Vandalism
by Chris Klassen
When Reverend Anderson arrived at church at eight o’clock on Sunday morning, as per routine, to do the final edits for his sermon, he noticed three dark spots on the large wooden front door. It was his duty to unlock the church, to open up for his parishioners. They would start arriving by nine-fifteen. He approached the dark spots. It was gum. Three dark blue balled-up pieces of gum, stuck to the door just above the brass handle. He stood motionless for a moment, staring. Yesterday, at the end of the day, when he left the church, there was no gum, that he knew. He would have noticed.
Unlocking the door, he walked to the kitchen, got a knife and a paper towel, came back, and scraped the gum off into the towel, folding it in quarters and placing it in his pocket. It only took a few seconds. He secured the door, so it was wide open, an invitation to his parishioners to feel welcome, to feel that the church was as much theirs as his, then re-entered, walked to the kitchen, and dropped the knife in the sink and the folded towel in the garbage. He then proceeded to his office to begin his preparations for the morning service. At the pulpit, throughout his entire sermon, even though it was presented impeccably, professionally, with heart and genuine emotion, for he really did have the utmost love and concern for his congregation, he wondered why anyone would stick three pieces of gum on a church door.
On Tuesday, the Board of Deacons met. Reverend Anderson chaired the meeting. “Our finances are good,” he said to the five officials sitting at the table with him. “Contributions are up, donations to our capital improvements are up, our street teams are helping the city’s poor every night and our foreign missionaries are reporting great successes. I haven’t heard of any serious occurrences, thanks to God.”
“This is great news,” Deacon Edwards replied, with the other deacons nodding. He took a sip of water from a church logo-emblazoned coffee cup. “Thanks to God.”
“One issue, though,” the Reverend continued. “When I arrived at church on Sunday morning, there were three pieces of balled-up dark blue gum stuck to the front door. I scraped them off. But it’s bothering me. Why would someone stick pieces of gum on a church door? What could it possibly mean? I don’t understand.”
“It’s probably just kids,” Deacon Little replied. “It probably doesn’t mean anything.” The other deacons nodded.
“But maybe it’s a statement,” Reverend Anderson said. “Maybe it’s a criticism.”
“I think you’re making too much of this, Reverend,” Deacon Edwards suggested. “Don’t worry about it. It’s kids. It’s teenagers having some fun. Being rebellious. Let’s just be content that our church is doing well, we’re providing a great service to the community, and we’re serving God. That’s what matters.”
“Thank you, Deacon,” the Reverend said. “You’re right, I’m sure. And that’s a great way to conclude our meeting. Thank you, everyone. Deacon Smalley, can you please do the final prayer.”
“My pleasure, Reverend. Dear Lord, thank you for your blessings and thank you for your love. Please watch over us and assist us in the tasks we do for your benefit. Let us remain humble and always have you in our minds. This I pray. Amen.”
The deacons rose and left the room, saying “Amen” in agreeable response. Reverend Anderson remained on his own at the table for a few more minutes, contemplating.
Over the next few days, the Reverend prepared for Sunday’s sermon, completed his other tasks well, visited a few parishioners, and felt moderately content. His topic for Sunday, the parable of the farmer sowing grain in his fields, never ceased to engross him. He loved finding wisdom in allegory, meaning behind simple words. And he loved being the messenger for the meaning and doing his best to enlighten and enrich his congregation. This was what mattered. His work and study, thanks to God, were going well until Friday morning when he arrived at church, walked up the stone path to the front door, and saw nine dark spots just above the brass handle.
With throat tightening and stomach tensing, he muttered to himself, “Oh no.” Again, he unlocked the door, got the knife and a paper towel from the kitchen, and returned to scrape off the nine pieces of balled-up dark blue gum. It only took a moment, but the duration was not the significance. “Why, God?” he questioned.
Walking to his office, he passed both Deacon Little and Deacon Edwards. They greeted him kindly and were surprised and troubled when he passed by silently, without acknowledgement, entered his office and closed the door. He moved Sunday’s sermon notes to the top left corner of his desk and took some blank paper out of a drawer and started writing aggressively.
“Brothers and sisters,” the Reverend began on Sunday morning, standing behind his pulpit in front of his loyal congregation, “I was originally going to speak today on the parable of the farmer sowing his grain in his fields, but circumstance has dictated that I change direction. Twice now, over the past two weeks, there has been an incident. An incident of vandalism on our church. I don’t understand it and it concerns me and makes me feel ill and I feel ill now. And so, this morning, I’m going to be very brief because I don’t feel well. I’m only going to say that forgiveness is Godly and, if any one of you is responsible or knows who is responsible, I trust you will tell me. It will be confidential, and I will forgive.” He stopped speaking briefly, then added, “This evening’s service is cancelled. Please do not come.” The Reverend stepped away from the pulpit leaving his congregation confused. After a few minutes, they realized that he was not coming back, and they slowly began to rise from the pews and walk out.
Later in the afternoon, Reverend Anderson contacted the deacons. Meeting at five o’clock, he told them. It’s not optional.
“Tomorrow morning,” he began the meeting bluntly without a greeting, “I’m contacting a security company. I want twenty-four-hour security every day for a week.” His words were slightly alcohol scented.
“This is because of the gum?” Deacon Smalley asked, trying not to sound judgmental.
“Yes it’s because of the gum,” the Reverend snapped back. “It’s happened twice now, and the second time was worse than the first.”
“With all due respect, Reverend,” Deacon Edwards said, “isn’t this a bit of an overreaction? We’ve had vandalism before. Remember a couple years ago when someone threw a rock through the stained-glass window. And before that, when we had graffiti spray painted on our back wall. It’s just kids. It’s teenagers. I don’t understand why this occurrence is obsessing you. I think that, if we just leave it alone, if we trust in God, who knows and sees all and loves us, whoever is doing it will get bored and go away. As long as we don’t react, don’t give them the attention they want, the situation will take care of itself. It’s just a bit of gum.”
“No, no, no,” Reverend Anderson contradicted harshly. “This is different. There’s a message in this. It’s sinister and devious. There’s more to it than just kids acting out. This is a statement. It’s too clever to be nothing. I feel it.”
“God’s ways are sometimes mysterious,” Deacon Smalley said. “We don’t have to understand them, but we have to have faith. In Psalm 23, for example, when David discusses the Valley of Death and—”
“Don’t preach to me, Deacon,” the Reverend interrupted, condescended.
“How are you going to pay for the security?” Deacon Edwards asked.
“I don’t know. I’ll take some money from our capital account.”
“That’s against church regulations. You know any shift in funds already allocated to a project has to be approved unanimously by a Board vote.”
“I don’t care,” the Reverend said. “I’m doing it. This meeting is adjourned.” He stood up to leave.
“Are we not having a closing prayer?” Deacon Smalley asked.
“No, we’re not. I said the meeting is adjourned.” Reverend Anderson walked out of the room brusquely, down the hall, and into his office. He slammed the door shut. The deacons left, uneasy in spirit, muttering to themselves in concern.
For the next two hours, the Reverend remained shuttered in his office. He tried to begin next week’s sermon, but thoughts and worries flooded through him, and nothing was clear.
“Dear God,” he said out loud, “please give me peace. Please allow me to trust in you. I know you know all. Let me have faith.” He stood, heart and head pounding, slightly dizzy, agitated.
Leaving the church, locking up, he retched violently, then stared at the front door in disbelief and shock and started counting the pieces of balled-up dark blue gum stuck above the brass handle. There were twenty-seven of them, maybe more, but definitely at least twenty-seven. They blended together into a mass. It looked like a large patch of mold, fungus. He turned away and walked to his car, not bothering to scrape the gum off the door, vomiting one more time.
At home, he went to bed, skipping dinner, skipping prayers. He didn’t feel like being awake or talking to God. His sleep, though, was fitful and disjointed and polluted with dreams of frustration. He was presented with puzzles that he couldn’t solve and directions he couldn’t follow and languages he couldn’t understand. He dreamt that he had to drive a very sick friend to the hospital but couldn’t find his clothes. Then, when he finally found his clothes, he couldn’t find his keys, and when he found his keys, he couldn’t start his car. Several times, he woke himself up with a scream, sweating and cold at the same time. “My God,” he said to himself. He climbed out of bed and walked over to the table for his Bible. He picked it up, held it for several seconds in his shaking hands, staring, then dropped it onto the table, unopened, and went back to bed. He felt dishonest and fraudulent. He knew sleep was an impossibility.
When the phone rang at five o’clock in the morning, Reverend Anderson was sitting up in bed, propped against a couple pillows, in the dark, doing nothing, breathing. He brought the receiver to his ear. “Hello. Yes, it is the Reverend.” Then a string of words from a voice he didn’t know. He listened until it was appropriate to say, “I see.” He hung up, got out of bed emotionlessly, numb, and dressed himself hastily in a gray tracksuit. How he looked didn’t matter.
Driving to the church through empty streets, he ignored traffic lights and stop signs and speed limits. Why stop for no one, he thought. Why drive slow at this hour. Who cares if it’s against the law.
Reverend Anderson arrived at the church and parked as close to it as he could. The fire trucks and emergency vehicles made getting any closer impossible. He turned off the car engine and watched the firefighters scramble in the wreckage. They were doing their best, he knew, thanks to God. The church, illuminated by spotlights, was a black hot smoldering smoking pile of rubble, without structure or form, no longer a symbol of charity and goodness and glory. It had been erased. “I told you,” the Reverend said to no one.
Unlocking the door, he walked to the kitchen, got a knife and a paper towel, came back, and scraped the gum off into the towel, folding it in quarters and placing it in his pocket. It only took a few seconds. He secured the door, so it was wide open, an invitation to his parishioners to feel welcome, to feel that the church was as much theirs as his, then re-entered, walked to the kitchen, and dropped the knife in the sink and the folded towel in the garbage. He then proceeded to his office to begin his preparations for the morning service. At the pulpit, throughout his entire sermon, even though it was presented impeccably, professionally, with heart and genuine emotion, for he really did have the utmost love and concern for his congregation, he wondered why anyone would stick three pieces of gum on a church door.
On Tuesday, the Board of Deacons met. Reverend Anderson chaired the meeting. “Our finances are good,” he said to the five officials sitting at the table with him. “Contributions are up, donations to our capital improvements are up, our street teams are helping the city’s poor every night and our foreign missionaries are reporting great successes. I haven’t heard of any serious occurrences, thanks to God.”
“This is great news,” Deacon Edwards replied, with the other deacons nodding. He took a sip of water from a church logo-emblazoned coffee cup. “Thanks to God.”
“One issue, though,” the Reverend continued. “When I arrived at church on Sunday morning, there were three pieces of balled-up dark blue gum stuck to the front door. I scraped them off. But it’s bothering me. Why would someone stick pieces of gum on a church door? What could it possibly mean? I don’t understand.”
“It’s probably just kids,” Deacon Little replied. “It probably doesn’t mean anything.” The other deacons nodded.
“But maybe it’s a statement,” Reverend Anderson said. “Maybe it’s a criticism.”
“I think you’re making too much of this, Reverend,” Deacon Edwards suggested. “Don’t worry about it. It’s kids. It’s teenagers having some fun. Being rebellious. Let’s just be content that our church is doing well, we’re providing a great service to the community, and we’re serving God. That’s what matters.”
“Thank you, Deacon,” the Reverend said. “You’re right, I’m sure. And that’s a great way to conclude our meeting. Thank you, everyone. Deacon Smalley, can you please do the final prayer.”
“My pleasure, Reverend. Dear Lord, thank you for your blessings and thank you for your love. Please watch over us and assist us in the tasks we do for your benefit. Let us remain humble and always have you in our minds. This I pray. Amen.”
The deacons rose and left the room, saying “Amen” in agreeable response. Reverend Anderson remained on his own at the table for a few more minutes, contemplating.
Over the next few days, the Reverend prepared for Sunday’s sermon, completed his other tasks well, visited a few parishioners, and felt moderately content. His topic for Sunday, the parable of the farmer sowing grain in his fields, never ceased to engross him. He loved finding wisdom in allegory, meaning behind simple words. And he loved being the messenger for the meaning and doing his best to enlighten and enrich his congregation. This was what mattered. His work and study, thanks to God, were going well until Friday morning when he arrived at church, walked up the stone path to the front door, and saw nine dark spots just above the brass handle.
With throat tightening and stomach tensing, he muttered to himself, “Oh no.” Again, he unlocked the door, got the knife and a paper towel from the kitchen, and returned to scrape off the nine pieces of balled-up dark blue gum. It only took a moment, but the duration was not the significance. “Why, God?” he questioned.
Walking to his office, he passed both Deacon Little and Deacon Edwards. They greeted him kindly and were surprised and troubled when he passed by silently, without acknowledgement, entered his office and closed the door. He moved Sunday’s sermon notes to the top left corner of his desk and took some blank paper out of a drawer and started writing aggressively.
“Brothers and sisters,” the Reverend began on Sunday morning, standing behind his pulpit in front of his loyal congregation, “I was originally going to speak today on the parable of the farmer sowing his grain in his fields, but circumstance has dictated that I change direction. Twice now, over the past two weeks, there has been an incident. An incident of vandalism on our church. I don’t understand it and it concerns me and makes me feel ill and I feel ill now. And so, this morning, I’m going to be very brief because I don’t feel well. I’m only going to say that forgiveness is Godly and, if any one of you is responsible or knows who is responsible, I trust you will tell me. It will be confidential, and I will forgive.” He stopped speaking briefly, then added, “This evening’s service is cancelled. Please do not come.” The Reverend stepped away from the pulpit leaving his congregation confused. After a few minutes, they realized that he was not coming back, and they slowly began to rise from the pews and walk out.
Later in the afternoon, Reverend Anderson contacted the deacons. Meeting at five o’clock, he told them. It’s not optional.
“Tomorrow morning,” he began the meeting bluntly without a greeting, “I’m contacting a security company. I want twenty-four-hour security every day for a week.” His words were slightly alcohol scented.
“This is because of the gum?” Deacon Smalley asked, trying not to sound judgmental.
“Yes it’s because of the gum,” the Reverend snapped back. “It’s happened twice now, and the second time was worse than the first.”
“With all due respect, Reverend,” Deacon Edwards said, “isn’t this a bit of an overreaction? We’ve had vandalism before. Remember a couple years ago when someone threw a rock through the stained-glass window. And before that, when we had graffiti spray painted on our back wall. It’s just kids. It’s teenagers. I don’t understand why this occurrence is obsessing you. I think that, if we just leave it alone, if we trust in God, who knows and sees all and loves us, whoever is doing it will get bored and go away. As long as we don’t react, don’t give them the attention they want, the situation will take care of itself. It’s just a bit of gum.”
“No, no, no,” Reverend Anderson contradicted harshly. “This is different. There’s a message in this. It’s sinister and devious. There’s more to it than just kids acting out. This is a statement. It’s too clever to be nothing. I feel it.”
“God’s ways are sometimes mysterious,” Deacon Smalley said. “We don’t have to understand them, but we have to have faith. In Psalm 23, for example, when David discusses the Valley of Death and—”
“Don’t preach to me, Deacon,” the Reverend interrupted, condescended.
“How are you going to pay for the security?” Deacon Edwards asked.
“I don’t know. I’ll take some money from our capital account.”
“That’s against church regulations. You know any shift in funds already allocated to a project has to be approved unanimously by a Board vote.”
“I don’t care,” the Reverend said. “I’m doing it. This meeting is adjourned.” He stood up to leave.
“Are we not having a closing prayer?” Deacon Smalley asked.
“No, we’re not. I said the meeting is adjourned.” Reverend Anderson walked out of the room brusquely, down the hall, and into his office. He slammed the door shut. The deacons left, uneasy in spirit, muttering to themselves in concern.
For the next two hours, the Reverend remained shuttered in his office. He tried to begin next week’s sermon, but thoughts and worries flooded through him, and nothing was clear.
“Dear God,” he said out loud, “please give me peace. Please allow me to trust in you. I know you know all. Let me have faith.” He stood, heart and head pounding, slightly dizzy, agitated.
Leaving the church, locking up, he retched violently, then stared at the front door in disbelief and shock and started counting the pieces of balled-up dark blue gum stuck above the brass handle. There were twenty-seven of them, maybe more, but definitely at least twenty-seven. They blended together into a mass. It looked like a large patch of mold, fungus. He turned away and walked to his car, not bothering to scrape the gum off the door, vomiting one more time.
At home, he went to bed, skipping dinner, skipping prayers. He didn’t feel like being awake or talking to God. His sleep, though, was fitful and disjointed and polluted with dreams of frustration. He was presented with puzzles that he couldn’t solve and directions he couldn’t follow and languages he couldn’t understand. He dreamt that he had to drive a very sick friend to the hospital but couldn’t find his clothes. Then, when he finally found his clothes, he couldn’t find his keys, and when he found his keys, he couldn’t start his car. Several times, he woke himself up with a scream, sweating and cold at the same time. “My God,” he said to himself. He climbed out of bed and walked over to the table for his Bible. He picked it up, held it for several seconds in his shaking hands, staring, then dropped it onto the table, unopened, and went back to bed. He felt dishonest and fraudulent. He knew sleep was an impossibility.
When the phone rang at five o’clock in the morning, Reverend Anderson was sitting up in bed, propped against a couple pillows, in the dark, doing nothing, breathing. He brought the receiver to his ear. “Hello. Yes, it is the Reverend.” Then a string of words from a voice he didn’t know. He listened until it was appropriate to say, “I see.” He hung up, got out of bed emotionlessly, numb, and dressed himself hastily in a gray tracksuit. How he looked didn’t matter.
Driving to the church through empty streets, he ignored traffic lights and stop signs and speed limits. Why stop for no one, he thought. Why drive slow at this hour. Who cares if it’s against the law.
Reverend Anderson arrived at the church and parked as close to it as he could. The fire trucks and emergency vehicles made getting any closer impossible. He turned off the car engine and watched the firefighters scramble in the wreckage. They were doing their best, he knew, thanks to God. The church, illuminated by spotlights, was a black hot smoldering smoking pile of rubble, without structure or form, no longer a symbol of charity and goodness and glory. It had been erased. “I told you,” the Reverend said to no one.
Chris Klassen is a hobbyist writer and resident of Toronto, Canada. After graduating from the University of Toronto with a degree in history and living for a year in France and England, he returned home and worked the majority of his career in print media. He is now living a semi-retired life, writing and looking for new ideas. His work has been published in Short Circuit, Unlikely Stories, Across the Margin, and Fleas on the Dog.