Chapter 5 A Seed of Doubt

That summer, Matthew spent the long seminary holidays on board ship with his father. It was a hot summer day and they were sunbathing on the deck.
“I’d like a drink,” said Rob Otley. “Would you like a drink Matthew?”
“Do you have any Coca-Cola?”
“We don’t buy stuff from supermarkets that taste of chemicals,” said Rob. He picked up his gold plated mobile phone and called the servants. “2 grapefruit and pineapple juices, please.”
“Dad, it’s really difficult for the seminary students to get jobs at the moment. I appreciate you seem to have a good effect on the church, but it’s going to make it really hard to find a job.”
“Your father caused a world revival,” said Mrs. Otley. “20% of the population are born again Christians, except for countries that have severe persecution. Even there, there’s stories about Christians meeting around their computers and their short wave radios, listening to your father’s sermons.”
“Son, I don’t want you to get a job. I want you to carry on my work. I want you to do what I do. Forget about the other guys at the seminary. We have the technology. Today, we only need one person in a whole generation who is a gifted Bible teacher. And it might as well be you.”
“I’d like to take a gap year, Dad. I’d like to do a sandwich course and spend a year working in an American church before I finish my degree.”
“Great Son, you’re only 20. Do what your heart says. It might broaden your experience of life, help you understand leadership. Then come and be my replacement. I’ve got a fantastic private pension.”
“A private pension?” asked Mrs. Otley, almost choking on her grapefruit and pineapple juice. “Do you think we need one?”
“It was a good investment. A really good return on my money. It was good stewardship,” said Rob.
“Father, how much do you give away?” asked Matthew.
“I tithe. A full ten per cent.”

That lunchtime they had some avocado. Matthew started spreading it on his bread. Everyone else was eating it with spoons.
“This is great in a sandwich,” said Matthew. “Dad, have you ever tried mushy peas?”
“Tinned mushy peas from a supermarket are nothing like as good as avocado,” said Rob.
“Don’t be ashamed of your working class roots, darling,” said Mrs. Otley.
“Son,” he said to Matthew, laughing, “if you’re not a socialist when you’re 20 you haven’t got a heart. If you’re still a socialist when you’re 40, you haven’t got any sense.”

Matthew spent the whole of the next seminary year sending off his CV to hundreds, even thousands of churches, all across the states.
“You didn’t do too well in that debate,” said Joe, as Matthew sat emailing another church on the computer.
“I usually read a book of the Bible 40 times before we discuss it. I haven’t had as much time recently.”
“I find people who do a placement don’t do as well in their final year,” said Joe. “You’ll pass, but you could have had a first class degree. Now you’ll limp home with a poor second class.”
“Joe, let me put it this way. Sometimes I don’t know whether I’m an amillennialist, a post millennialist, or a pre millennialist. But when I look into the eyes of a starving child, it doesn’t seem to matter.”
“What are you writing, Matthew?” Joe read from the screen. “University theology student needs challenging church placement. Does your fellowship need encouragement, help and vision? I can provide my own support and don’t require a salary. That’s generous. Aren’t you going to tell them you’re Rob Otley’s son?”
“No Joe, I have to get this placement on my own merits.”

A few weeks later Matthew received a phone call.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hello. Is that Matthew Otley?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Pastor Emmanuel Woodhouse. My wife and I run a church in Portland, Oregon.”
“Did you receive my email?”
“Indeed we did. We haven’t got the money to employ a team of paid staff. We have about 30 members. Are you able to provide your own support?”
“Yes. I can certainly support myself. I’ve received some money towards my living expenses and my fees.” His father had actually given him a million pounds in a bank account and told him to live off the interest.
“Can you arrange to meet us some time?”
“It’s the Easter holidays in a few weeks time. I’ll come and see you then.”

Matthew arrived at the nearest airport. He had arranged to stay with the couple at their home. He carried two small suitcases with him to the taxi rank.
“Can you take me to 27 Bremner Park, Portland?” he called to a taxi driver.
“Yeah, sure,” said the driver. He got out of the car and helped Matthew with his cases. They kept talking as the driver drove along. “What are you going there to do?”
“I’m a church minister.”
“Does it pay well?”
“It doesn’t pay at all. I have to pay my own wages. I’m a student. I want to help lead a church for a year as part of my theology degree.”
“Without being paid? How do you support yourself?” asked the driver.
“I come from a wealthy family.”
“You’ll find Portland a bit different to that, especially this part of Portland.” The car arrived in the area where Pastor Emmanuel Woodhouse lived. “The last taxi driver who drove to that part of the estate was held at gunpoint and robbed of all his money. I’ll stop here. You can walk the rest of the way.” Matthew took the two small suitcases and a little map of the area he had printed out on his computer.

Half an hour later he arrived on the street and saw a sign that said Bremner Park. He looked for a house that wasn’t boarded up. The number 27 was painted on the wall. He saw a reinforced steel door. While checking no one was around, he picked up his mobile phone. It was a cheap supermarket model, but it could still be stolen. He phoned the couple inside.
“Hello. Mr. Woodhouse? I’m standing outside the house.” The solid grey steel door flew open. An elderly man with big glasses came out.
“Hello Matthew. Come in.” The pastor led Matthew into the house to where his wife sat on an old settee next to a battered looking coffee table. They were both about sixty years old. They were watching an old television.

“Would you like some tea?” asked Mrs. Woodhouse.
“Yes,” said Matthew, and sat down. Mr. Woodhouse left the lounge. A few minutes later the sound could be heard of an old kettle whistling. Mr. Woodhouse returned with 3 cups of tea on a tray.
“I’m afraid we don’t have any sugar,” he said.
“That’s fine,” said Matthew. They all sat down and drank the tea together. “Let’s talk about your church.” Mr. Woodhouse turned the television off.
“There’s about 30 of us,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “We meet twice on a Sunday, in a community centre about half a mile down the road.”
“My husband and I could do with some help,” said Mrs. Woodhouse. “We’re too old. It’s hard to set the chairs out and carry the TV on Sunday.”
“What kind of TV do you have?” asked Matthew.
“The one we were watching in here,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “We can’t afford a large screen. And a $50 DVD player to plug in the back.”
“Why do you stay here? Couldn’t you join one of those megachurches in the city?”
“This part of the city has nothing else,” said Mrs. Woodhouse.
“Most of the people from this area moved out looking for work,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “The ones who remain are either the lazy, the docile or the unlucky ones who couldn’t find work and had to come back.”

Mrs. Woodhouse made the evening meal. It was extremely simple. Potatoes, spaghetti hoops, and meat balls that tasted like sausages.
“Real food, not the stuff my father gets on my ship,” Matthew thought but didn’t say. There wasn’t any desert.