Sunday, September 25, 2005
003 The school-Wide Bible Quiz
It was Friday, and there were often school assemblies on Friday afternoons, with Bible drills being one of the most popular. As there were only 80 high school students and 60 junior high students, they all easily fit into the square of folding chairs that had been set up in one half of the gym. The gym did multiple duty as chapel and school production hall. Pastor "Pop" Holstein, Rachael's father and co-founder of the school, often served as moderator of the Bible drills.
As far as Bruce could see from Pop's benign nod at him and smile of congratulation as the seventh graders entered and took their seats, the senior Holstein bore him no ill will for having overturned his daughter's hopes of winning the yearly contest. Bruce and Harlowe and the others of his age sat in the front, with the older students lined up, row by row according to grade level, behind them.
The rules were that you could jump to your feet to answer, and if you got it right, your team got the point. But you could only do that once. On the really tough questions, Pop would start to call on people, or he might single out a certain team, like just the eighth graders or just the seniors, to answer certain questions.
"Let's get this over with," Bruce whispered to Harlowe. "I'm answering the first thing out of his mouth." Getting a question right away would spare him from further risk unless he were called upon directly. That wouldn't happen until all the easy questions had been asked and several of the hard ones.
At last everybody was seated, and Pop Holstein stepped behind the podium with his own Bible and his list of questions. Bruce tensed at the knees.
"Who---" Pop began.
Bruce leaped up.
"---is in charge of the lights?" Pop finished, his eyes fixed on Bruce in mild surprise.
Everybody started laughing, and Bruce sat down.
"Could somebody brighten the lights please?" Pop asked. One of the seniors ran to turn up the lights. But Pop beamed over at Bruce. "Well, Mr. Farris, now that you've read the Bible through in just nine weeks you seem ready to participate. Let's find a really good question for you."
Harlowe jabbed him in an agony of regret.
Bruce slowly stood up as the lights came up. Pop scanned his notes, and then after a pause, thumbed through his Bible. He beamed at Bruce. "Who wrote Genesis?"
"John," Bruce said.
Harlowe choked. Pop's mouth opened in surprise. Bruce caught himself. "I meant Moses!" he exclaimed. "Moses!"
"You stink, Farris!" Dave Wilson yelled from the back.
"Mr. Wilson, that's enough!" Pop exclaimed. "All right, no score on that. He's just a little flustered. Sit down Bruce. You'll get another turn later."
Several of the girls were giggling. Bruce sank onto the metal folding chair.
"John?" Harlowe echoed. "John? Wrote a book that was written three thousand years before he was born?"
"It just popped out of my mouth," Bruce hissed. "I was scared."
"A bag of hammers knows John didn't write Genesis. The basketball team's going to kill you."
Pop was asking another one. "Just for the seniors," he said. "In the Book of Nehemiah, who repaired the gate of the fountain? There are several possible right answers, as it was repaired in sections. And Dave Wilson, since you consider yourself such a master theologian, you can just answer that one for your class's team."
Several of the seniors softly groaned. Dave Wilson stood up and looked confused. He ran a thick hand through his mat of hair. "The gate of the fountain?" he asked. Several of the younger kids started giggling.
Harlowe turned around in his chair. "Tell him to say Naomi," Harlowe hissed back to the eighth graders. "Tell him it's a trick question. Pass it back."
"Harlowe, cut it out!" Bruce whispered.
Harlowe shrugged. "He'd never get it in a million years anyway."
The message was being passed back. Bruce hoped that the truism of "Whisper down the lane" would kick in, and Dave wouldn't get a coherent message by the time it was whispered up to him by the eleventh graders.
From the podium, Pop spoke up, sober as a judge. "You have ten seconds, Mr. Wilson. Who repaired the gate of the fountain?"
Wilson pressed his heavy lips together in perplexity and frowned. One of the girls in the row in front of him turned and whispered the message up to him.
"Turn around, Miss. No helping out," Pop said. "Well, Mr. Wilson?"
"Naomi," Dave Wilson said with great certainty.
The assembly exploded into laughter. For the second time, Pop was astounded.
After a startled moment of realizing he'd been duped, Wilson slowly sank down.
"Ask Bruce! Ask Bruce!" several of the seventh graders chanted. Obviously, they wanted their champion to redeem himself.
Pop Wilson glanced at Bruce and opened his hands, indicating that Bruce should stand up and answer.
"Do you know?" Harlowe hissed up at him, and Bruce gave a slight nod. But now he was caught. If he answered the question correctly, he'd be shoving Dave Wilson's face a little further into the dirt. But if he missed it, there could be no excusing the mistake. He might have limped by on the first mistake on a plea of being overly quick to jump up. But if he missed this one, too, the entire Varsity basketball team would surely use him for ball practice.
"Ten seconds, Mr. Farris," Pop said.
Bruce's voice came out like a squeak. "Shallun, son of Cohozeh."
By this time, several of the girls in the high school had found Nehemiah in their own Bibles and were looking it up. "Yes!" several exclaimed. All of the seventh graders and many of the other students burst into applause. It had been a hard question. Pop gave him a nod of congratulations and genuine respect. Bruce sat down. His knees were shaking.
"That was great!" Harlowe exclaimed, but Bruce cast a glance over his shoulder. All of the senior guys were staring at him very hard. He let out his breath. He was still in for it.
|
As far as Bruce could see from Pop's benign nod at him and smile of congratulation as the seventh graders entered and took their seats, the senior Holstein bore him no ill will for having overturned his daughter's hopes of winning the yearly contest. Bruce and Harlowe and the others of his age sat in the front, with the older students lined up, row by row according to grade level, behind them.
The rules were that you could jump to your feet to answer, and if you got it right, your team got the point. But you could only do that once. On the really tough questions, Pop would start to call on people, or he might single out a certain team, like just the eighth graders or just the seniors, to answer certain questions.
"Let's get this over with," Bruce whispered to Harlowe. "I'm answering the first thing out of his mouth." Getting a question right away would spare him from further risk unless he were called upon directly. That wouldn't happen until all the easy questions had been asked and several of the hard ones.
At last everybody was seated, and Pop Holstein stepped behind the podium with his own Bible and his list of questions. Bruce tensed at the knees.
"Who---" Pop began.
Bruce leaped up.
"---is in charge of the lights?" Pop finished, his eyes fixed on Bruce in mild surprise.
Everybody started laughing, and Bruce sat down.
"Could somebody brighten the lights please?" Pop asked. One of the seniors ran to turn up the lights. But Pop beamed over at Bruce. "Well, Mr. Farris, now that you've read the Bible through in just nine weeks you seem ready to participate. Let's find a really good question for you."
Harlowe jabbed him in an agony of regret.
Bruce slowly stood up as the lights came up. Pop scanned his notes, and then after a pause, thumbed through his Bible. He beamed at Bruce. "Who wrote Genesis?"
"John," Bruce said.
Harlowe choked. Pop's mouth opened in surprise. Bruce caught himself. "I meant Moses!" he exclaimed. "Moses!"
"You stink, Farris!" Dave Wilson yelled from the back.
"Mr. Wilson, that's enough!" Pop exclaimed. "All right, no score on that. He's just a little flustered. Sit down Bruce. You'll get another turn later."
Several of the girls were giggling. Bruce sank onto the metal folding chair.
"John?" Harlowe echoed. "John? Wrote a book that was written three thousand years before he was born?"
"It just popped out of my mouth," Bruce hissed. "I was scared."
"A bag of hammers knows John didn't write Genesis. The basketball team's going to kill you."
Pop was asking another one. "Just for the seniors," he said. "In the Book of Nehemiah, who repaired the gate of the fountain? There are several possible right answers, as it was repaired in sections. And Dave Wilson, since you consider yourself such a master theologian, you can just answer that one for your class's team."
Several of the seniors softly groaned. Dave Wilson stood up and looked confused. He ran a thick hand through his mat of hair. "The gate of the fountain?" he asked. Several of the younger kids started giggling.
Harlowe turned around in his chair. "Tell him to say Naomi," Harlowe hissed back to the eighth graders. "Tell him it's a trick question. Pass it back."
"Harlowe, cut it out!" Bruce whispered.
Harlowe shrugged. "He'd never get it in a million years anyway."
The message was being passed back. Bruce hoped that the truism of "Whisper down the lane" would kick in, and Dave wouldn't get a coherent message by the time it was whispered up to him by the eleventh graders.
From the podium, Pop spoke up, sober as a judge. "You have ten seconds, Mr. Wilson. Who repaired the gate of the fountain?"
Wilson pressed his heavy lips together in perplexity and frowned. One of the girls in the row in front of him turned and whispered the message up to him.
"Turn around, Miss. No helping out," Pop said. "Well, Mr. Wilson?"
"Naomi," Dave Wilson said with great certainty.
The assembly exploded into laughter. For the second time, Pop was astounded.
After a startled moment of realizing he'd been duped, Wilson slowly sank down.
"Ask Bruce! Ask Bruce!" several of the seventh graders chanted. Obviously, they wanted their champion to redeem himself.
Pop Wilson glanced at Bruce and opened his hands, indicating that Bruce should stand up and answer.
"Do you know?" Harlowe hissed up at him, and Bruce gave a slight nod. But now he was caught. If he answered the question correctly, he'd be shoving Dave Wilson's face a little further into the dirt. But if he missed it, there could be no excusing the mistake. He might have limped by on the first mistake on a plea of being overly quick to jump up. But if he missed this one, too, the entire Varsity basketball team would surely use him for ball practice.
"Ten seconds, Mr. Farris," Pop said.
Bruce's voice came out like a squeak. "Shallun, son of Cohozeh."
By this time, several of the girls in the high school had found Nehemiah in their own Bibles and were looking it up. "Yes!" several exclaimed. All of the seventh graders and many of the other students burst into applause. It had been a hard question. Pop gave him a nod of congratulations and genuine respect. Bruce sat down. His knees were shaking.
"That was great!" Harlowe exclaimed, but Bruce cast a glance over his shoulder. All of the senior guys were staring at him very hard. He let out his breath. He was still in for it.
