The Rev. Billy Graham, Angels, and Tiny Bubbles: A Story of Hope and Love

On Wednesday, Feb. 21, a man some described as “America’s pastor,” the Rev. Billy Graham, died at age 99. That single event set in motion an adventuresome trip down memory lane for me, as I reflected at length and in depth about my childhood, where I’d first heard him preach in person. He was appearing at the open-air Alamo Stadium, constructed in San Antonio’s Monte Vista district, in 1940 as a Works Progress Administration project (thanks Wikipedia). In those days…life was different.

My mom had decided that since my great aunt Emma and our family friend Charlotte wanted to go hear him, and they didn’t drive, we’d all go to hear him. As a child of six, I was naturally inquisitive, pelting my mom with questions before the service began. Why was church outside and it wasn’t a Sunday? Were these bleachers called pews? Why was there such a long distance between the “congregation” and the minister? Mom patiently answered my questions, the woman who should have been awarded some kind of medal for surviving the raising of an overly inquisitive child.

And then it began. George Beverly Shea sang. I think that’s what I’d once thought the “voice” of God must sound like. Booming, full, inspired, and amazing. I listened to Shea’s voice on his songs, not the lyrics, all except for the alter call: “Just As I Am.” That one, I found myself singing along to, as best I could back then. I was oblivious to the thousands of people around me that day. I was remembering this week what might be my first memory of being lost in meditation or fully in faith.

As an adult, I’m less fixed on structure for terms that relate to a higher power by a name. I generally describe my faith in terms I learned growing up, but I’m open to a greater, more inclusive or less restrictive understanding wherein there is essentially the presence of the spirit I feel is holy, wholly.

At the end, Rev. Graham invited the audience to come forward if we wanted to be “saved.” Again, I whispered to mom, “Mom, do I need to go down there to be saved?” She smiled her angelic smile and shook her head no, saying, “No, honey you were saved when you were born because I gave you back to God. You are his child. You’ve been baptized and there’s no need to go down there.” “Okay,” I answered, strengthened in my decision to remain in my bleacher, err, pew.

Fast forward many decades. Church worship is a subject fraught with a list of “terms and conditions” that many impose on what it feels “right” to do, and when and where and how one can worship. Some Sundays I find comfort in gathering in pews or folding chairs, with longtime friends as family, surrounded by love and belonging. Other Sundays, I can walk in nature, observing the awesome wonder of the world we live in, expressing my appreciation as best I can. There’s no right or wrong for me, really, just a choice that feels like I’ve emerged from my reflection on the week as a stronger person, renewed to try the week ahead with energy and intention. I acknowledge my sins in prayer and ask for forgiveness and a clean slate to try again to do better. I don’t like hearing politics in church, ever, so when I do, I tend to bug out and head for the hills until I’m prepared to return with a calmed heart.

The week behind me had been filled with challenges, some exciting and delightful; others found me in uncharacteristic intense melancholy. I was “stuck” and I didn’t seem to be able to get out of the mud. Along my path came a call from dear friend, to chat about things we had an exciting time discussing, and that conversation cheered me greatly. I had almost snapped out of my blues, intensified by the gray, sun-scarce skies and falling rain. Even with every light in the house on, it wasn’t quite enough to turn the melancholy to cheer.

I kept my head down and kept working, a sure-fire cure for what ails you…make forward progress every day if you can. If you can’t, try anyway. Keep trying.

When she called back an hour later, I fully expected to hear more surprising delightful news. Instead she asked me point blank: “Are you happy? Is everything in your life the way you want it to be right now?” I blinked, swallowed and said, “Well, it’s okay. It will get better. Just staying focused.”

“That’s not good enough,” she said. “What are you going to do to change it?” Fast forward to my receiving a lovely good “talking to,” one that left us both reminded to never give up on our dreams, no matter how absurd or outlandishly unrealistic.

It was in that moment that I snapped to…and was grateful for someone bravely stepping out and sharing truth…I let go of the need to control. And I returned to wait patiently, eyes wide open. Whoa, Nellie. Answers began appearing everywhere around me.

Back to Billy Graham. I thought about him being the minister for so many presidential inaugurations, during the days he preached actively, and his may have been only one of the people in the 60s you could send something to by mail (for a $.03 stamp) just addressed to “Billy Graham, Minneapolis, Minnesota” and it would reach him. That’s impressive.

Plenty of time to reflect in the past 72 hours and seeing challenges met, obstacles overcome, and a renewed focus on my dreams, with no need to control the outcome. All because a faithful friend reached out to ask a question: “What are you going to do to change it?”

Can’t speak for everyone, but the more I thought about the lifelong goal of Billy Graham to serve God and help others, the words to “Just as I am,” and the words of truth I’d heard, they were signals of changes coming for the good, in not only my life but in the lives of many around me who similarly needed to know that they’re not “stuck.”

Saturday morning was priceless time spent, surrounded by 120 (we know, as we counted them) Crayola Crayons, paper, and an active imagination of a 5-year-old and an almost 1-year old and their Pippa. I witnessed unbridled inspiration at work. These are two youngsters who inspire more than they’ll ever know, and they teach equally as much as they enjoy life.

When the 5-year-old was building a house from box and paper, and little brother crawled over to “participate” and ripped the roof off while smiling, I saw an angel in action as his older brother smiled at him, retrieved the paper, and put the roof back on without even as much as a blink of an eye. A little later I suggested we put some of his little brother’s building blocks inside the house to elevate his project. He shook his head no.

“Why not?” I asked. His reply: “Because if we use up a lot of his blocks, he won’t have many left to play with.” Facepalm. V-8 moment. I’m so jazzed about the unconditional love I saw so early between two angels, seen only because I was lucky enough to be there at that moment. If only adults could be so wise.

Saturday night we blew bubbles. Well, I did. And he karate kicked and kung-fu’d them, complete with gales of laughter, a rap verse he made up by himself, and some awesome dancing to a song he heard in his head. Whoa, Nellie. Children are smarter than the rest of us. All the time.

He asked my opinion about how to decorate the roof (now safely reaffixed to the house). Wisely, I didn’t answer his question with my thought, but with another question, “How do you think you’d like to decorate it?” That wasn’t original to me. I’d learned that process from a wise creative named Thomas Bähler, whose own father used that same technique to answer the question “How do you be creative,” asked that way when Thomas was about the same age as my young pal. His answer? “I think it should be a rainbow,” he said, and he proceeded to create a marvelous rainbow.

And then another amazing angel went on an errand with me at my request. Without even questioning why, off we drove in order that I could find a way to break through one final barrier of languishing in “shoulda, coulda, woulda, used to, don’t any more,” and I emerged, quite quickly, renewed and affirmed that life has always been grand, and the past is the past and is just fine safely tucked in the past, and today is the future just around the corner. Put a bow on that box of regrets, sealed it shut and sent it off to the Dead Letter Office. Zoom! Path cleared.

My Sunday morning began beautifully, though, because before I went to sleep last night, a very overworked but very strong friend of grander faith than I have ever had reached out to me to send me an inspirational set of lyrics she wondered if I’d heard…they were new to me, but wonderful. As we “chatted” back and forth via e-mails later into the night, she asked me what had been on my mind this week. And I told her. Her reply to me and the devotional she wrote for me personally arrived this morning on my e-mail. And I smiled, uplifted, and got ready for church. She’d taken the time to start a grand day in motion. Was I ever lucky!

Made it to church, only four minutes late. Thanks to dear friends insisting I sit with whenever I’m there…I took a seat in the pew in front of them and felt welcomed. I was about to stare a hole in the stained-glass window to my left as I waited for inspiration. Nothing was flowing to mind as I waited.

Suddenly, 10 minutes into the service, the children’s anthem, “This Little Light of Mine,” blew me out of my discomfort and into sheer joy. I saw the oldest daughter of two dear friends singing her heart out, correctly with all the motions, joyfully. And then there was one voice up there not quite in sync with the rest of them.

Not quite sure who it was—she had a good, strong, voice, but she had her own timing, and her own movements—she had the “X factor” of pizazz. She just wasn’t in lockstep with the rest of the children, but she didn’t seem perturbed, nor did her fellow singers. Again, with children and their unconditional ability to love.

I’d spotted my kindred spirit up there…I understood her. At the end of the song, the audience, err, congregation clapped, and the one I’d spotted, sure enough, waved joyously to the crowd after the applause, in you know, “the God bless you, thank you, and drive safely” benediction, with joy. Reminded me of another dear friend right after she’s received a standing ovation. That unparalleled joy and showing love of music—that’s what to aim for! Sing your song, shine your light, make a difference, even if you don’t accomplish it in a traditional way.

Five minutes later, at the end of my pew came a gentleman whose appearance was slightly disheveled, though to be fair, there had been quite a bit of wind and weather that had blown all of us through the doors of the sanctuary this morning. Two people in a pew, as far apart from one another as one can possibly be spaced, because we’d both entered the pew from different doorways to reach our spot du jour.

As my mind wandered slightly during the service, I’d contemplated my seatmate, who focused straight ahead, intently, doing a far better job of paying attention, I suppose, than I was. As the end of the service approached, I’d reached the inevitable decision point. You know how, at the end of services, the minister asks you to reach out and take the hand of the person next to you during the group prayer? I knew that was coming.

And I didn’t fear taking his hand. I just didn’t want to scare him off. Sometimes when you’re in the company of people who all seem to be different in that they all seem to know each other, the separation created by being “new” or “different” can be more daunting to the newcomer.

One thing our church does well, at least by many members, is to welcome people around them with sincere greetings and warm handshakes and exchange of kind words. I love that. Two of my three seatmates/buddies behind me grew up in this church, and they are primo at inviting people to join them. But it was all about my duty to be welcoming, and it was just me and the stranger in my pew.

After the sermon and the acolytes had extinguished the candles, the pastor was inviting us to stand. So, I stood and moved gently down the pew to the stranger, all the while thinking that, even though he didn’t know me, I hoped he trusted me to stay there and not take off out the door wanting to exit before the rest of us. He stayed firm.

The pastor then invited anyone in the congregation to come forward to the altar rail to pray as long as they wanted to (shades of Billy Graham again) as the organist began to play, and we began to sing, all the verses of “Just As I Am” (Really? I’d forgotten just how many verses there were. Oddly I didn’t have to look up at the big bouncing letters on the screens…they just came back from my retrograde memory).

With the first note of the song, he left the pew and went down to the altar to pray. My three pewmates behind me jettisoned down the same direction so that he wouldn’t have to be up there alone while praying. Still others went down to pray. I stayed behind. Before the end of the song, he returned to our pew again. For that entire song, I’d felt his pain. Whatever was seemingly troubling him, or was it me, just seered through me like a lightning bolt. I began to find tears welling up and then stinging my eyes as they rolled down my face. Darn it. Why did I have to cry? BFF says, “Don’t fight the feeling when you cry; you need to cry.” Okay. Noted.

When next the congregational prayer time came, I reached for his hand and he held mine securely. His hands had seen a hard day’s work, but they were gentle as he held mine in his. I placed my left arm on the right shoulder of the young man in front of me, whose hand I have held the past few weeks. He is an amazing child whose struggles with a spectrum make his accomplishments more powerful than grownups twice his age.

Children, you know, feel everything even when they don’t understand it. He saw the tears in my eyes and moved his left hand around his chest and up onto his shoulder placing it over mine, comforting me. A powerful healing and repair of my spirit of hope happened, and I felt it. As the prayer ended, the gentleman looked at me, even though my red eyes and tear-stained face were probably pretty scary.

“God bless you,” he said, as he looked deep into my eyes, waiting for mine to look back and see his spirit behind his face. I did. I found my voice and said, “Thank you, and God bless you.” He smiled and said, “He has blessed me. You see, I’m an evangelist and I travel all around preaching God’s word, and starting all kinds of trouble everywhere,” he said with a light smile. I knew what he meant. Disrupting status quo can freak some people out, but the true search for a higher power, some call it God, some call it Spirit or the Divine, means searching your own soul for truth and finding kindred souls and spirits who resonate on the same wavelength you do, I think.

As he left the church, a friend behind me said she’d seen him outside the church before service began, seemingly walking past our church and down a few blocks towards the main intersection. She said, “I guess he decided to come back into our church this morning.” I nodded and said, “Yes, he did. He picked our church to join us this morning.”

People have their choices of worship across our twin cities. Some congregations gather together because they believe the same thing. Others gather in mega groups to provide a haven from those who believe the same thing or their thing or our thing. I’m the most multi-ecumenical person I know, in that I feel at home in every denomination and those places without, because I’m there to hear a word of hope and reassurance that this world with all its imperfections is not “all there is.” And I find comfort in that.

I went to church this morning, and “they took me to church this morning.” The little girl who waved broadly and smiled at the crowd when she’d completed her song. The gentleman stranger who revealed himself as an evangelist before leaving the congregation. And, the appearance of loved ones in my life throughout the past four days, finding their way into my world from places seen and unseen, and the powerful lessons of never giving up on your dreams really packed a wallop. Yet, I was rejuvenated rather than exhausted with the transformation that happened.

My takeaway from the activities and experiences is this: angels are all around us, some we see, others we can’t spot. We have this day to express love to all those in our lives, whether we know them or not. Children are the most honest group of people you can ever hope to meet. The love of children heals adults with hugs.

As our nation heard from young adults in Parkland, Florida this week, the future of our country is in good hands. We are right to have hope, even when you think it’s time to throw in the towel. This is not about politics. It’s about the willingness of young people to speak up and take a stand, any stand they wish, but to speak up and express their opinions. These young people who needed healing the most were the ones doing the healing by reassuring a nation that they were determined is the major gift of the week. Powerful.

And while Billy Graham went to his heavenly home this week, if you’ll allow me my childlike construct of what we all call “the next place,” it seems that hundreds of angels appeared in our world to continue his spirit of goodness, love, light, and sharing what they believe with those who will listen.

To share unconditional love with others is a wonderful goal of the day, every day. Tiny bubbles blown into the air that caused a child to laugh with joy and gift me with his wisdom; the silent expression of love that an energetic infant makes as I hold him close and he surrenders his energy to my shoulders, to take comfort and rest; worship songs from old hymnals reminding us of rituals of childhood that were as much a part of our DNA as they remain today. Sharing time with friends and loved ones, in person or by phone or by e-mail—all these things together represent so many reasons to be joyful, optimistic, and unceasing in being hopeful about tomorrow.

Just as I am, indeed. Rest in peace Rev. Graham and thank you for reminding us through your life that one person can make an impression, one that can last a lifetime. Here’s to a grand week ahead for everyone.

A Test of Faith: Small Town Church Worship and Inevitable Changes: When the Charismatic Ceases to Lack Charisma, the Journey of Faith Continues

Can I Get an Amen?

That was the question from the latest senior pastor to his audience, err congregation, in an old-time church of grand tradition in my east Texas town. He was the guy who started the whole shebang with his seemingly innocuous comment, "Can I get an Amen?" The first Sunday he asked it, a few among the audience, er, group of worshipers, looked at each other, left and right, and sort of shrugged because they weren't sure quite what to do about the question. A few apologetic "Amen's" were offered in lilting sotto voce but nothing you'd call a groundswell of affirmation. But one man emerged from the crowd, destined to make a difference, to lead the way to showing the senior pastor that he was right there with him, he 'got it' and he was all about it. Every week. Every sermon. Every minute, in fact, "Amen."

Acculturation to a Leader in Need of Affirmation

It must be daunting to be a new pastor in a congregation when the prior leader reigned supreme for almost a decade. His predecessor had divided a once-family-like congregation into the veritable Hatfields and McCoys, so you put yourself into the shoes of the new guy in front of the church. You understand he's in search of those willing to follow his leadership. Slowly, the march of the sheep to the shepherd began, step by step, week by week.

Pastor Offers Personality Plus to Preach the Word

Each week his sermons changed, it seemed, beginning with the length. The first few out of the box were long, overflowing and worthy of admiration, but irritating to the seniors who kept being last in line for lunch at the retirement complexes, the best offerings having long been picked over by the Baptists, who'd released their people a good 45 minutes prior. It's hard to hold a heart full of love when you know you're doomed for scraps when you get to the buffet lines, except at Luby's where there's no waiting at all, because the food is so bland and cold there, no one is fighting to arrive.

Those close to the senior pastor had already informed him that worship should conclude at noon straight up, as in the fall, football games began on CBS and well, "is there something he could do?" they asked. He ignored them, for a long time. Then he began singing from the pulpit, and though a little unsettling to have your senior pastor singing, we were not surprised. After all, his predecessor was also unsettling, to say the least.

We only thought we'd seen it all until the new guy showed up. Visions of Chuckwagon Sunday, Bones on the Altar Sunday, the singing "setup" prior to each sermon, pastoral garb from the "Rick Warren Saddleback Church" couture collection and a propensity for "huntin' and fishin'" stories featuring himself as the hero (every single time), we were already numb. However, we became dumbstruck to hear the new guy a-singin' along, over the radio (if you were homebound and listening), and through the microphones, loudly. Sometimes he even sang (quoting Barney Fife) "acapulco." You have to give him credit-the new guy sounds one heck of a lot like George Beverly Shea, from the good old days of Billy Graham television broadcasts and Crusade appearances.

The delivery of his sermons grew louder, and the requests for affirmations more frequent. Easter about blew the roof off the place, as even those in neighboring downtown churches couldn't miss the message of the day. He'd shouted it three times in a row. Not sure about scaring the little cherubs nestled in their mothers' arms, but it sure scared the heck out of me. I jumped in my pew a little. My 98-year-old favorite churchgoing companion, the ranking senior member of the congregation, merely scowled and cocked her head ever so slightly with disgust. Holy, holey, wholly unacceptable. "Frustrated: party of two? Right this way."

Pleas for Affirmation, Please

If I'd had a nickel for every time I heard, "come on people, can I get an 'Amen'?" over a few months' time, I could buy a Lexus. Disgruntled and confused at what had happened to transform our sweet, little old-fashioned congregation into a shot at creating a quasi-charismatic operation (in my mind), I decided to be gone for a few months, and set about visiting other churches in town. Wondered what I'd find.

The Nomadic Wanderer in Search of Worship Alternatives

It seemed as though every church in town received visits from me, in search of a place to belong that resonated with the permanent DNA embedded in me from early more worshipful (than this) faith roots. The senior pastor of my childhood made it virtually impossible for any pastor to measure up, to be sure, but I'd moved away from the more worshipful to these other folks 30 years ago, with occasional changes to the other faith platforms. Still, I'd been lucky enough to have been part of churches with tremendous ministers, most all my life now. I missed their respective (and respectful) ministries to our church so much that I couldn't believe what was going on in "the church today."

Folks in town were confused for a while to see me popping up in their sanctuaries. They knew I belonged with my so-called "people." I knew a few congregants in the "other" churches, so everyone was welcoming and their doors were wide open, too. Those open doors were not a copyrighted trademark of our church's big kahuna after all. Who knew?

Even the Baptists only managed one "Amen" per worship service, if that. Maybe those were a few low weeks when I was going, but a faith well known for affirmation was so far behind the my downtown church's style that you'd have thought them "behind the curve." Finally, convinced that not everyone expected you to play the audience-participation game, I decided to return to my home church, the new guy still in reign, concluding his first year there.

Basso Profundo

On my first Sunday back, I was treated to hearing more than I'd bargained for, from one of the newer but brightest spots in the leadership of the church. I didn't actually speak to him; I just heard him, loudly, a lot, during the sermon. He'd emerged from the crowd and was distinctive by being known mostly by all if not by name, by the general descriptor, "The Amen Guy." Whenever you needed him to affirm what you said, he was there. The senior pastor, just like the pastor before him, asked the congregation "Can I get an Amen?" Before, the "old guy" would let you know when to chime in with the precedent, "And the people said, ____" and then you knew when to come in, "iffn' you wonted to" (accent implied).

The new guy was so pleased for affirmation that he'd often thank "The Amen Guy," by his given name, from the pulpit, each time he heard the solo basso profundo holding forth. I figured this was my test of faith for daring to question the right of individual spirituality to potentially be bottled up and not released in glorification of wisdom emanating forth in the sense of faith and respect. I was ashamed of myself every week, for daring to grumble, but I wasn't alone, not by a long shot. Others volunteered privately that it drove them nuts, it drove them out of the worship service, and it even drove them to go to early service, just to avoid having to hear that.

But then, "The Amen Guy" began to expand his repertoire, and he went from just an "Amen" response to "Right." Those "Rights" would come when you least expected them. Then he got braver. "Yesssss!" he'd affirm, even when the senior pastor hadn't asked for affirmation. One fine Sunday morning, he held forth with a "Hallelujah!" Took me all I had in me not to roll my eyes, outwardly. Inwardly, I was steaming. This was not a Benny Hinn revival and this guy was just one note short of reminding me of Rev. Hinn's long "Alleluia" songs on television (don't ask).

Was This What the Founding Fathers of Our Faith Had in Mind, Really? Really?

I thought each week it would be different, but my biggest problem was the proximity within which I sat to "The Amen Guy," and I was trapped by loyalty to my 98-year-old friend, who'd logged exactly 74 years in that church as a member and at least 60 or so in that very pew. If anyone in church knows her, they know which one is "her pew." Each week I'd drag myself to church, and often arrive five minutes late, because I was home listening to the message of First Baptist on television and being enthralled as they didn't have interruptions during the message! Woo hoo!

Counseling the Weary

I asked to visit with the senior pastor to discuss my concerns. He graciously granted me a meeting to discuss what was on my mind. I told him. I thought for sure he might cut back on asking for congregational 'Amens' when I shared that his predecessor, not beloved by at least half the church, had done exactly the same thing, but I was wrong, so wrong. If anything, he upped the ante and asked for more Amens the very next Sunday. And, call me paranoid but I was sure he was looking directly at me as he was calling for them. Uh huh. I got it. I knew that his needs for affirmation were greater than mine for solemnity and worshipfulness. By the time it was "Laity Sunday," guess who was the lay speaker on deck?

I Said, "Amen!"

That's right, the lay speaker was... "The Amen Guy."And, because the church's air conditioning system was being overhauled, Laity Sunday worship was held in the gymnasium of the Christian Life Center. The lay speaker prepared for the occasion. As the media tech watched for his cues, when he said to the audience (not congregation because it's all about the media these days), "Can I get an Amen?" the media tech hit the switch and then the biggest font of "AMEN" came up on the screen. People seemed all caught up in the effusiveness of the speaker, his sincerity, his true spirit, but I was a holdout, probably the only one, because I missed the old, old days so much...never moreso than that day.

Back in the sanctuary, each week for the last six months, I've been regular in my attendance and yet not faithful in worship. It's impossible to worship when you are continually being interrupted from paying attention to what the senior pastor is saying when "The Amen Guy" is all wound up and ready to roll out his best for the pastor's requests.

Doing the Math

A good nerd who finds comfort in statistics, I had long since given up paying attention to the senior pastor's message or even trying to remember it. There was no way that I, a seasoned multitasker, could recall a sole thought from a sermon that was long and interrupted all the livelong day. So, I put my church bulletin to good use. Grabbing a pen from my purse, I began charting the various flavors of commentary from the party of one in the nearby pew. At the end of worship, I'd divide the total number of interruptions--because that's what they were--by the length of sermon and get the final stat. The tally had been running typically as one basso elocution per each 1.4 minutes.

One of his fans shared a sweet thought, offered in "fair and balanced" counter to my one-person's opinion. This very morning a longtime and faithful church member acknowledged me as I prepared to enter the sanctuary. I said, "I'm late arriving to begin my tally of outbursts from 'The Amen Guy'." She smiled like an angel would smile and said, "Oh, I find that so endearing." "What?" I replied. "Are you serious?" "Yes," she said, "You never know when it's coming; you miss it if he doesn't do it. You sort of wait for it," and then she smiled as an angel would surely smile. I mumbled my admiration for her truly gifted spirit of faith and said, "Perhaps I should pray for more of your sweet spirit to be imbued in me so that I can emulate your unconditional affirmation." And I meant it. For about 14 minutes, until the new guy preacher began his sermon.

Steeled for the Long Haul

In previous weeks, I'd celebrated quietly if "The Amen Guy" was sitting up in the balcony. Oh, you'd still hear him all right, but it was not a sonic boom-it was a sonic styling, but still I'd make another mark on my tally sheet. Every time you thought you'd gone a minute or two without an interjection, you'd wind up paying for it by hearing two, one right after the other, in rapidfire succession. "Right, amen" or "Yes, hallelujah"...but then one day he threw me a curve. "Come on" he interjected, as the senior pastor begged again for affirmation. "Come on, indeed," I thought to myself, but with an entirely different emphasis.

Traboccare il Vaso-The Final Straw

This morning I had steeled myself away for the inevitable. We'd been running around one interruption of affirmation every 1.27 minutes, and a total of 19, 20 and 21 total interjections of approval in the past three weeks. But today, we hit a trifecta. It was a Communion Sunday and that usually means a (slightly) shorter sermon, but it was part of a multiweek sermon series about doors. Not The Doors, with the late Ray Manzarek and Jim Morrison. But the kind you open to allow faith to come in. The perfect sermon series that would undoubtedly please any church's big kahuna, even the overly obtuse grand leader of our flock, the one with a penchant for doors, whose trials at assigning pastors to our church likely featured a dart board and darts, accompanied by cackles of glee and delight. "I'll get you my little pretties" might be the theme song of what is done "for our church," at least in one person's opinion.

He started it. The new guy senior pastor started it. Calling for affirmations, "Can I get an Amen,"; "You're going to hear a lot of opportunities to say 'Amen' in this sermon, so get ready"; and, "Come on people, you can do better than that!" when enough were not chiming in with the solo voce basso profundo leading the way. A few folks had had enough Kool-Aid and were beginning to chime in. I kept staring at the stained glass window and measuring the potential sinfulness of humming the REM song, "Losing My Religion" to myself to keep from screaming.

Instead, I bothered to check my silenced cell phone, just like the teenager down the pew who spends the entire sermon doing that every week. Smart kid, if not irreverent. I'd received a text message from my Baptist buddy who'd already been long gone from worship, free at last, and all. I replied, "I'm tracking "The Amen Guy"-really setting a new record today." The reply came back, "You only still go there to sit next to your (98-year-old friend), right?" "Yes, that's right."

I replied, "In 8 minutes, so far, 8 'Amens,' 6 'Rights'." "Oops, there's another one, 9 'Amens'," I texted. The reply came back and sent me into virtual giggle fits, "You just jump up and scream 'Hallelujah'. That ought to do it." I didn't consider it seriously but I determined to keep close tally because I couldn't pay attention to the sermon. Peter, Rhoda, didn't open door, I forget. The sermon was overloaded with PUSH: "Pray until something happens." I have been praying, pushing if you will, for understanding and peace with the situation at large, at hand, and in my ears. No resolution, but the answer is in the numbers.

At the end of the sermon, I clocked it, 24 minutes in length, exactly 10 minutes too long to ever get out on a Communion Sunday with sufficient time to let the seniors enjoy anything but what used to be today's lunch buffet. And the grand total was: 28 'Amens', 11 'Right's', 2 'Yes's', 5 'Come On's' and 1 'PUSH!' for the 24-minute sermon. A total of 47 interruptions in 24 minutes, or one every 30 seconds.

I dare anyone in that sanctuary this morning to share what they took away from the sermon entitled, and I'm not kidding, "I Hear You Knocking, But You Can't Come In." Perhaps that is what St. Peter will tell me one day upon attempting to enter Heaven. And he'd be fully within his purview to deny me safe sanctuary as retribution for my sinful impatience and lack of understanding about the need others have for affirmation and a flock full of people who are as characteristically patient and eager to please as the day is long.

It's been quite the journey, this test of faith. It's all gone multimedia anyway. For every beautifully proffered formal choir anthem, there's an obligatory praise "na-na-na" tune to balance it out. We've got videos, two motorized screens suspended from the ceiling, so you can watch the same guy on TV who's standing right in front of you in the pulpit. Oh, and he makes sure all his main themes are displayed in bullet points on slates on the video screen because he's sure you're not going to listen to him, so you need some infotainment as a take-away. Someone ought to find the person who designed those background slates with the puffy white clouds against a weird blue sky as the "theme du jour." It's been "du jour" for about two years now and frankly it's getting old. And Mitch Miller's bouncing (often misspelled) lyrics in slates on the screens just in case you don't want to use a hymnal. We're making all kinds of ch-ch-changes to bring you in and make you feel right at home.

If I had to pick a theme song for this morning, it wouldn't be Fats Domino's "I Hear You Knocking (But You Can't Come In)" nor would it be anything by The Doors, though I was tempted by "Riders on the Storm." Instead, it would be a little something by Emerson, Lake and Palmer, "Welcome to the Show." It's from their "Brain Salad Surgery" album. But of course.

Epilogue

Although the preceding was written for Yahoo Voices and published on July 11, 2013, many things have changed in "the little church on the way" in the year plus 2 weeks to the day. For one thing, Yahoo voices is discontinued as of July 31, 2014, and all rights to the publication revert back to me and I'm reposting it here on my own blog. 

Now, "the little church on the way" is not really such...it's one of the biggest churches in downtown but I love that old hymn about the church in the Wildwood and, well, you know how it goes.  But something so spectacular happened this past weekend that this article demanded a revisiting of the topic and sharing of what had changed. 

As much as I hated to admit it, my reason for attending my home church had changed--my little 98-year-old friend had encountered health issues and had to move from her own independent living apartment (yes, seriously, she didn't need much, if any, help) to an assisted living facility and beyond that to a nursing care facility and was no longer able to attend so I found it so much easier not to attend worship in the church that has my name on the roster. The nomadic journey continued.

Several weeks with the Episcopalians reminded me that the order of worship, the litany of prayers and the liturgy brought comfort with familiarity but it wasn't enough to want to erase my name from one role and add it (back) onto another. The Baptists gave me two weeks of sermons with my very favorite (and theirs) interim visiting pastor, so those were two super-D-duper Sundays, but then he went back home and I was back on the road again. I had even grown so complacent in my lack of interest in my own home church that I vowed that any time the Senior Pastor wasn't preaching, I'd go. And then a miracle happened.

The senior pastor decided to take a sabbatical, sooner than you'd expect him to take one, and presumably to reflect and perhaps even write a book, which left the pulpit open for a month. Yippee! Lightning bolts are already en route to find me, with their express disappointment at my glee. One Sunday it was this guest, another Sunday it was that guest, but last Sunday was the guest to end all guests: the new District Superintendent or Regional Director to governance who spoke on a topic of greatly needed content.

I went to the early service (to avoid having to hear the Amen guy at the late service) and was thoroughly enthralled by her message. She even suggested it would be appropriate and acceptable to "Amen" at such points of the sermon where one felt moved. I didn't mind entertaining that concept at all, when she suggested it and a few minutes later I almost did say "Amen" and I stopped myself short with just a vigorous nod of the head.  What was nice to hear was a respectful chorus of "Amens" coming in unified voice, from somewhere in the back of the church, by many different people, but they were gentle and welcoming. I noted that in my memory bank as "when" I felt it was a good thing to chime in. I still kept silent on the subject but without a scowl on my face or resentment in my heart. The speaker deserved the affirmation, earned it through her message, and she had us all going along in the same direction, in my "just one person's opinion."

The speaker's message was so inspired, delivery so uplifting and her entire demeanor was that of a person who is truly spirit filled that I just kept listening in amazement and appreciation. Tears streamed down my face to hear a 'real' sermon from a 'real' pastor, who believed what she was saying. At the end of worship, though I thought I'd been surreptitious in wiping away the tears flowing down my cheeks, I was wrong. People came up to me and grasped my hands, offering condolences on my apparent pain and shared how much they agreed that it was the best sermon they'd heard in, well, years. I wasn't in pain. 

Just the opposite, I was so grateful to have been treated to one of the most wonderful messages, to not lose heart, that was perfect for that day. They, too, understood my tears as they'd so long awaited the return of "their church" to real worship, real sermons and truly faithful preachers who believed what they said. The contrast of watching the regular pastor sitting, every Sunday,  in an air sickness bag stance, hunched over his knees, in visible pain, brow furrowed, praying for relief of burdensome problems, every single week, was anything but uplifting nor confidence-in-God's love inspirational. He needed to check his issues at the parking lot and come in and try to believe the verses he was preaching from. It seemed to me that "that guy" just didn't get it, which made it disconcerting to sit there.

Then, the  "Amen" guy was the other reason to stay away from the home church. I don't even have a good reason for why I stayed on the rolls except I still held out hope that this latest guy would be transferred when an opening came up or perhaps he'd realize that he had a great future anywhere but here, likely not in church service but somewhere he could make an important contribution. Neither had happened yet. But I held out hope.

The second service of Sunday morning arrived and after a cup of coffee and a glance at the morning's headlines, I returned to hear her sermon again. It was as magical as before, but not a carbon copy of what she'd said the first time, yet 98% the same feeling of uplifting of just the hours before. The presence of "the Amen guy" in the second service was less painful as he must have been sitting in the balcony ("Yeah!) and his mumbling interruptions seemed muffled and less frequent. So I was able to sit and enjoy the worship service without basso profundo offensivo destroying it.

The coming Sunday marks the return of the pastor who has lost hope and faith and thus I will put gas in the tank and be traveling in search of a worshipful service in which to say my prayers of thanks and share my gratitude until our church gets a new senior pastor who I would feel comfortable presiding over my funeral when that day should come. Were I to go too early for my expectations, my friends and relatives know to bury me out of the funeral home rather than my "home church." But for one morning, for two hours, I knew a great sermon when I heard it, and I appreciated it. And I won't give up looking for a church where that's a weekly event rather than an annual fortuitous happenstance, because it was real. And I am grateful. Amen, and amen.