Featured Writer

Take My Yolk Upon You

by Karl Lehman

My house shall be a house of prayer; but you have made it a den of robbers. (Luke 19:46 NRSV)

“Mary, the numbers!” Randolph Mountebank barked as he glanced at his overpriced wristwatch. Randolph was president and C.E.O. of the Bible Corporation of America, the world’s biggest and most aggressive scripture publisher and distributor of Christian widgets.

“Yes, I have them right here,” replied Mary Daniel. At thirty-five Mary was not only the youngest division manager for marketing and strategic positioning in the history of the corporation, but she was also the first woman to have this critical role.

“Well? Get on with it!” Randolph hated to waste time, even that tiny increment expended on useless eye contact. As a matter of fact, he once rode the elevator twenty-two floors to their office suite with no one other than Mary and was clueless as to who she was.

“Sales of our North American Standardized Translation are down 7% over the same period last year,” Mary reported. She switched on a computer graphics program that projected pie charts onto the wall. “Gentlemen and ladies, each wedge represents an edition of our market-targeted study Bibles. Wedge one is the Businessman’s Bottom-Line Bible, wedge two is our Master Chef’s Filet of Soul Study Bible, and so on.” She highlighted each product with a laser pointer as she went along.

Mr. Mountebank walked up the projected graph to get a better look. “We lost money on that Extreme Book Study Bible for Outdoor Adventurers. I hate losing money.” He turned around and zeroed in on a nervous John Flynch, Division Manager for Product Development. “John, that wedge was your idea.”

“Yes, sir.” Sweat was dripping off his nose and running down his back. “We had excellent positives from our focus group. I think it just needs a little more time.”

“John, time is something your wedge doesn’t have.”

“Sir?”

“Our competition is on our heels every day. When our Bibles sell, we make money. When our Bibles don’t sell, we don’t make money. It’s that simple.” Mr. Mountebank then spoke to everyone at the conference table. “Look, this is a basic biblical principle,” he said in a manner indicating that any person who didn’t understand was a fool. “Our fruit is profit. We trim those branches that don’t bear fruit just like Jesus said to do.” He looked back at John. “Prune it!” Every eye followed the president as he returned to his seat at the head of the long, polished marble table.

Mary continued with her presentation. “We’re still on top in terms of overall market share.”

“And what’s our market share now?” Mr. Mountebank asked, fiddling with his financial calculator.

“We hold 37.23% of the non-King-James market, sir.”

“Our closest competitor, is it still that Transworld Bible Society?”

“Yes, sir. They’re at around 35% now for the same segment.”

The president leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling for a second. After scratching his nose, he looked back at his calculator and continued to question Mary. “Last quarter they were below thirty. What happened?”

“They came out with a new translation, sir. I understand it’s even popular with the unchurched market, particularly first-time Bible buyers.”

“Darn it!” the president exclaimed, slamming his fist on the table. “That’s not good news. What’s wrong with our Bible?”

“In a month it’ll be fifty years old, Sir,” Mary replied calmly.

“Sir.” John Flynch raised his hand and shook it eagerly.

“Yes, John,” Mr. Mountebank said, authorizing the division manager to speak.

“Sir, I think we could add another study Bible to our product line. Give me a week with my staff, and we’ll wedge out another subset of the population. We’ve been testing a special limited edition Bullet-Point Bible for busy suburbanites. It’s got the whole gospel of John down to seven strategic points! In fact, the whole thing is ninety-three percent shorter than the Reader’s Digest condensed version.”

“Mr. President. May I say something?” asked Robert Beardless, Division Manager for Press Operations and Publishing. Mr. Mountebank pointed in Robert’s direction and nodded his head, “Sir,” Robert continued, “We could introduce a new line of covers.” Robert reached into his tall sheepskin attache case and pulled out several display boards that had samples of materials affixed by velcro. “These are the new covers I’m creating. We can now produce a cover that has, oh, how should I put it. . . .an aristocratic feel to it.” Robert held one of the boards in the air. “Here’s what I mean. This is a new line of faux-mink Bible covers. They look expensive but they’re real cheap to produce.”

“Sir,” Mary said to Mr. Mountebank. “With all due respect to my colleagues, our research indicates people are tiring of our North American Standardized Translation. It’s been out there for five decades. No matter how we re-package it, we’ll still be competing against the newer editions entering the marketplace.”

“Are you telling me we need to do a whole new version?” the president asked, looking at Mary briefly for the first time in three weeks.

“Well, Sir, it wouldn’t hurt,” Mary replied. “If dominating the Bible market is your goal, then I don’t see any alternative.”

Mr. Mountebank was silent for a few minutes, thinking about the implications of what Mary had just said. He got up, walked to the window and looked outside. He scratched his nose again and mumbled while his department managers sat perfectly still, waiting to hear his reaction. He returned to his seat and scribbled on a legal pad. “I agree with Mary,” he said resolutely. “I need a new version.”

“I think that’s a wise decision, Mr. Mountebank.” Mary said.

“We’ll take this up at our next meeting. Mary, bring the numbers. What’ll it cost us, and how soon can we make a profit? John, bring me new study Bible ideas. I want to divide and attack our markets with surgical precision. Robert, the packagings gotta be totally new. I want new paper, more pictures, and lush covers.” The president paused to give everyone a moment to catch up on their notetaking. “I must have everything at our next meeting.”

Everybody nodded in agreement.

“Let’s move on,” Mr. Mountebank said trying to quicken the pace of the meeting. “Bible Derivatives are next. I hope it’s good news.”

Wilbur Iverson stood up. His legs where shaking. “I have my report, Sir,” he said, his voice cracking a little.

“Well, get on with it!”

“Our affinity credit card program with Vulturine National Bank is going quite well, sir,” Taped to the wall was a large graph with a profit line that stretched to the ceiling tiles. Wilbur pointed to it. “And we now have three designs for our Jesus Paid My Debt platinum credit card.” He turned off the lights and flipped on a projector. “Here you can see our newest one. It shows ethnicity-neutral Jesus looking down from heaven at a typical middle-class, majority-population American family kneeling in prayer. I think it’ll be quite popular. And with an APR of 24.9% our return will be substantial.”

A week later the division managers were back around the polished-marble executive conference table waiting for their president.

“He’s gonna flip when he sees how much it’ll cost to re-translate the Bible,” Mary said. “I’m so nervous, last night I didn’t sleep at all.”

“God’s in control, Mary.” Robert was emphatic. “It’s wrong to feel like that.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” John replied. “You didn’t have to layoff six people when Mountebank trashed my Extreme Book Bible. I don’t know what he’s gonna do when he sees Mary’s numbers.”

“Haven’t you ever read Romans 8:28? All things work for the good!” Robert countered. “Like our boss says, we don’t need to fret over our staff.”

“Oh, go jump in a lake, Mr. Sanctimonious,” John said, getting snippy.

Robert was about to throw his Bible at John Flynch when Mr. Mountebank entered the room. “Good morning,” the president bellowed.

Everyone immediately turned toward the doorway at the sound of their leader’s commanding voice. “Good morning Sir,” the division managers replied in unison. They stood up and waited for the president to lead them in prayer.

“Colleagues, pray for me while I pray for our corporation.” Mr. Mountebank bowed his head and prayed. “Creator of all we have, thou hast brought forth tremendous success to our humble but mighty corporation. Thy power hath carried forth our products unto the furthest ends of the earth. For this we give thee thanks. Bless our investors as they have blessed us; keep them sound in thy never ending liquidity. Amen.” Mr. Mountebank sat down; his staff did likewise. He pulled his financial calculator from its black leather case and barked at Mary. “Mary, the numbers!”

Mary said a little prayer herself. She stood up and flipped the switch to her presentation program. “Sir,” she said, her voice cracking a little, “This is a proforma seven-year budget that itemizes costs of translating the Bible.” She pointed to a lengthy set of columns projected onto the wall. “We have salaries, payroll taxes, benefits, travel costs, reproduction, fees to various universities and seminaries, editorial expenses, computers, programs, interns, miscellaneous. . . ”

“Mary,” Mr. Mountebank snapped, cutting her off mid sentence. “What’s the bottom-line?”

“Eleven million dollars, Sir.”

“And you’re telling me it’ll take seven years?” the president asked.

“Yes, best case senario.”

“Eleven million and seven years.” Randolp Mountebank repeated. He smiled at Mary, who then started to relax a little (as did everyone else around the conference table).

“Sir,” Mary continued, “I really thought you’d be upset with these numbers.”

“Me, upset? No, I’m not upset. You might be, however.”

“Sir?”

“I want it ready in seven months. Your budget’s capped at $11 thousand.”

All the division managers were stunned. “Sir,” Mary said, “I don’t think we can do that. It took Transworld Bible Society eight years to prepare a new translation and a lot more than $11 million. Did you really say seven months and $11 thousand?”

“Was I not clear enough? You heard me right.”

The room was as perfectly quiet. No one knew what to say or how to respond, for the project they would soon have to undertake now seemed downright impossible.

“Look,” Mr. Mountebank continued, “you are all intelligent and creative people. That’s why I pay you. Before I leave here today we can develop a plan to accomplish the impossible.” The corporation president got up and walked to the screen displaying Mary’s chart. “It’s simple. All we gotta do is cut production steps and add new revenue. Think outside the box!” Mr. Mountebank stepped to a marker board and wrote a big number one. “Now give me some ideas.”

John Flynch was the first to speak up. “Well, sir, we could cut out all those maps at the end of our Bibles. That would cut production costs a little. I don’t think anyone really uses them anyway.”

The president started to write this on the board but stopped when Robert spoke up.

“I’ve got a better idea sir,” Robert said proudly. “Maybe the maps themselves could be a source of revenue.” Robert grabbed a Bible and held up a map of St. Paul’s missionary journeys. “Look at all these ancient towns nobody lives in anymore. Who cares about ’em?” He pointed to the Greek isles. “But I’d be willing to wager some of those resorts in the Aegean would pay a lot of money to get put on our Bible maps in their place.”

Mary couldn’t believe what she had just heard.

“Great idea, Robert.” Mr. Mountebank noted the idea on his board. “You’re a real thinker. Okay, number two?”

“Why don’t we go ahead and do the same thing with footnotes,” John added. “We could get companies to plug their products in the margins.”

“Excellent idea, John. Let’s do it.” Mr. Mountebank noted this as number two on his list. “Okay, number three.”

Mary was speechless.

Robert raised his hand. “Sir, we could get student interns to do the translating. That would save a bundle in payroll and consultant costs.”

“Not bad, Robert,” the president replied. He stopped for a moment to think. “You know, you just might be on to something. Why do we even need to re-translate the thing anyway?”

“What?” Mary asked incredulously. “I thought you agreed that a new translation was needed?”

“I said we need a new version. Maybe we can do this without translating the thing all over again.”

“How would we do that?” John asked, confused

“Look, the King James version is in the public domain, right? John, you get some English majors from that college near here to just reword the thing, you know, with regular every-day English. I think they’d work for free if we provided a lot of free food and beer. And if we got enough of them,we could whip it out in two months!”

“Then how could we call our Bible a translation?” Mary asked, trying to mask her anger. She could feel the last vestige of her integrity escaping through the office ventilation system.

“Mary, you’re not thinking outside the box.” Mr. Mountebank was very irritated with her. “We’ll call it something else.”

“Like rendition,” Robert suggested.

“Exactly,” Mr. Mountebank said with enthusiasm. “You’re a team player.” He wrote the word on his board. “What should we call my new Bible? Any ideas? I want something that sounds genuine.”

“What about the ‘A Rendition for All People?’” Wilbur offered.

“Too liberal sounding,” Mr. Mountebank replied.

John raised his hand. “Well, how ‘bout ‘A Christian Rendition for God’s People?”

“Too conservative, too restrictive.”

“I know,” Robert said, “a Christian Rendition for All People.”

“I like it!” Mr. Mountebank said writing it on the board.

“This is a dream,” Mary thought. She scribbled the Bible’s name on her note pad and shook her head. “I’ve got to get out of here.”

In nine months time the Christian Rendition for All People was born into the market place; just in time for the humongous Faith-Based Book Sellers convention. This year it was in Atlanta, the Bible Corporation of America’s home town. The event was so important to Mr. Mountebank that he forbade all vacation, personal leave, and illness. Nothing was to interfere. The president also staffed two full convention booths ­ one for his new Bible and another for the corporation’s line of Christian widgets. This year, besides the Christian Rendition for All People the company was introducing a new line of faith-based alarm clocks.

“Mary! It’s so good to see you,” Sandra Beeble said.

Dr. Beeble, a well known biblical scholar, was a professor of New Testament at Columbia Seminary in Decatur, Georgia. Being one of the translators of the Transworld Bible Society’s new version, she took a deep interest in biblical scholarship and work with the ancient texts.

“Hi, Dr. Beeble,” Mary replied feeling a little uncomfortable at seeing this renowned biblical scholar.

“I’m curious,” the professor said. “I never knew you were working on a new version. How did you keep it a secret for so many years?”

“Well,” Mary said blushing and looking down, “um, um. . . I’m not sure.”

“I wasn’t aware that any seminary was working with you.”

“Actually, the folks we used came from the university community.” She still could not make eye contact with Dr. Beeble.

“Oh, that’s interesting. Well, good luck with it.”

“Whew,” thought Mary, “that was close.”

“Mary! Hello!”

“Hi, Fred,” Mary said to the Executive Director of United Sunday Schools of the South. Fred Wellwisher was flipping through a sample copy of the Christian Rendition for All People.

“This seems genuinely readable. Could I use it with our Sunday School lesson plans? We need something kids and young people will wanna read. I can’t use anything that’s too scholarly.”

“Fred, trust me, I don’t think you’ll need to worry about that with this Bible.”

“I do trust you Mary; you’d never steer me wrong. I’ll use it.”

Mary sighed as she watched Fred move on to the next booth. “This isn’t right,” she said to herself.

“Hey Mary! What’s it been, a year? Boy, you look depressed.”

“Rocky, how are you?” Rocky Rhodes was the owner of a small chain of Christian bookstores located in Georgia and Alabama. “Last time I saw you was at the Miami Beach convention, two years ago,” Mary said.

“This new Bible y’all are putting out, do you think it’ll make a good pew Bible? It’d have to be something you could use for liturgy, you know, baptisms, communion, weddings, funerals ­ stuff like that.”

Mary’s heart sank at the thought of the Christian Rendition for All People being used at her own wedding or funeral, though neither was on the immediate horizon.

“If this Bible sells well, then I’ll use it for my own funeral.”

“That’s good to hear,” Rocky replied, mistaking Mary’s sarcasm for an endorsement. I’ll put in a big order!”

By the time Rocky had finished looking through the sample Bibles, lunch hour was at hand. Wilbur, in a company booth for Bible Derivative Products that was adjacent to Mary’s, was busy demonstrating some of the company’s new alarm clocks. He flipped the switch for a jumbo free-standing electronic cuckoo clock with a relief image of Jesus hugging half a dozen baby chickens. A little plastic hen on a stick emerged from behind a simulated barn-yard door and one loud “Cock-a-doodle-do” announced the time: 1:00 PM.

Mary wandered over to Wilbur’s booth to see the clock. “That hen sounds more like a rooster to me,” she said. Mary then remembered what Jesus had said to Peter, “Before the cock crows today, you will deny me three times.” Her mind replayed the conversations she had just had with Sarah, Fred, and Rocky. “I’ve denied our Lord three times!” she cried.

“Huh?” Wilbur asked. “What’s wrong with you?”

Mary was now weeping bitterly.

“I hope you’re not having a personal crisis! You know it’s not allowed!”

Mary looked at Wilbur with disgust. She took a swing at the simulated barn yard door and knocked the little hen off its stick. She then turned and ran from the convention hall, as fast as her feet could go.

“Momma, don’t worry,” Mary said into the telephone, “I’m in Birmingham.”

Mary had checked into a motel that sat alongside Interstate 20, just outside the Alabama city, and for three days she hid herself from Mr. Mountebank, the Bible Corporation of America, Wilbur, and everyone else she knew. On the evening of the third day, she called her mom.

“Why didn’t you tell me where you were going?” Her mother asked. “Mr. Mountebank has called several times every day. He’s really worried about his Bible.”

“Momma, I want to be alone.”

“Why can’t you be alone here? That way I could take care of you.”

“I’m just like Peter,” Mary said, crying.

“Well, I don’t see why. He didn’t go to college like you. And besides, he’s never held down a job like you, either.”

“I’m not talking about my cousin, Momma. I denied our Lord, just like the apostle.”

“Oh, that Peter. Are you pregnant?”

“No, Momma. Look, I’m okay. I just need some time to sort things out.”

“I still don’t see why you can’t do that here. You could have your room back. I’ll move grandpa’s things to the garage. Your old bed and dresser are in the attic. I’ll bring them down and set everything up just like it was when you were little. You can sleep here and then in the morning, I’ll make you your favorite breakfast, every day. Please.”

“Thanks, Momma, but I don’t think so. Look, I’ve gotta go.”

“Are you sure you’re not pregnant? If you are...”

“No! I’ll call you later.”

Mary put the phone down and got into the bed. On the nightstand next to a small lamp was a Bible, the cover of which had a gold letter imprint reading, “Placed here by the Transworld Bible Society.” For the last several days she’d been feeling too guilty to touch it. Finally, Mary took the Bible in her hands and opened it. Whether by chance or design, Mary happened upon the book of Jonah, which she read three times before falling asleep.

The next morning Mary got up early, took a long hot shower, and called her mom once more before checking out of the motel and heading back to Atlanta.

“Momma, I’m going to Nineveh.”

“Is that far away, dear?”

“Don’t you remember Jonah?”

“Isn’t he living in Cedartown with that Rhonda woman? I never liked her. You’re not going to stay with him are you?”

“I’m not talking about Aunt Ginger and Uncle’s Bob’s son. I mean Jonah in the Bible, Momma!”

“Oh, your grandpa will be so pleased. He always wanted you to be an archeologist.”

“I don’t mean literally. I’m going to see Mr. Mountebank. I’ve got to clean my conscience.”

“Oh, good, you’re gonna ask to get your old job back!”

“I don’t think so, Momma.”

“What? I’m sure if you’d apologized and took a big cut in pay he’d let bygones be. . . .”

“Momma, you’re not listening. He’s the one who should feel guilty.”

“What about your job security? They had such a nice retirement plan and an employee discount on top of that.”

“I don’t want their discount. Did I tell you about how we made that new Bible? It’s a fraud. I’m not gonna sell it anymore!”

“I’m sure Mr. Mountebank didn’t mean any harm, dear.”

“All he cares about is making money. There’s not a drop of faith in it at all. And Momma, I can’t take it anymore. I’ve spent the last three years in the belly of a beast.”

“Maybe Doctor Washburn could prescribe something for you. You always had such trouble digesting green vegetables.”

“Mary, of course I remember Jonah. I don’t see what it has to do with getting your old job back. All you have to do is to say you’re sorry and offer to work at a lower rate for a while.”

“Momma, I’m gonna go now. I love you.” Mary put down the phone, grabbed her keys and headed out the door. “I wonder what Jonah’s mother was like,” she thought.

Meanwhile, back in Atlanta, Mr. Mountebank and his staff at the Bible Corporation of America were in for an unpleasant surprise. It started with one seven year old Freddy Wellwisher, son of United Sunday Schools of the South director, Fred Wellwisher and a picture the little boy was drawing with crayons.

Sally Anne, his Sunday School teacher, sat down next to Freddy in one of the kid-sized chairs to watch the young boy hard at work.

“Who’s that you’re drawing?” she asked.

“That’s Jesus, Ma’am.” he replied.

“Oh, I see. And what’s that yellow stuff on his back?”

“Scrambled eggs.”

“Scrambled eggs? Why would Jesus have scrambled eggs on his back?”

“Says so in my Bible.”

Sally Anne, a student a Columbia Seminary, thought for a moment. She couldn’t recall any reference to scrambled eggs in the Gospels nor anywhere else in the New Testament for that matter.

“I don’t think Jesus ever had eggs on his back, Freddy,” she said, trying not to sound critical or judgmental. “Where did you get that idea?”

Freddy picked up his copy of the Christian Rendition for All People his father had given him and opened to the middle of Matthew’s gospel. He then handed the book to his teacher. “Here,” he said, pointing to the text.

She read the verse aloud. “Take my yolk upon you, and learn of me.” Sally Anne stopped reading. “That can’t be right.” She looked at the cover of the Bible. “A Christian Rendition for All People, where did you get this?”

“My dad gave it to me. It’s brand new. He got it at some big meeting he went to.”

“Do you mind if I borrow it?” she asked. “I’ll bring it back next Sunday. I’d love to have your picture of Jesus, too.”

“I guess that’s okay. My dad’s got a whole box of ’em.”

Monday morning Sally Anne stopped by the office of Dr. Beeble, in whose New Testament survey course she was currently enrolled. She knew Dr. Beeble was active in the Bible translator community and she thought the professor might be able to shed some light on this new version.

“Sally Anne!” the professor, said, greeting one of her favorite students. “Please come in.”

“Hi, Dr. Beeble.” Sally said, sitting in one of the adult-sized chairs next to the professor’s old desk. “I need to talk to you about something.” The student pulled Freddy’s picture and the copy of the Christian Rendition for All People from her book bag and handed them to Dr. Beeble. “What do you know about this new version of the Bible? It’s filled with mistakes.”

“Mistakes, what are you talking about?”

“Since when did Jesus enjoin us to take his yolk?”

“His what?”

“Look at Matthew 11:29.”

“Oops,” Dr. Beeble said. She shook her head. “Just a typo the editor should have caught.” She started to laugh a little. “Is this what that picture’s about?”

“Yes, but read chapter twelve.”

“Oh my word,” the professor looked at her student, “This has the disciples eating corn on the cob. Corn is from the Americas!”

“And check out the footnote that goes with it. It’s about some brand of microwave popcorn.”

Dr. Beeble then skimmed through the rest of Matthew’s gospel. Sally Anne watched the normally reserved scholar make increasingly dramatic faces, moving from concern to shock, then to anger, grief, and horror.

“The whole gospel is like that,” the professor said.

“Not just the gospel, the WHOLE thing!”

“You mean the whole New Testament?”

“I mean the whole Bible! And wait’ll you see the maps at the end!”

Mary Daniel didn’t notice Dr. Beeble backing out of a parking spot at the Bible Corporation of America. As a matter of fact, the former employee parked her car in the same visitor space that the professor had just vacated. Mary had come all the way from Birmingham to see the same man who had just received a vehement tongue-lashing from a scholar who had a thorough understanding of ancient Greek, Hebrew, and Aramaic as well as a first-hand familiarity with many of the ancient manuscripts of the Bible. When Mary got to Mr. Mountebank’s office, the corporation president was kneeling at the side of his executive desk and sobbing uncontrollably. She marched forcefully into Mr. Mountebank’s office, feeling empowered and ready to speak on behalf of the Lord.

“We should be ashamed,” she proclaimed with all boldness. “We’ve traded our faith for a buck! We should be. . . ” Mary stopped the speech she had practiced a thousand times on her long drive to Atlanta when she realized that Mr. Mountebank wasn’t in his chair.

Mr. Mountebank looked at Mary. “I’m a sinner,” he said sheepishly.

“Sir?” she asked.

“I’m a complete fraud.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Our new Bible, it’s been exposed. No one will buy it now.”

Mary stared at Mr. Mountebank without emotion. His handmade suite and shirt, usually crisp and highly starched, were now wet with tears and wrinkled. He used his silk tie to wipe his nose and eyes.

“God, forgive me. My reputation could have been destroyed,” he cried. He looked up at a large painting that hung on the wall to the right of his desk. It depicted an oversized Jesus knocking on the side of a non-descript modern office building. “I’m going to turn things around here. God’s gonna come first, from now on!” He wiped his eyes again and glanced at Mary. “What do you want?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing,” she replied. “I’ll see you later.”

Mary dashed outside as fast as she could. Without wasting a moment, she jumped in her car, started up the engine, and backed out of her parking space. Mary was in such a hurry, she failed to notice a furious Rocky Rhodes pulling into the visitor’s space she was vacating.

Rocky and one of his warehouse workers were in their company pick-up truck hauling several dozen cartons marked A Christian Rendition for All People as well as a portable hand-truck. Both men were going to camp in Mr. Mountebank’s office until every dime Mr. Rhodes had spent on the Bibles was returned, with interest and expenses.

Mary drove clear around Atlanta on the great perimeter highway five times before heading to the Chatahoochee Nature Preserve. She sped through the entrance gate, failing to notice a large “Closed for Maintenance” sign, and stopped her car in the shade of an overgrown clump of privets. She was exceedingly angry, not with Mr. Mountebank, nor Wilbur, nor with the Bible Corporation of America nor even with her mother. Mary was mad at God.

“Thank you very much,” she said getting our of her car. She slammed the door “You let that worthless boss off the hook, and now I’m the one who has to go to the unemployment office. I‘ve got no job, no insurance, a car payment, rent that’s due, and no money. Thank you, God. Yes, thank you very much!” She kicked her car. “That’s why I fled to Birmingham.” She kicked it again. “I knew it. You always forgive the schmucks, and people like me, who work hard, who do what they’re supposed to do, get egg in their face.” Mary slumped to the ground. “At least it’s shady here.”

The former Bible Corporation of America employee sat motionless and stone-faced for nearly an hour, then the loud roaring of a chain saw got her attention. The Chatahoochee Nature Preserve maintenance department had finally gotten around to clearing the park of its fast-growing privets. The next thing Mary heard was that crackling sound made by splintering wood and then a loud crash. The largest of the privets that had been providing shade was now resting on her car. She climbed out from beneath a mass of branches and leaves and fell to her knees.

“Lord, just take me now. I don’t care any more!”

“Dear, I don’t understand why you’re so cross with that poor Mr. Mountebank. You know he was only looking out for the company and his stockholders.” Mary’s mother was at the stove cooking a batch of scrambled eggs.

“But Momma, we’re talking THE BIBLE, the word of God. At some point you’ve gotta stand up for something.”

“I know, but a lot of people had their livelihoods riding on company sales. And don’t forget all those 401(k) plans. Folks need to have somethin’ when they retire.”

“I know that. But he tried to use Scripture as a way to make a lot of money. That’s all he cared about.”

“And you thought it was your job to stop him?”

“Dr. Beeble got to him first,” Mary replied with a chuckle.

“I don’t understand you, Mary. Your father and I, we lived through many hard years. I’ll bet he got laid off a dozen or so times. There were days when I thought the bank would take this house away.” Mary’s mother turned from the stove and faced her daughter. “But we always had each other. We just wanted to live in peace and to have enough to live on. That’s all that mattered to us.”

“I’m still angry, Momma.”

“At God?”

“Not anymore. Mostly at myself. And Mr. Mountebank. And Wilbur. And John and Robert for that matter. We should’ve known better.”

Mary’s mother finished cooking the eggs, served them into the oven-warmed plates, and sat down to eat with her daughter and grandpa. She said a blessing and poured three glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice. “I still think you would’ve liked having that employee discount.”

“Perhaps, Momma, perhaps I would have.”

“But you know, Mary, your father would be proud of you. You followed your conscience.”

“Not at first. Anyway, I’m glad I’m got out of there.”

“You’ll find something soon enough. You remember what Paul said, ‘All things work for the good. . .’”

“Let’s not go there, okay?” Mary turned to her grandpa. “I think he’s trying to say something, Momma.”

Sitting in the corner Mary’s ninety-three year old grandpa had been quietly listening to the conversation. “Okra,” he grumbled.

“What did he say?” Mary’s mother asked.

“I think he said okra,” Mary replied.

“You heard me,” he growled a little louder. “That bible business is like okra. Looks nice n’crisp on the outside, but inside, it’s slimy.”

“I get the picture, Grandpa,” Mary said. She and her mother looked at each other and started laughing.

Meanwhile, back at the Bible Corporation of America, Robert Beardless was at desk reading the thesaurus he had borrowed from his sister.

“We’re saved,” he yelled. “Hallelujah!”

Robert got up from his desk, grabbed the book, and ran to see his boss. Excited and wordless, he walked passed the secretary and went straight into the president’s office. A deflated Mr. Mountebank was still beside his desk, kneeling in prayer.

“Sir!” Robert said with all the enthusiasm of an evangelist.

“Is that you, Robert?” Mr. Mountebank asked.

“Sir,” Robert said, kneeling next to his boss. “We are saved!” He opened the thesaurus and pointed to a three-syllable word that he knew would change everything.

Mr. Mountebank looked at that little word for a long time. He started feeling re-inflated. He then stood up, tightened his tie, did his best to straightened the wrinkles from his pants and suit jacket, and took a deep breath. “Paraphrase, you say.”

“Yes sir!,” Robert said proudly. “Let’s use paraphrase instead of rendition for the title.”

“Paraphrase instead of rendition,” Mr. Mountebank repeated. “I think it’ll work.”

This is one of numerous humorous, thought-provoking short stories by Karl Lehman, a former staff member of Alternatives, from his collection Candlebury Tales.

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