An Adventure of Padlock Holmes: A Study in Gold

 

An Adventure of Padlock Holmes: A Study in Gold

By Pastor Jim Allen and Paddy the Golden Doodle

 

The Messenger and the Oval Office

It was late at night, the fire was crackling in the hearth of our Mount Vernon rectory, and Pastor Jim and his Golden Doodle were watching an old black-and-white Sherlock Holmes film. I noticed Paddy wasn’t napping as he usually did; his head was cocked, his golden ears twitching at every bit of dialogue.

 

“Who is this Sherlock Holmes guy?” Paddy asked suddenly, his voice startling me out of my popcorn.

 

“He is a mythical character that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle created, Paddy,” I explained. “In the stories, he’s a hero with tremendous powers of observation. And he had a sidekick called Dr. Watson who helped him and recorded his adventures.”

As the movie reached its climax, I could tell Paddy was intrigued. The next morning, I walked into the kitchen and nearly dropped my coffee mug. Paddy was sitting at the breakfast table wearing a deerstalker cap, peering through a magnifying glass at a weathered copy of Doyle’s A Study in Scarlet.

 

“What are you up to this morning, my dear friend?” I asked, blinking.

 

“I think we can do these adventures as well, Dad,” Paddy replied, his voice a rich, scholarly baritone. “We can combine my intellect and observation with whatever it is you do. It’s a natural fit.”

 

“Hold on there, buckaroo,” I laughed. “I think you’ve got the roles reversed. I’m the one who noticed the neighbor’s cat was in our yard this morning. That’s observation!”

 

“Dad,” Paddy said with profound canine patience. “You noticed the cat. I noticed that the cat had a microscopic trace of red clay on its left hind paw found only in the foundation of the old Church ruins five miles east. Observation is seeing; deduction is knowing. And from this moment forward, when we are on the case, I would prefer you refer to me as Padlock Holmes.”

 

“Padlock?” I raised an eyebrow.

 

“Because I lock onto the truth, Dad. Now, quiet... there is a visitor.”

 

The Courier’s Message

Just then, a frantic knock thundered against the door. I opened it to find a courier, pale and trembling. As he extended his hand to pass me a weather-beaten envelope, his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed onto my rug.

 

“Padlock! Call 911!” I shouted, reaching for the man’s pulse and pulling out my stole to administer Last Rites.

 

“Already on it, Dad,” Padlock said, his paw hovering over the landline. “Though I suspect the local authorities won’t be the ones arriving first. This man has a high-security clearance tattoo behind his left ear—the mark of the סוד (sod; sohd—Secret Council).”

 

Within minutes, a sleek black van with tinted windows pulled into the driveway. Two men, built like brick walls, stepped out.

 

“He wants to see you,” the taller one said firmly.

 

“I responded, ‘What about the courier’s body?’” I asked, looking back at the man on my rug.

 

“The ‘cleaners’ will take care of him,” the man replied without a hint of emotion. “Let’s go.”

 

But who is “He.” I responded.

 

Annoyingly, Paddy looked up and said, “Dad, when it comes to the government there is only one ‘He’.”

 

Oh! I responded.

 

Next thing I knew, Padlock and I were on a private plane to Washington D.C. We landed at Joint Base Bolling (formerly Bolling AFB) and were escorted across town through the gates of the White House.

 

The Resolute Consultation

We entered the famous Oval Office. “Good morning, Mr. President,” Padlock said confidently.

 

I stood there, stunned. “Wait! You two know each other?” I oddly noticed how both Padlock and the President had strikingly similar orangish hair, catching the light from the tall windows. It was a peculiar, golden symmetry. Padlock hopped up onto the Resolute Desk, and the President leaned forward and lit Padlock’s meerschaum pipe.

 

“Dad,” Padlock exhaled a scholarly puff of smoke. “Where do you think I was for those three weeks in ‘22?”

 

“Those three weeks in Virginia? I thought you were in obedience school!” I exclaimed.

 

Paddy looked at me with a sly, canine grin. “Merely a ruse, Dad. I was actually helping the President with a bit of Ugaritic (Ugaritic; oo-gah-rit-ik) translation regarding ancient border disputes.”

 

“Well,” I responded. “That explains the lack of obedience!”

 

Paddy raised an eyebrow and knowingly smiled.

 

The President went grim. “Pastor, a man we call ‘The Scholar’—a Moriarty-level genius—has decoded state secrets hidden within the ancient manuscripts of the Sir Isaac Newton. He’s using 2 Thessalonians 2:4 as a cipher to infiltrate our ‘Inner Sanctuary’—the ναος (naos; nah-os). If he succeeds, world relations will crumble. You will be Padlock’s Dr. Watson. And... you will carry the gun.”

 

“But?...” I started to reply.

 

Director Radcliffe, the head of the CIA, stepped forward. “The President has already informed me of your ammunition needs, Pastor, and I have taken the liberty to have you so equipped.”

 

Padlock turned his head. “What history have you not told me about, Dad?”

 

“That’s a story for another day, Padlock. You’re not the only one with secrets.” I replied. I looked at the President and thought of the prophet’s call in the temple. “Mr. President, in the year that King Uzziah died, the prophet saw the Lord sitting on a throne. When the Lord asked, ‘Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?’ the answer was simple. הנני (Hineni; hee-nay-nee). ‘Here I am. Send me.’ Consider us sent.”

 

“Yes,” the President added. “A plane is waiting for you. God’s Providence and our prayers are with you!”

 

Next thing I knew, Padlock and I were strapped into a flight bound for... ???

Tune in next week for: The Mission!

 

Pastor Jim Allen is the shepherd of Trinity Evangelical Church, and he encourages you to attend the Church of your choice. However, if you are looking for a Church Home, please join us every Sunday for Worship at 10:10am. Trinity is located at 505 Mulberry Street in Mount Vernon.