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ZABULON KLEISTERMAUL

The man standing at the pulpit before them was a hallowed teacher working to uphold the loftiest of principles. Just looking at him, one instinctively appreciated that he was endowed with the inner tranquility and security necessary for his calling, derived from the firm knowledge that his God has chosen him, of all people, to stand before the flock and to proclaim the truth, to articulate the message of faith and love in His name, in a voice clear and keen.

It was his calling to impart the message and the knowledge to anyone who was wise enough and also willing to open their hearts, to listen and to learn.

To those seated in the rows before him on this evening.

Ch.ase, however, was likely not, if anyone had bothered to ask him, really interested in fathoming the man standing before the congregation, next to the altar at the front of the church, nor his motives. Aside from his observing fleetingly that the Reverend reminded him of a more or less successful crossbreeding experiment involving a back-bench theology nerd and a toothpaste commercial, Ch.ase had little option except to sit still and allow the man’s lecture to go where it might. He was not here on his own volition and he therefore resolved to politely ignore him for as long as his MP3 player still had a sufficient charge.

He glanced up momentarily from his player, where he been intently adjusting the equalizer settings, and glanced toward the front section of the church. For no particular reason, it occurred to Ch.ase that the Reverend appeared to be significantly older than Fulton, his father, would have been.

He decided that he definitely needed more bass today.

The Reverend had something about him that somehow compelled Ch.ase to think of a Saint Bernhard. He was a big fellow, but not huge, and possessed a stocky but not quite athletic build upon which was situated an oddly cylindrical-looking head. What struck Ch.ase were his distinct baggy, hanging cheeks and dark brown eyes that seemed to signal that a kind of down on the farm, lazing by the fireplace type of good nature likely resided within him. Granted, his ears were considerably smaller than those of his canine counterpart and, although he did wear a collar, or was required to, it was not of the sort that sported a small flask of schnaps for late-night alpine rescue missions in raging blizzards. In Ch.ase’s modest estimation, sitting in the pews watching and listening as this man gave his rendition of a rousing sermon was probably not going to be a whole lot different than watching Lassie read the evening news on the telly.tube.

“Why doesn’t someone just give the man a soup bone and we can all go home?” Ch.ase thought to himself and smiled.

A little bit more treble now …

After all, the thought popped back into his head briefly, it was neither his idea nor his wish that he should be sitting here today.

Understanding, though, that his vote on this particular matter didn’t carry a lot of weight, he elected then to just bear with it, sitting in silence and watching detachedly with tiny loudspeakers in his ears while the man stood beaming smugly before his faithful congregation, which was still abuzz at the moment with a low murmur and a noticeable amount of shuffling to and fro. People continued to arrive, looking for and finally taking their seats, some alone and others coming in various small groups. There were nuclear families–where did anyone ever come up with such a ridiculous description? wondered Ch.ase, picturing in his mind a family resembling happily glowing Martians with atomically-altered DNA at a playground or sitting around a picnic table, antennae wiggling merrily to and fro on the children’s multiple heads. A few of the small groups of people coming in could well have been delegations representing the local bowling-alone clubs or some other organization akin to the various amalgamated rod-and-gun clubs existing to defend their historically-anchored constitutional right to bear and use automatic weapons whenever they or the common good deems it prudent or necessary. Throughout this modest hustle and bustle, the Reverend continued to stand wordlessly at his pulpit, watching carefully as the pews filled up and flashing his occasional toothy hurried smile of recognition into the crowd at odd intervals to acknowledge someone’s gesture of greeting. He clutched his manuscript for today’s proceedings, his working copy of the scriptures, firmly under his right arm.

In Ch.ase’s estimation, Reverend Kleistermaul’s Bible and sermon notes appeared to be a tad too old and frayed. But by the same token, though, Ch.ase had to admit to himself that this also lent a certain venerable air to them, giving the Reverend, by virtue of being their keeper, an indisputable degree of credibility and authority.

At least from this distance, anyhow.

Then he paused for an instant and wondered: why didn’t the Reverend just get real and just use a MindφSet, like just about every other civilized being on the worldmonde.Planet? That way, if it was configured to run version 3.0 or better, he could even download and watch videos on it during his free time. And, if he really wanted to, he could still flip pages in the e-version of SearchLight or use it as his Bible on worship days.

Then he directed his attention back to the MP3 player.

In well-practiced intervals, Reverend Zabulon Kleistermaul’s eyes began scanning the faces of those still assembling in the wooden pews before him. They traveled slowly and deliberately across the ranks of the crowd assembled before him in an adept, premeditated manner peculiar to those few select men who selflessly heed God’s calling or at least that of their own political ambitions. Or both.

Outwardly, he without doubt exuded the kind of quiet, relaxed confidence of a proven man conveying the appearance of a leader so unshakable in his convictions that others eagerly and unquestioningly accept his stewardship in all sorts of matters of community and spirit.

He was fully aware that, with the passage of time, his flock had actually come to sincerely rely on him for the guidance they sought and needed.

And there was, of course, more than just a minute grain of truth in this assessment of his role relative to his congregation. Over the course of his many long years in their service, his flock had indeed come to accept that it was his exclusive role to successfully steer them through the numerous hazards and temptations of modern life, the good times and the bad. They accepted that it was he who possessed the ability to edge them onwards toward the safe haven longed for by all, that refuge filled with common aspirations, with common truths and common goals, and to steer them away from foolhardiness and evil.

The basis of this hard-earned trust was his integrity and his undisputed possession of the truth. After all, he had always proclaimed that nothing in this life mattered more than the truth–and that unblemished, pure faith was nothing more than truth in its most exquisite incarnation.

The whole truth and nothing but the truth.

And, for as long as he had been holding his own at the head of this congregation, he had made it crystal clear to all within his flock that their denomination, the Church of the 28th Day Advantagists, was Libertyville@Esperantia’s own particular brand of faith, so to say the only brand of salvation in possession of the truth and the only reading of the truth that encompassed its unblemished universal virtues. This, of course, applied to the entire spectrum of teachings and traditions of the Church of the 28th Day Advantagists, much more so than any of the huge multitude of other competing faiths and ideologies at home and abroad that beckoned those endangered souls who were unfortunate enough to not be in solid possession of the truth.

All that the congregation–his congregation–needed to do was believe in the truth and in the miracle. As long as they believed in him–and the truth contained within his message, of course!–everything else would then fall into place more or less automatically.

It was actually pretty easy. Just believe in Reverend Kleistermaul and in the truth and thou shalt find God.

What no one here ever dared to suspect, however, was that Reverend Zabulon Kleistermaul was not always as supremely confident as his manner might have suggested to the uninitiated observer.

Ch.ase, Jacqueline and Nik.Vee–the name Niklas Vladimir Bratsilav had chosen for himself to aptly denote the occasion of his first successful social rebirthing experience and quite possibly his first three consecutive days of sobriety in eons–continued to sit and wait in silence for the services to begin. Nik.Vee had brought his newly settled family here, acting on the explicit recommendation of no small number of his new but already very trustworthy acquaintances. Reverend Kleistermaul cast a quick and mildly inquiring glance in their direction. He decided that he would take the opportunity to personally greet them after the conclusion of services.

They seemed harmless enough to him.

“They even have a kid with them, fancy that …” he thought.

That was indeed actually pretty seldom these days. No doubt he’s probably caught up in the usual pre-puberty quagmires, he guessed. Their eyes met for a brief moment.

The kid was wearing one of those modern grey cotton IRΩNIC hoodies. Despite the ultra-trendy logo, his family didn’t make the outward impression on Zabulon Kleistermaul that they could or would afford much in the way of name brand clothing, though.

“Wearing earphones around his neck,” the Reverend shuddered. He gnashed his teeth as he tried to decide into which box Ch.ase fit in his estimation. He was wearing a black t-shirt beneath the hoodie, that much was visible.

“Not good. I’d be pretty damned surprised if he wasn’t wearing one of those shirts with some perverse slogan or something ugly and provocative, like the one with an image of our Lord Jesus Christ and KILL YOUR IDOLS as the caption. And if that’s the case, well, then I wouldn’t be surprised if he probably smokes dope, too …” the Reverend muttered to himself under his breath.

The path to the pulpit had been a long and arduous trek for Reverend Zabulon Kleistermaul. Born as the youngest of six children to parents of very modest background and even more modest means, Zabulon’s formative years were spent between public school–where he, in contrast to some of his classmates to whom everything seemed to come naturally, needed to continually invest a tremendous effort toward achieving satisfactory grade performance–and delivering The Moody Sunday Revivalist on weekends. Having to work for his grades from early on likely helped instill in him the sense of discipline that helped in adulthood, particularly in his selfless work at the head of his church.

The money he earned in return for his labor back in those days was truly minimal but through his experiences during these years he progressively became an ever stauncher believer and advocate of the notion that time invested in such laudable causes represented the seed capital that would ultimately germinate upon one’s start in the Hereafter.

Soon after completion of his formal schooling, Zabulon Kleistermaul quickly found himself working in an apprenticeship as a veterinarian’s assistant at a church-sponsored animal clinic. Deftly utilizing the interpersonal skills obtained and honed through his own spiritual experience as well as regular PrayerDay School attendance, he was soon a cherished partner to anxiety-plagued pet owners seeking consolation or fretting the collateral damage, psychological and otherwise, that was likely or at least conceivable upon neutering the beloved family sheepdog or de-worming basset hounds given to butthole surfing across the living room carpet.

It was one of the senior parishioners of the church who ultimately chanced upon and recognized young Zabulon’s talent, his gift of instilling not only health where there were tapeworms but, even more significantly for the despairing pet owners, hope where there was none. Fortified and enlightened through the depth of his experiences at the Our Hounds at the Meadow Animal Clinic, Zabulon’s path then led him straight into the arcane realm of the seminaries.

Zabulon Kleistermaul was an astute student by this time, extremely well-versed for a young man of his age in the church’s liturgies and rhetoric, and he was beholden by an unshakeable faith that his was truly a manifest destiny: God would give him both the will and the power to lift himself by his own bootstraps many times over if only he were humble enough to accept with grace the prosperity that abounded within those who would open their hearts and their minds and work with vigor to further His cause. Zabulon Kleistermaul was doggedly determined to reap the rewards.

“Even as thy soul prospereth,” was how it was phrased somewhere deep within the good book.

He hoped and prayed that he would be the first among his siblings to live the life of abundance. He was going forward with courage and faith to live the life of an entrepreneurial apostle. His would be the Kingdom of wealth and opulence.

He would seek and find shelter in houses with alarm systems and in which the roof never leaked. And he would travel in cars whose seats were invariably of white leather as unblemished as the skin of the Virgin herself.

He would be the servant thrust into the role of the king.