The Mezzo Wore Mink by Mark Schweizer Page A

them was a brilliant Christmas madrigal, penned by myself, in which I managed to rhyme Holy Jesus with Mouldy Cheeses.
    Unfortunately, Rule No. 1 had exceptions as well and one of them occurred when a new rector showed up for the first time. That was the canon under which I was currently operating as I sat at the St. Barnabas conference table surrounded by the Worship Committee: Georgia Wester, Carol Sterling, Meg, and Joyce Cooper. Marilyn, the long-suffering church secretary, was there to take notes.
    We were busy sharing a pot of coffee and exchanging pleasantries when Beverly Greene walked in wearing her Parish Administrator demeanor, followed by an overweight and extremely muculent man in a priest’s collar. His hair was sparse and hung in damp tendrils around his ears. Perched on his nose was a pair of oversized glasses that he was continually pushing back up the slippery slope with his index finger. He was followed into the room by an unsmiling woman of equal girth and humidity, sporting a hairdo reminiscent of Moe Howard, the greatest of the Three Stooges. I shuddered involuntarily.
    “ This is our new interim rector,” said Bev, a frozen smile on her face. “The Reverend Dr. Adrian Lemming. Bishop O’Connell called this morning to give me the good news that he’s found us a temporary priest.” She put a lot of stress on the words “interim” and “temporary”—more, in fact, than might have been necessary—but the Reverend Dr. Lemming didn’t seem to notice. Mrs. Reverend Dr. Lemming did notice. Her nostrils flared just a bit and her eyes narrowed oh-so-slightly. Or maybe it was just my imagination.
    “ Good morning, everyone,” said the moist man in an even moister voice. He pulled out a handkerchief and blotted the beads of sweat off his pallid pate—sweat that had formed despite a room temperature in the low seventies. “First of all, I think you should call me Father Lemming. That’s really my preference, dontcha know.”
    I shot a sideways glance at Meg. I knew for a fact that she hated it when people said “dontcha know.” Hated it! She was now displaying the same Arctic smile that spread across Bev’s features.
    “ This is my wife, Fiona Tidball-Lemming, dontcha know,” said Father Lemming, gesturing to the woman now seated at the head of the table with a nod.
    Scattered “good mornings” and muttered “pleased to meet yous” filtered across the table as Father Lemming took a seat next to his wife.
    “ Why don’t we all introduce ourselves?” suggested Bev. “Father Lemming, perhaps you could start. Tell us a little about yourself.”
    “ The first thing I’d like to say is that Fiona and I are a ministry team, dontcha know.”
    We nodded as though we did know.
    “ Fiona and I were raised Southern Baptist. In fact, I was a Minister of Music in a Baptist church in Bobo, Alabama, when I started out in church work. Worked there for the better part of twenty years, dontcha know.”
    I could feel everyone’s eyes dart momentarily in my direction.
    “ Fiona was the church secretary,” he continued, smiling over at her, “and Director of Christian Education. After my divorce, she and I were married, and it was God’s will that we leave the Southern Baptist denomination. It was clear that He was calling us to the Episcopal Church to continue our ministry, dontcha know.”
    We nodded again.
    “ I graduated from the seminary and here I am.”
    “ Your doctorate?” ventured Meg.
    “ I was granted a Doctor of Ministry degree in 1998 by Liberty University, dontcha know.
    “ Jerry Falwell’s university?” Joyce said.
    “ Oh yes,” said Father Lemming, proudly. “I had my Doctor of Ministry even before I went to the Episcopal seminary. Did it all from the comfort of my music office at the Baptist church, dontcha know. Liberty has quite a good Doctor of Ministry degree, dontcha know. They count ‘life experience’ toward your credits for graduation, dontcha know.”
    The