Zoomtard

A few people have been asking me what the process was for me to be selected, as I was last Tuesday, as an official candidate for the ordained ministry in the Presbyterian Church in Ireland. At the end of a process that began with innocuous queries fourteen months ago, I am now ready to reveal the inner secrets of our highly prized selection process. I think you will agree that it tops anything you’ll find in the secular arena.

On Monday last week the twenty five us arrived at Union Theological College in Belfast in the morning for introductory lectures in the different subjects we study before being ordained. That might sound simple and straightforward to you but believe it or not, the process began the night before. We were each given a telegram on Friday morning warning us to be at a petrol station on the Lisburn Road at a certain time. For me, it was just before midnight and a man approached my car, knocked on the window and gave me an egg with a castle drawn on it. He simply said, “Where next? Probably UP!”

After some thought I realised they were probably pointing me towards Belfast castle where I got my next set of clues. After a night chasing around the city, I eventually arrived at my destination some time near dawn. As we straggled in we fell asleep at the steps of that fine theological institution, only to be woken by Dawn, the college administrator some time before 8. At any point during lectures that day, if we fell asleep, the lecturers would slap our wrists with rulers while shouting “SCHNELL!” That was very confusing. Rev. Craig Mawhinney was the worst for that. Six people didn’t make it through the treasure hunt and two people took the risk of bypassing it and just showing up at Union. They were forced to wear a tshirt with Charles Wesley’s face on it for the day as a result of their unwillingness to participate in what had been planned for them.

The Tuesday was the important day though. The interview day. We were all told in advance to dress up all nice and fancy like we were going for a job with Intel or some real employment your parents could respect. But it was only on Monday night that we were informed that carefully and elaborately groomed facial hair would be an advantage. You could hear me and the two women’s hearts sink. I resisted the urge to dye cotton wool and glue it to my face. I let God decide if my bum-fluff face would stop me from becoming a Minister, which is after all, the most honourable task in all the world, even more than researching cures for cancer or teaching autistic kids.

The first task was a group discussion. We were split into groups of four and we had to choose one of twelve topics to prepare a short introduction to and then lead a discussion on. We were observed while doing this by ministers in white lab coats and there were a few disgruntled elders spaced around the room who kept trying to interrupt us with irrelevant complaints about “how we usually do things”, “where is all this money coming from Rev. Moneybags” or “the traditions of this community”. I chose what I thought was the juiciest topic, “Why are some swans born gay if God wants us to be homophobic?”

The second stage of the day was the actual interview. I was asked a number of important questions. For example, “Kevin, tell us what you think of the role of inspiration in the Bible?” I answered like this, “Let me quote Eminem, who I feel is like a modern day Jeremiah, when he says, ‘I guess words are a motherfucker, they can be great, or they can be great, or even worse, they can teach hate’ and so it is with Holy Scripture”. I know they loved that answer.

It showed I was relevant.

Then they asked me why I wanted to be a minister in a declining church when I could do anything I wanted. I answered that one confidently too. “It’s not a declining church!”, I said. “It’s a declining church AND the Dublin and Munster Presbytery. Go on ya boyos! Tiocfaidh ar lá! Plus, its a rare job where they give you free alcohol on the job. Communion wine is still wine, right?”

Along with my succinct answers, my willingness to dance in the interview “to express myself more fully” and the tears I turned on whenever they asked hard questions meant that they couldn’t really say no. But I still had one hurdle to leap over. Effortlessly.

The final stage was the impromptu sermon. Have you ever seen the X-Factor? It’s like that. There is a panel of judges and you have to come in and strut your stuff. We were given our text a few hours beforehand. Laughably, mine was Luke 15, a passage I have preached on a dozen times. I cut the first 3000 words off the most recent sermon and preached the conclusion. But I did that Presbyterian thing where my voice modulated like a sacred sine wave, up and then down in the same sentence, undulating like the waves of the sovereign God’s grace in my life. At the end, I made an impassioned and pulpit thumping altar call, demanding that people give their lives to Christ THIS VERY DAY. I got one hand immediately. As the tear filled minister repented and gave their life to Jesus, I waited. And waited. And waited. Finally the elder on my board relented, gave up his life of darkness and embraced the love of God. I think they were really impressed by my willingness to wait people out. And also my ability to preach on young earth creationism from Luke 15.

All in all, I feel like they made a good decision. And unless the Methodists want to sweep in and give me a car as part of the deal, I am “called” by “God” to teach children outmoded religious regulations. I mean, the Gospel.

Your Correspondent, May not be giving an orderly account of things.