Where two or three are gathered

Another original story from you know who. Names of characters have been changed to protect the author, me.

“Can you help me plan a special supper?” I asked our church council as we met for the first time. Still new in my position leading a church in a small rural village, I thought such a gathering would be a great way for me to meet folks and for them to meet me.

“I think that’s an excellent idea,” said Sam, short for Samantha, a crisp-speaking English immigrant, who lives here with her mother and has done so for decades, though if you met her on the street, you would think she was visiting from the Cotswolds. “Apart from Sunday mornings we haven’t been together for almost a year. A social event would be a lot of fun. Who knows, we might even attract some new people I haven’t met yet.”

”Well, I have met everyone, and I don’t think we’ve had had a visitor, let alone a new member, for a long time,” Don jibed.

“Well Don, if you were a bit more welcoming, people might enjoy your company,  and come back again.”

“May I remind you that we Arnolds settled this place almost a century ago. We have always been open to new people, new ideas, new ways of doing things. People just don’t want to come to church anymore, especially this church.”

“No surprise if you’re the one greeting them at the door.”

Our meeting was off to a rocky start. How could such a simple request for a special supper trigger a simmering discontent so quickly? Is every meeting going to be like this? I certainly hoped not. As other council members remained quiet, I decided to move the conversation away from an obvious firing line.

“Folks, let’s take a deep breath,” I said. “Gladys, as our musician, our ‘life of the party,’ or so I am told, do you think we could put something fun together, say by next Saturday?”

“Do you mean evening or afternoon? I teach piano lessons until 2:00 p.m. but am available after that. Of course, after teaching more than a few musical miscreants I usually need an afternoon nap.”

“Evening would be great but not too late, please,” I said. “Gotta be fresh for church the next morning you know.”

“Sure, we could play some games, anything from Musical Chairs (for the kids) to Name That Tune (for the grown-ups); no Karaoke mind you.”

“Have we any kids?” I wondered aloud.

 “Not yet, so that’s a problem,” said Sam..

“No kidding that’s a problem,” grumbled Don. “Who will take over when we pass away?”

“Thanks for you input, Don,” I replied.

Not missing a beat, Sam added: “Correct me if I am wrong, Don, but we don’t see your kids or grandkids any time. Where are they? Not at church; not even at Christmas. Watching television or playing ball at the school baseball diamond, I suppose.”

“Well, I can guarantee they are not practicing for their piano lessons,” added Gladys scornfully.

“We had some marvellous dinners with lots of kids in Edgemont,” added Walter.

New to our community, to our church, and to this council, Walter had been active in churches all over the region. He is a real story-teller, remembering people and places, typically in considerable detail and at great length.

“We had large dinners there, filled the hall — for Thanksgiving, at Christmas, for music festivals. They were so much fun, all ages, all smiles, so much humour, so much excitement. Kids would run up and down the aisles imitating their school principal, the mayor, the fire chief, the minister. From start to finish, once we put up some posters . . . “

“Thanks Walter, that’s really helpful to hear,” I interjected. But Walter was actually just getting started.

“’Those were the days,’ as the song goes. We had a tremendous minister over there; he really packed ‘em in.”

Walter could be annoying, but he was good hearted; trying to be helpful and encouraging. The conversation however continued to spiral downward and out of control until Milton squeezed his way into the verbal flow.

“If you ask me, before we move forward planning an event I think we should reflect together on what is happening right here, right now, in this room. We aren’t exactly rowing in the same direction, if you get what I mean.”

Considerably younger than the rest of council, possibly in his late twenties,  relationship details uncertain, vocational destination unknown, Milton was the most philosophical, even theologically attuned of the group. He stood apart socially; one wonders how he even got elected to council. But here he was, naming aloud what I was thinking: Strange group of people; feisty reactions to one another; an unlikely team; not exactly a group known to “love one another.”

“If we want to build community, it seems to me that we need to strengthen the community of this group,” he continued. “If as church people, as Jesus people, we are commanded, yes, commanded, to love one another as we have been loved, it seems to me that we are missing something here. It was the American theologian, Reinhold Niebuhr,  who taught that ‘forgiveness is the final form of love.’ Why don’t we practice the former in order to grasp the latter?”

Stunned into silence, no one dared to speak. We were all jaws-on-the-floor flabbergasted at Milton’s comment; no one knew how to respond. While he had a point, I think his comment missed its target for our little group. A little too blunt. Still thinking about Niebuhr, one of the twentieth century’s most brilliant theologians (he actually wrote the “Serenity Prayer” widely used in twelve-step programmes including those which meet at our little church), I marveled how we had quickly moved from nourishment to Niebuhr. That’s quite an ontological leap. The challenge now was to get this meeting back on track, and to plan a supper. That’s all I asked for. There wasn’t much time to put the event together. Potluck possibly? Or more likely catered? And if the latter, who to hire? The church at one time had a catering guild which was very well known. Members had aged out however. Bye-bye catering guild.

“I think we have named some of the challenges; but what about the opportunities, the possibilities?” I asked. My personality loves possibilities and finds resistance  difficult. Reframing the goal itself might work. “If we haven’t done this sort of thing for a while, maybe it’s time for a fresh approach. If we lower our expectations around kids, and about newcomers, and if we give less power to the feuds of the past this could be a great event.”

“What feuds?” Sam retorted.

“Feud is a rather strong word, don’t you think? Who do you think we are: The Hatfields and the McCoys?” piped Don.

“Really, there’s no need to exaggerate, minister,” chimed Gladys.

All rifle scopes were on my forehead.

“Okay, possibly the wrong word,” I replied. “I apologize. There does seem, however, to be some negative history around social events either in this church or this committee, don’t you think?”

“You think?” added Milton edgily. “Maybe I am the outsider here, but surely, as inheritors of a two-thousand-year-old tradition built around the practice of love, we should at least try to do better. Maybe instead of a dinner, we should bring someone in to coach us in conflict resolution? I can make enquiries if you like.”

“That’s a good future option for sure,” I agreed, “but for now let’s just try to plan a supper.”

I almost caught myself mid-sentence. I was in full blown denial. But then, a ray of sunshine punched its way into the administrative cloud of despair.

“Alright. I will work on some entertainment ideas,” Gladys offered. “Maybe some non-competitive games. How about a couple of square dances? We could try an open mic session; but no karaoke. Maybe I could invite a couple of my piano students to participate.”

“Don’t invite my family,” pleaded Don.

“Don’t worry, last on my list, Don,” Gladys fired back.

Sensing an invitation to contribute, Walter couldn’t help himself. “We had all sorts of musical performances in Edgewood, both in churches, church halls, and occasionally we hosted an outdoor concert, a sort of  “under the stars featuring the stars of tomorrow” kind of thing.

His voice droned on as I phased out. Elvis, and the minister, left the room. I felt myself drifting away, out of both time and the room, losing interest if not consciousness. Lord save me, and do it soon, please, I prayed. Though well intentioned, this group is absolutely wacky; but that’s what we’ve got, right here, right now, for leadership in our little church.

As the meeting wrapped up, at the very least we had a rough date, a vague programme, some initial enthusiasm, and a few not so veiled threats. All this admitted, it was a start. Not all meetings finish the job, but such is the outcome sometimes when two or three are gathered.

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