May I Say Who's Calling?

Ring, ring.

“First Church of Pretty Big City. Please listen carefully, our menu may have changed. For a directory of church personnel, please push ‘1’. For a calendar of events, push ‘2’. To register a prayer request, please push ‘3’. For a . . . .”

The parson pushed ‘1’.

“Welcome to the First Church of Pretty Big City telephone directory. Please enter the first three letters of the last name of the person you wish to reach.”

The parson punched in P, O, and R.

“You have indicated you wish to talk to … the voice changed to that of the parson’s old friend … Dr. I. M. Portant. If this is correct, please press the pound key.”

The parson pulled his phone away from his ear, moved his head up and down to bring his bifocals into alignment and pressed the key.

Ring-Ring. Ring-Ring.

“Dr. I. M. Portant’s office,” said the pleasant female voice.

The parson waited.

“Hello.”

“Hello. Sorry about that. I wasn’t sure if you were a real person.”

“May I help you, sir?” she said rather stiffly.

“Yes, I’d like to talk to the pastor, please.”

“May I say whose calling?”

The parson paused. Then with a smile on his face, he replied, “No, you can’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I said you can’t tell him whose calling.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You asked me if you could tell the pastor whose calling. You can’t.”

“That’s not allowed, sir.”

“What’s not allowed?”

“I can’t put you through without knowing whose calling.”

“Why can’t you?”

“It’s our policy?”

“Whose policy?”

“Ours.”

“Do you mean ‘ours’ as in the Administrative Board or ‘ours’ as in you and the pastor?”

“Does it matter?”

“Well, of course, it matters. If it’s the Administrative Board I’m stuck. If it’s you and the pastor, you have the power to change the policy.”

“Sir, why don’t you just tell me whose calling.”

“Because, I might not want you to know.”

“Why would you not want me to know?”

“I may be calling to confess to the pastor some dark, unspeakable, sin I’ve committed. And I wouldn’t want you know who I was.”

“I doubt very seriously if I would know who you are, sir.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know many of the people who attend our church.”

“You don’t?”

“No, sir.”

“That’s a shame. You don’t know the folks there?”

“No, sir.”

“But don’t you run into the church folks during your normal day?”

“Sir, I’m the pastor’s secretary.”

“And that means you don’t see church members?”

“Very rarely.”

“Good grief. Let me speak to the pastor.”

“Who’s calling, sir.”

“The bishop.”

“I don’t believe you’re the bishop.”

“Why not?”

“Because the bishop would just have said, ‘This is the bishop. Let me talk to Dr. Portant.’”

“Knowing the bishop, you’re probably right.”

“So, you’re not the bishop?”

“Oh, hell no. Thank you Jesus.”

“Sir, I’ve got work to do. Can I tell Dr. Portant whose calling?”

“No, you can’t.”

“Sir.”

“Yes.”

“I can’t put you through if I don’t know who you are.”

“Can you give him a message?”

“I can put you through to his voice mail.”

“That will be fine. What’s your name?”

“Mary.”

“Okay, Mary, put me through.”

Ring. Ring.

“You have reached the voice mail of Dr. I. M. Portant. I can’t take your call just now, but leave a message and someone will get back to you.”

Beep.

“Ira! Can she tell you whose calling, my ass. Listen I called to ask if you wanted to go to the game this Saturday with Jim and me. I’ve got tickets on the fifty yard line. Call and let me know either way. If you can go push ‘1’; if you can’t push ‘2’. And if you don’t leave me a message on what number to call to bypass all your big city church phone system crap, I’m going to tell Mary about that night at Pfeiffer College when you sneaked into the senior girls’ dorm.”