Half of the kids here live on farms. They’ve seen real sheep, many of them. They know that sheep don’t just stand there. They know that sheep don’t often follow directions. They know that sheep are dumb. They know that all sheep want to do is eat.
So, when the young mothers casually instructed the two dozen sheep to act like sheep, they really should have known better. Some of the sheep started to do a remarkable imitation of grazing behind the communion table. Some wandered over by the choir to graze, and others went down the center aisle. Some of them had donuts they found in the church parlor to make their grazing look even more realistic. When one of the shepherds tried to herd them a bit with his shepherd’s crook, some of the sheep spooked and started to scatter just like real sheep do. Everybody knows that’s how sheep act. It was, in fact, a remarkable imitation of sheep behavior, even though a bit out of the ordinary for a Christmas Pageant.
Now, Alvina was watching all this from the last pew of the sanctuary. I could just see her from where I was sitting. As the sheep spooked and scattered with much imitation bleating, Alvina looked down to hide a smirk. Young mothers, I’m sure she was thinking. If they know so much, let them try to direct the Christmas Pageant. The real climax of imprecision came, however, at that point of high drama when Mary and Joseph enter, Mary clutching a baby doll in a blue blanket. This year’s Mary, whose name was actually Mary, was taking her role with an intense and pious seriousness. She looked into the face of the doll in her arms with eyes that really seemed to see the infant Christ. Joseph was another story. He had gotten the part because he had been rejected from Christmas Pageant participation by Alvina Johnson more times than any other kid in church. “With good reason,” some might say.
Anyway, Mary and Joseph were to walk on as the Narrator read, “And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem … to be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child.” At least this is what the Narrator was supposed to read. It was what the Narrator had read at the rehearsal. But a few hours before the performance, one of the young mothers had observed that none of the children could much understand King James English, so they voted, in their ongoing mood of revolutionary fervor, to switch to the Good News translation of the Bible for the performance. “What kid knows what ‘great with child’ means?” they asked.
The Good News translation is much more direct at this point. So, as Mary and Joseph entered, the Narrator read, “Joseph went to register with Mary who was promised in marriage to him. She was pregnant.”
As that last word echoed from the Narrator through the PA system into the full church, our little Joseph, hearing it, froze in his tracks, gave Mary an incredulous look, peered out at the congregation, and said, “Pregnant? What do you mean, pregnant?” This, of course, brought down the house. My wife, wiping tears from her eyes, leaned over to me and said, “You know, that may well be just what Joseph actually said.”
Alvina was now wearing a look that simply broadcast I told you so. But as the Pageant wound into its closing tableaux and the church lights were dimmed for the singing of “Silent Night,” a couple of magical—I would allow, miraculous—things happened. The sheep, when they had finished with their part, bleated their way down the aisle to sit in the last couple of pews to watch the end of the Pageant. Alvina was in the last pew and she suddenly found herself surrounded by a little herd of three-, four-, and five-year-olds in sheep outfits.
It was late, the church was warm, and the sheep were drowsy. I glanced over to Alvina as the Wise Men were exiting and the organ was softly playing the melody of “Silent Night.” The sheep in the pew on either side of Alvina had fallen asleep and were resting their fake-wool heads on her shoulders, something they would feel comfortable doing with any grown-up in church. As the church went dark for the singing of “Silent Night,” we could see what had been happening outside for the last hour. The first real snow of the winter was falling. Big, fat flakes floated down and covered everything with a white, uniform perfection. As we—little kids and grown-ups—saw it, there was a spontaneous and corporate “ahh.”
We sang: “Silent night, holy night, All is calm, all is bright.” It was very softly that we sang and all the sheep were quiet, even the ones who were awake, and everybody looked at the snow. It was as if flakes of grace were falling, falling free out of heaven and blessing the muddy earth with purity, a whiteness covering the dirt and the shoddiness with perfection. When the carol was finished, no one stirred for a long time. It wasn’t planned, but we all just sat there and watched.
It seemed like an eternity, but it was maybe two minutes. Minnie MacDowell broke the spell. She’s hard of hearing and always talks too loud. She meant to whisper to her husband, but everybody heard. “Perfect,” she said, “just perfect.”
And so it was—not perfect in the way Alvina’s Pageants tried to make things perfect, but perfect in the way God makes things perfect. God accepts our fumbling attempts at performance, at love and fairness, and then covers them with grace. I think the moment may have even touched the iron butterfly. Minnie said that Alvina mentioned to her that if they needed any more sheep outfits for next year, she could perhaps find time to make a few.
– 2 –
The Little Things
The coming of our fourth winter in North Haven has been for me like a clock striking the hour. One, two, and three made a set, a time-trinity, but this fourth has drifted upon me whispering: “Long time, now, long time.” This mood also has something to do with having turned forty in the fall. My thirties, I argued, were “mature youth.” The actuarial tables gave me more distance ahead of me than behind. But forty is most likely halfway home, give or take a few years. Forty is second base: The pitcher is lined right up with home plate. One base behind, one base ahead.
It is a perch from which one is inclined to do some reconnoitering. Forty years lived and four of them in this one place and what difference has it all made? Second Presbyterian Church has a net membership of two fewer souls than four years ago. There are four more children registered in the Sunday school. I have preached 187 sermons here, baptized 8 babies and 1 middle-aged lady. I have married 17 couples and buried 28 people.
At current pace, that means over the next twenty-five years: 1,175 more sermons, 50 more babies, 6 middle-aged ladies, 104 happy couples, and 175 funerals, not counting mine. Is anybody keeping track? And if all this is being tallied in some cosmic computer, will my file be distinguishable from that of a million other well-meaning clergy who worked hard enough and did a pretty good job?
As I sat in my study on a Tuesday morning after working out those chilling numbers on my pocket calculator, I glanced out the window at the snow from the storm of two weeks ago, now plowed into a dirty-brown wall around the perimeter of the parking lot. I turned to open my mail, every last piece of it third class. A minister’s desk is deluged daily with promotional mailings from a zillion little companies out to sell you everything from large-print, red-letter Bibles to disposable communion cups. And a lot of them seem to be selling advice. They don’t call it that. They call it “consulting,” or “stewardship enrichment,” or “educational enhancement,” or “mission invigoration.” I suspect that most of these outfits are run out of their basements by ministers who had done what I did and computed how many sermons they had yet to preach and determined it was time for them to do some income enrichment and career invigoration.
I usually throw these letters away unopened. But some savvy promoter suspected I would do that and he had printed in bright orange letters across the face of the envelope itself the hook that snagged my weak flesh. “Open This Envelope,” it said, “and Revolutionize Your Church’s Life and Mission.” So I opened it and read the letter that began, “Dear Fellow Pastor.” The word “new” appeared seven times in the text, the word “vigor” twice, and variations of the word “energy” four times. It told of a program replete with study books, special wors
hip services, cassette tapes, and a leader’s guide, all for $89.95, with a 10 percent discount for prepaid orders.
It seemed solid stuff, a little gimmicky maybe, but theologically grounded, and, well, “new,” and “vigorous,” and full of “energy.” As I reached to set the letter aside, I saw that my calculator was still on the desk in front of me displaying the number “175,” the number of projected funerals of my career. As I looked at those LCD numerals, they suddenly seemed a cryptic omen foreboding a career punctuated by nothing more lasting than a string of funerals. I checked the little box that said “Yes! I want to invigorate my church.”
In the days before the materials arrived, the whole undertaking developed a sort of fantasy life for me. I imagined people in town saying to each other six months from now, “Boy, things are really hoppin’ over to the Presbyterian church.” I imagined the word circulating among ministers in nearby towns about the exciting growth in the North Haven church. I imagined my smiling photo on the religion page of the Mankato paper under the headline VISIONARY PASTOR AWAKENS SLEEPING CHURCH. I even chose a title for the book I would write about it, The North Haven Story.
The Pastor’s Manual for the Congregational invigoration Plan was not divided into anything as mundane as chapters. Rather, it consisted of six “Invigoration Steps.” The first was entitled: “How to Get Your Church Board on Board.” I did everything it said I should do, and the Session looked at me as if I had two heads and said: “Well, that might be nice. Go ahead, Dave, we won’t stand in your way.”
Invigoration Step One concluded with these words of advice: “Now that your church board is filled with excitement about the plan, your next step is to broaden this enthusiasm to the whole congregation through the Grand Kick-Off Dinner.” The arrangements for this event were thoroughly outlined in Invigoration Step Two.
We had the Grand Kick-Off Dinner last Friday night. Including my wife and three members of the Ladies Aid Society who come to everything at church no matter what it is, a total of twelve people came. Historically, this was an interesting attendance figure, but a very disappointing beginning. We all had plenty to eat, however.
Invigoration Step Two ended with these words: “Now that real anticipation is brewing throughout the congregation, the moment has come to preach the sermon you have always meant to preach!” Step Three consisted of three suggested outlines of “the sermon you have always meant to preach” along with about a dozen “time-tested” illustrations.
I chose “Invigoration Sermon Outline B” and spent the better part of a week writing and rewriting a finely crafted piece of pulpit oratory. When the day came, I preached it well, although as the words came from my lips they sounded strangely unlike anything that I might ever really say. After the service, as the congregation filed through the greeting line on their way to the coffee hour, I waited expectantly for sermon reactions with less nonchalance than usual. The first person to offer anything beyond the usual pleasantries was Angus MacDowell, who said, “Fine sermon, Dave. Minnie and I have always liked that sermon, especially the part about the Lord not having any hands but our hands and any feet but our feet. Hadn’t heard that since Reverend Willis back in the fifties.”
As I settled into the living room couch that afternoon, I came to understand that I was being kindly humored by a congregation that was quite as vigorous as it had any desire to be. Sunday afternoons, after the peak of morning worship, are usually a spiritual valley, but that one was deeper than usual. From it, everything I’d ever done in my ministry was shaded to look like a series of fumbles and small-time blunders. This last one was symbolic of them all. One day I would step across home plate, pass from the field, and in no time drop right out of the world’s memory. Any squeak I had made in history would soon be silenced out. The little wake that trailed my stern would soon smooth over.
A crazy childhood memory dropped into my head that seemed a dark parable for life itself. When I was six or seven, I faithfully watched a kids’ TV show called Axel’s Tree House. This was the early fifties: live, local programming, unrehearsed, unprofessional, and unpredictable. Axel was an old man, or at least I remember him as an old man. He was probably about forty. He lived in a tree house and spoke, for some inexplicable reason, with a fake Swedish accent. Two or three times during the show, Axel would look through a hand-held telescope and say, “I tink I see dem Little Rascals out dere.” And behold, a Little Rascals adventure would appear on the screen.
At the beginning and the end of the show, the camera would pan to a small set of bleachers, ostensibly inside Axel’s tree house, in which were seated Axel’s “friends,” about twenty-five cheering seven- to ten-year-olds. Even then I wondered how so many people could fit into a tree house. The kids would cheer when the Little Rascals came on. They would laugh at Axel’s jokes and appear stumped by his riddles. At the end of the program, Axel would take a microphone taped to a three-foot stick and ask if any of the kids would like to say hello to their family or their friends “out dere in TV land.”
One day when Axel asked this question a kid about my age shot his hand in the air. Axel poked the microphone in front of the kid, and the camera came full-face on the youngster. “Vat’s your name?”
“Jimmy,” the kid said.
“And vat vould you like to say?” asked Axel. Jimmy didn’t say anything at first. Then he smiled broadly, made a certain vulgar hand gesture directly into the lens of the camera and said, “This is for you, Herbie, and I really mean it.” Immediately the screen went black. It stayed black for about three minutes. When the show came back on, Axel started to interview the other kids, and tell jokes and ask riddles. Jimmy was gone. There was not even an empty spot in the bleachers where Jimmy had been. No one even mentioned Jimmy or what he had done. It was as if Jimmy had vanished from the earth, as if Jimmy had never existed. That’s the core of the memory—not what Jimmy did, I had seen that small vulgarity before and was not shocked. What etched itself on my memory was the idea that a kid could just disappear like that without anybody saying anything about it.
I felt like a Jimmy that Sunday afternoon. Someday they were going to pull me right out of the bleachers and everybody would budge over to cover my spot. No mention would be made of my name. The show would go on as if I had never been there.
I couldn’t abide my office the next Tuesday morning, so I went to get my hair cut. The town barber’s name is Harry. He’s about seventy and a chatty type with a repertoire of stale barber jokes. No pension, I suppose, so he keeps cutting hair. He’s says he’s “R.C.,” but I don’t think he’s been in church for years. He starts every one of my haircuts with “I’m Catholic, but …” I think he says that so I won’t ask him to come to church. Harry asked what kinds of things ministers did on the other six days of the week. He wasn’t teasing—it was an honest question. I talked about meetings, hospital visits, and counseling with people who had problems to talk over.
Something I said touched a nerve in Harry, and he started to talk. He talked about being a kid and what a pain it was. He started to talk about his father, whom he called “my old man.” This seventy-year-old was calling his father “old man.” My haircut was done; we were alone in the shop. A scissors in one hand and a comb in the other, he was resting them both on my shoulders as he talked. He talked about how his old man mercilessly beat him and his mother most every Saturday night. He talked about how afraid he was, about how much he loved and hated his father. He said he had never told anybody about this before, not in sixty years. His mother, he said, carried the secret to her grave. Nobody had ever guessed. We were both facing the big barbershop mirror. His eyes were reddening. We looked at each other in the mirror in a way we could not have face to face. I reached to my shoulders and held his hands, and said something about when you forgive somebody it doesn’t mean that you are saying that what they did was all right.
That evening I had a meeting at church but got home fairly early. Annie said that the kids were waiting up for me and wou
ld be wanting their story and kisses. I was exhausted and would much sooner have dropped myself in front of the television. But I went upstairs and found two little peanuts fighting sleep. They had the book ready, a slip of yellow construction paper marking the spot where we had stopped reading the night before. So I read chapter six of Ramona the Pest. They fell asleep before its end. I kissed them both and sat at the edge of the bed for a moment and said their prayers for them.
And sitting there it came to me that of all the meetings I had attended in the last few days, of all the sermons I’d preached, of all the programs I’d introduced or tried to introduce, the most important things I had done in all my busy-ness were to touch Harry the barber’s hands and to read chapter six of Ramona the Pest. These were important things—not because the other things were unimportant. They were important because the mark a man or a woman makes on this world is most often a trail of faithful love, and quiet mercies, and unknown kindnesses.
– 3 –
Merciful Snow
Nothing that would appear important seems to happen here. But in the rhythm of this gentler routine, outwardly insignificant events that once would not have held my attention for an hour receive an attention I have come to know they deserve. Our time is cut into segments by these small events: births, deaths, marriages, people moving to Florida, hot spells, and blizzards.
We write down our time markers in the North Haven Herald, the town’s only newspaper, which is published weekly. It’s a weekly except in the summer when Bud Jennerson, who writes, edits, sells the advertising, operates the press, and answers the phone, goes to Colorado for the month of July to visit his brother. Then, for a month, the Herald becomes a monthly.
Bud’s journalistic eye surveys the whole range of life in this small place, ranging from malicious to petty to sentimental to genuinely noble. But the Herald reports only the stories that seem to Bud to be good for us to know more about than word of mouth is able to relate. Weddings, for instance, are reported in great detail. Bud’s wedding stories routinely report the color of the bridesmaids’ dresses, the central point of the minister’s nuptial meditation, and the menu at the reception. And there is always a photograph: the bride in white looking pleased and so very young; the groom in a rented velvet tuxedo with sleeves a little too short. In many cases he sports the last tie he’ll wear until his next formal occasion in life when he will be the subject of one of Bud’s obits. Bud also reports the weather in great detail, although only after the fact. But he reports in detail, like who in town got water in their basements and how much.
Good News from North Haven Page 2
