearest church. It was Presbyterian, something he was familiar with. Unfortunately the service was well underway. He was decidedly not Catholic, so that was out of the question. Nor was he Baptist, so no good there either. He thought he remembered a Methodist church up the road a ways and made for it. Methodists always seemed a little stodgy to his recollection, but it was better than the other two choices.11

He parked in front of the one-story building between a minivan and a Cadillac. He surveyed the exterior of the church, trying to guess what he could about its congregation before going inside. It wasn’t particularly big; looked like it might have been built in the early sixties by a more conservative bunch. Grounds were well kept. He looked at some of the people going in: an old lady hobbling along (typical), a really old gent with two hearing aids and a permanent grin (also typical), a younger couple with two apparently well-behaved children (ok, that’s getting a little scary… not too fond of conservative “fundies“), a nicely-dressed mom wearing a wedding ring with no husband in sight and two very active children hanging about as they walked inside (ok, they must not be too stodgy then).12

As he entered the building he was greeted quite typically by two older folks. They asked his name, but of course gave no indication that they intended to remember it or cared why he was here. But that was fine with him. He really hated going through all the false pretense of the church pretending to like you until you become a member, then ask for your money, tell you to sit down, shut up, and don’t make waves. He really would rather just quietly worship and then duck out without having to speak to anyone.13

The church smelled like any of the other some-score churches that he’d been in, having been raised with five ministers in the family. It was a smell of fake flowers, old-lady perfumes, nursery toys, copy machine ink, chewing gum, and slightly burnt but curiously weak coffee. But he could also smell the hymnals and the sacrament and the candles, and these were the best smells.14

An aging gentleman gave a rote “good morning” to him as he was handed a worship bulletin on entering the sanctuary. It was painted entirely in white and red carpet lined the center and side isles. Faded gold-beige plastic cushioning was on the light wood pews. Any trim was in tarnished brass: that would be the cross above the altar, the crosses under the railings at the altar, and the crosses under the balcony railings. Some sort of twiggy decorations were on the altar and placed at various intervals along the walls. He selected a seat near the front as was his usual custom and sat down.15

The service was very typical. Absolutely nothing of note, except that the choir wasn’t that great. This really wasn’t anything unusual, just annoying. The only thing that made him sit up and pay attention was the sermon. There was only one other man on the planet that could catch his attention in giving a sermon and that was his grandfather. But this man up on the chancel was different.16

The minister didn’t preach from the pulpit, rather he had a wireless mic and stood (or rather roamed) before the congregation as he spoke. He used no notes. It was as though he were carrying on a conversation with the congregation instead of preaching to them. The sermon was well-organized, just as any speech or presentation should be; there was no rambling. But more importantly: he taught. He didn’t preach or lecture or make subtle admonishment: he taught. 17

For the first time in his life, Michael learned something from a sermon. It wasn’t any critical life-changing revelation, rather it was a piece of simple information about the events of the story. It recolored and deepened his understanding of that common and familiar story that was today’s scripture. 18

Then this preacher went on to say something else: “We don’t know what happened here…” Michael was astounded. Preachers were almost as arrogant as doctors, yet here was one before him in front of a hundred people saying “I don’t know”. Then, instead of saying “this is what I think happened” he said, “There are a few theories about what may have happened depending on how you look at it.” He presented the theories as if everyone were in a class… learning… with the professor giving the facts instead of the opinions, and allowing his students to become educated about the subject as they formed their own thoughts and conclusions. But it wasn’t dry, it was interesting and relevant. Michael shook his head in wonder. “Maybe he was just having a good day,” he thought. “Surely he isn’t like this every week.” 19

As he walked back to the car in silence, he pondered. Perhaps he would come back next week, just to see.