Early Sunday morning

Another in a series of original short stories. Enjoy

“Between the vestibule and the altar,
    let the priests, the ministers of the Lord, weep.” (Book of Job)

I wasn’t weeping, but I felt a little funny. There I was, dressed in Alb and Stole, standard clerical dress for ministers of many Christian denominations, on a Sunday morning at eight o’clock sharp, ready to preside at table and to preach. But I was all alone. Technically, I could not proceed until at least one additional person walked through the door and sat down in a pew, to join me in prayer and praise, someone to share consecrated bread and wine with when the time for Holy Communion arrived.

The protestant reformation had ended the practice of chantries — where a priest would “say mass” on behalf of those who would rarely, if ever, attend, including those who had died. Such a practice was neither my intent nor experience. I expected a small group, of, +- say, ten parishioners to come and share in one of my first Holy Communion services in my new church.

I wondered if the service, or even my arrival, had been properly advertised. To date, I had only met one of two church wardens who handed me the keys to the house and the church, who showed me the light switch and thermostat, and promptly left. Surely, they can’t dislike me already? Possibly my appointment was controversial.

While this particular congregation was not known to be opinionated or reactionary in any way, I wondered what I had gotten myself into. Had someone forgotten to tell me something! Were they hard on clergy? Was this a toxic congregation?

The building at least was cozy, in good condition, and tastefully appointed. Low-set arched windows punctuated dark brown polished wainscotting on three walls. In the small chancel at the front behind a wooden rail stood a beautiful altar table. Altars in our tradition tend to resemble either monuments that worshipers stand before, or tables around which people gather. There wasn’t enough room to encircle this beautiful thin-legged table. It was, however, a lovely and well-crafted piece of furniture.

The pews, frankly, were ugly; utilitarian at best, bargain-basement furniture at worst. They looked and felt uncomfortable. There were no side aisles, which must have frustrated mothers of young children and seniors in medical distress. I am sure that many a bored sermon listener turned their attention to the great outdoors framed by the hands-folded-in-prayer shaped windows. We had a lovely view of the harbour — boats coming and going, airborne geese crossing the sky above, and colourful sunrises on the horizon at this early-morning hour.

At the back of the church was a small children’s area and the vestry — the place where robes, books, sacred vessels, and all sorts of liturgical accessories were stored. Should anyone require a washroom or running water, you had to head outside, make two sharp left turns down rickety stairs, and enter the hopefully unlocked door into the basement. The necessaries completed, many simply returned home instead of returning to worship.

Once this church was suggested to me as a good landing place for my first ordained ministry assignment, I was encouraged. It was here that I would join the centuries-old tradition of those who led worship in Roman catacombs, those who gathered pilgrims on medieval abbeys, of those who presided at the coronations of monarchs, or those who visited inhabitants of death-row prison cells. The celebration of Holy Communion is a grand and ancient tradition.

Yet here I was, alone, a Sunday morning, solitary, not on first base or even in the batter’s box as they say in baseball. Perhaps I didn’t expect a home run; but I would really liked the team, any team, any congregation, any worshipper, to just show up. The lights were on; the heat turned up; the altar carefully prepared, and my sermon notes carefully checked and re-checked.

What to do, as I waited nervously? I could pray; I should pray; how might I pray? Jesus, “Blow the trumpet in Zion; consecrate a fast; call a solemn assembly; gather the people.” Should I kneel? Must I kneel? I don’t like kneeling; I’m a stand-up kind of guy. I’ve never been a great pray-er. Another time maybe?

I check my watch. It’s now eight twenty-three. I hear something. A car driving on gravel? A dog barking? Maybe both? I walk over the creaky wood floor towards the heavy church door which I pull open. Lo and behold, someone is walking up the ramp. Hallelujah! I greet him, a man in his early seventies. I recognize him, Neil, from his picture in the book the congregation left on my office desk, a three-ringed welcome-wagon of photographs and stories. Neil is a retired high school science teacher. A hobbyist, an astronomer, a volunteer scout leader, and an amateur musician.

“Neil, hello. I am so glad you’re here. I wondered if something had gone wrong. I’m here all alone; no one has come. My first communion service is a congregation of one, that is until you arrived. Thank goodness.”

“Why are you concerned? I’m early. The service starts at eight-thirty.”

I sighed! If the devil really is “in the details” then next week, early service starts at 0830.

Other stories in this collection can be found here and here.

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