Lessons Learned at Church

A dear friend of ours had died. The funeral was at 11 a.m. In those days, I was ambitious, so I dressed in my “work” clothes in order to do a few chores before the ritual.

Time flew. Suddenly, the opportunity was long gone when I could have bathed and changed clothing. I decided to be punctual rather than to be properly dressed. I rationalized that I would sit in the back, become invisible. Muddy pants and all.

There are consequences for stinkin’ thinkin’ like this. Even for minor infractions, little things that one hopes will go unnoticed.

I am mandated as an extraordinary minister of the Eucharist. This means that in extraordinary circumstances I can be called upon to assist the ordained clergy.

My pastor was looking around for help. As sometimes happens, his eyes landed on me. He signaled for me to come forward.

There I was in my muddy corduroy pants. At least I had washed my hands, and at least the work shirt I had on was one of my less tattered ones.

I had the great privilege of serving the cup, the Blood of Christ, during the funeral Mass for our dear friend who had died of cancer, who had died leaving young children.

No one mentioned my inappropriate dress. Perhaps no one looked down at my pants. But I was mortified. It was my own carelessness that had gotten me into the cul-de-sac.

I’m not foolish enough to say something like that won’t happen again. But I now realize the consequences. You never know.

Mother always wanted me to wear clean underwear “In case you get in a wreck.” Well, Mom, that wasn’t a real good reason, but there are good reasons.

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She was a brand-new altar server. She was perhaps ten years old. The duties of an altar server are complex and various. You don’t necessarily learn the job all at once.

The young lady kept up pretty well through Mass, needing only occasional prompting by the priest or the deacon.

She carried the heavy processional crucifix at the beginning of Mass and installed it properly in its stand in the sacristy.

At the end of Mass, the priest and deacon said their final words, made their final bows to the altar and the tabernacle, and turned, expecting the altar server to be there with the processional crucifix.

No little girl. Long moments followed. The musicians had begun the closing song, then had to add verses while the recessional was stalled.

Finally the deacon, with a bemused facial expression, mounted the steps back into the sanctuary and went into the sacristy searching for the missing altar server.

After a few moments, he emerged, raised his hands in the gesture of “I don’t know,” and shrugged his shoulders. No little girl. No crucifix.

The priest and the deacon conferred and after a time decided to wait. And they waited.

Eventually, the young woman came out to lead the recessional. Not realizing she could take the direct route, she had gone out a side door to exit the sacristy, a much longer path than necessary.

Her small mistake had an element of humor in it, and those who saw it could smile a little, knowing that order would come out of chaos. No big deal, but enjoyable.

What I treasure about this incident is the amused and bemused looks on the faces of the clergy. Their appearance at an otherwise frustrating incident told a lot about their character.

No one was angry. No one had a harsh word for the girl. The deacon did give a small corrective instruction after the recessional, but I’m sure there were no hurt feelings.

Having witnessed this humorous incident at close range gave me even further reason to love my deacon, to love my priest. People with a good sense of humor are easier to love than cranky people.

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I was first reader. I was well prepared. I had practiced and I had prayed. I knew the context of the scripture ahead and following the reading to which I had been assigned.

It should have gone perfectly. But then I looked up on the ambo at the lectionary, open to the correct page, marked with a purple ribbon. And there he was.

One big old box elder bug was making his way around and around the outer cover of the book.

The choir finished the “Gloria” and the priest said, “Let us pray.” That’s my cue. If I’m first reader, that lets me know I’m on next.

Around and around went the bug, around the outside of the book. I rationalized that I could deal with it. I could ignore the bug and go on with my reading.

I mounted the steps. I said my silent prayer asking the Holy Spirit to help me read well. I adjusted the microphone. I pronounced my opening phrase, “A reading from the Book of the Prophet Isaiah.”

The bug chose that moment to jump from the edge, the cover, of the lectionary, right onto the center of my reading.

Then he began running quickly in circles. Right in front of my eyes, which didn’t need a moving, living being from nature to distract me at that moment. I couldn’t see much but a spinning bug.

Temptation took over. What a time to be tempted, me being up there on the elevated ambo, with everyone in the room looking at me.

I was tempted to slam the book on the little booger. Man, I wanted to smack that book shut and solve the problem.

But I regained reality, and simply brushed my box elder bug from the page and read the reading.

It had seemed like long, long minutes had passed while I underwent the temptation. But apparently no one had seen my quandary, no one had observed my temptation, no one had become alarmed at my delay.

At least I was dressed properly. Thanks be to God.

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Word of the week: Ignoble. From the Latin, ignobilis, unknown, obscure, or gnobilis, known. Today it means not noble in birth or position, of low origin or humble condition. It can mean dishonorable. It is similar in its roots to Gnostic and agnostic.

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Please take the time to watch this video.  This little girl really knows the story of Jonah, and wants to share it with you.