This story was originally
written in two parts. I've combined them but kept part one online to preserve
the comments. Click here to see the comments from part one.
Part One
Foy started noticing churches while he was
driving. He hadn’t noticed churches for a long time, but suddenly he was seeing
them again. A church would rush toward him, picking up speed,
then whoosh by, slowing down as it moved down the street behind the car. Foy’s
head would turn to follow the church, then snap back quickly so he wouldn’t
crash into anything. Then he would sneak a peek in his rearview mirror and watch
the church float lazily out of sight, like a barge going around the distant
curve of a river.
The more he watched churches, the more they
seemed like living creatures with personalities. There were stone churches on the corners of
older neighborhoods, some of them erected in the 19th century. Their
solidity seemed to transcend movement and change, as if ancient hammers had
pounded them into place to keep the town from blowing away like a tarp in the
wind. Their windows aged slowly in their stone settings, looking out and up,
scarcely noticing anything happening on the ground nearby. Social trends threw
themselves like breakers at the foundations of these spiritual castles,
eventually losing energy and folding themselves into whatever fading decade had
given them birth.
There were old-fashioned, white clapboard,
African American churches ferociously holding the ground where country met city.
The buildings looked frail, like matchsticks, but the paint was fresh and the
wood was in good repair. The energy from within these churches was astonishing.
White gloves, carefully delivered Sunday school reports, hats with veils, and
cardboard fans worked hand-in-hand with stylized sermons, swaying singers, and
intoxicating organ music to hold the modern world at bay by the sheer force of
their determination to overcome.
The quiet and tired suburban brick churches of
the 60s and 70s seemed the most at risk. Their functional architecture and
weary, middle-class apathy made them appear to be on life support. You wondered
how many more years their fathers would fire up the family car and shout for the
kids to hurry so they wouldn’t be late for Sunday school.
Occasionally Foy would see an Episcopal church
whose careful beauty would cause his heart to break with joy. He took pride in
these churches from afar, like a collector of rare and beautiful things. Their
Anglican heritage provided an appreciation for architecture, and an influx of
American nature lovers who had only just discovered Saint Francis provided the
energy for nurturing the grounds around the buildings.
Foy would slow his car when he passed one of
these churches, looking at them the way you look at your childhood home if you
drive by it after many years. He wanted to go inside but was afraid to ask.
Sometimes he would sit on the curb across the street, letting his eyes follow
the steps to the heavy, wooden door and then wander upwards past the windows to
the roof, and then – if the church had one – to the bell tower.
He followed his urge to look at churches
without introspection. If he had stopped to think about it, he might have
recognized and perhaps resented the deep longing that was beginning to be born
in his heart.
Foy did not plan to attend church that morning,
but it was Sunday, and he happened to be out wearing long pants and a decent
shirt. He was slowing down to take a look at an Episcopal church that had caught
his eye a few days earlier when he noticed a sign that said worship began in
half an hour. Moments later he had pulled into their parking lot, shut off his
car, and was standing beside it looking around. There were only a few cars in
the lot. Foy wondered which one belonged to the minister.
One of the cars was parked in a space close to
the building. It was a few years old, sturdy and plain, and there were papers
stacked on the dashboard.
“I bet that’s the minister’s car,” thought Foy
with a smile.
He walked slowly toward the church, which was a
collection of buildings around a central courtyard that was landscaped in a
natural way. It looked as if the plants had been there before the church and had
simply been allowed to remain as they always had been. Two huge oaks spread a
canopy of shade over the entire courtyard, and there was a fountain in the
middle with moss-covered rocks and a gentle sound.
As Foy approached the fountain he began to have
a heavy feeling that was familiar to him. It was like soft but pressing fingers
kneading anxiety into the muscles of his neck. He spoke softly to the fountain.
“This is the kind of place that once owned me,
body and soul. If I thought the church was doing well, I felt like I was doing
well. If I thought something was wrong at church, I felt worried and anxious
about it all the time, even at night. If some families suddenly left, I couldn’t
stop wondering if I had done something to make them leave. If I was mindful of
my own sins and shortcomings, I felt like a hypocrite being a pastor. If I
thought I preached a good sermon, I was proud, but later I would be depressed.
If I felt the sermon wasn’t good, I had paranoid thoughts and my self-worth
plummeted. If something happened to someone in the church, and I was too tired
to feel something emotionally, I thought I was unfit to be the shepherd of the
flock. If my theology was too liberal, I was seen as a dangerous influence. If
my theology was too predictable, I had nothing challenging to say and
my peers wouldn’t respect me. If my children were unhappy, I was a poor
Christian father and a bad role model for the fathers of the church. If church
attendance dropped or rose and I couldn’t explain it or deal with it, I was a
poor leader. You see what I mean?”
The fountain gurgled away. Foy moved closer,
sat on the edge of the fountain and began to look closely at it. It was made of
a number of flattened, slate-like stones stacked in a haphazard manner that was
pleasing to the eye. The water poured out of a small, cave-like opening near the
top with plants dangling in front of it. It flowed across a flat stone,
following gravity and the peculiarities of the stone until it collected in a
little pool bordered by ferns. There was a low spot along the edge of the pool.
The water overflowed at that point and ran down a mossy bank to a lower pool.
Foy watched a tiny curved leaf spinning in the
upper pool. In an instant his entire focus narrowed to this leaf. The realities
of the world around him faded away. He was not aware of the transition, but he
was as lost as a child at play or a monk at prayer.
The leaf spun lazily and approached the
waterfall at the edge of the pool several times, but each time a swirling eddy
would shoo it away. Foy noticed a number of mossy, water-logged leaves at the
bottom of the pool, and he wondered if some leaves made it over the edge while
others died trying. Just then the leaf drifted right to the edge of the pool. It
hung there for a moment, then it slowly began to tilt. In an instant it
disappeared over the edge and tumbled down the mossy bank until it hung in the
moss a few inches above the lower pool.
Foy stared at the leaf sadly. He felt a strange
attachment to the little leaf and had wanted to watch it make the whole journey
to the bottom pool. It occurred to him that the natural beauty of the fountain
had developed because no one was controlling what happened to it. The water
flowed in whatever way that gravity and the stones dictated. Leaves fell from
the trees, some landing on the ground and others in the fountain. Some leaves
followed the current from one pool to the next, and others became heavy with
water and sank. All of this happened over time and created the unplanned, random
beauty of the whole. Foy’s little leaf would stay there, stuck to the mossy
bank, until it rotted, or until a breeze loosened it or something else happened.
Foy impulsively reached over and gave the leaf
a little nudge with his finger. It tumbled the rest of the way into the lower
pool where it floated about happily.
“And then there’s Divine Intervention.” He said
out loud with a smile.
Suddenly the world came rushing back, and he
became self-conscious. Foy stood up and looked around to see if anyone was
watching him playing in the fountain and talking to himself. No one was paying
attention to him, but more people had arrived for worship. They were streaming
along several sidewalks that led to the open door of a stone building that was
clearly the sanctuary. Some people were alone; others were chatting in groups of
two or three. Some walked purposefully toward the door while others moved slowly
and even stopped along the edges of the sidewalk to chat.
Foy stood looking at the open door. There were
glimpses of movement visible through it. Rustling noises and subdued bits of
conversation floated out into the courtyard. He caught sight of an arm in a robe
rising to embrace a shoulder, then lowering to shake a hand. After a few
moments, the robed arm took hold of the door and began to close it.
Foy took a step in the direction of the door, and then it
seemed easier to keep walking toward it than to stop or turn around.
rlp
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Part Two
Foy reached the door a few seconds after it had
closed. He opened it as softly as he could, but it made a small creaking noise.
The minister, who was wearing a robe and was about to go down the aisle, turned
around. His face lit up like someone who suddenly saw a long-lost friend. He
held up his hand and beckoned Foy in with a smile.
Foy nodded and raised the fingers of his right
hand in acknowledgment, then turned his attention to a wooden table in the foyer
that had literature on it. He picked up an order of worship.
The minister disappeared down the aisle
following someone carrying a candle. Foy was pleased to see that the church was
designed in a traditional way. The pews were of dark wood, and there was a
single aisle down the center. There was no carpet on the wooden floor, so it
creaked and groaned as the procession passed by. Some of the congregants had
turned in their seats and were watching the minister come down the aisle. Others
were staring straight ahead or scanning the order of worship.
Foy felt a strong aversion to having anyone
sitting behind him. Luckily, the last two or three rows on each side were
relatively empty, and he was able to slide quietly onto the back row. He scanned
the order of worship, then picked up a worn copy of the Book of Common Prayer
from the pew. At that point everyone in the congregation suddenly stood up. Foy
jumped up quickly to join them. The people spoke in unison in a rough, mumbling
monotone. He wasn’t sure if the words they were saying were written down in the
order of worship or in the prayer book. He looked at one and then the other,
then everyone sat down again. Foy dropped into his seat a half-beat behind
everyone else.
He watched the people around him to know when
to kneel or stand and flipped through the Book of Common Prayer, paying close
attention to a section of pages that were clearly more worn than the rest.
Eventually he found the right place and began to follow the worship service. At
one point an organist played a long piece. Foy put down the prayer book and
relaxed. He let down his guard and became very emotional. His eyes filled with
tears.
The minister stood to preach. The gospel text
for the day was very familiar to Foy. It was the story of a prostitute who had
come to Jesus and anointed his feet with a perfumed oil. A Pharisee who observed
this was deeply offended that Jesus allowed himself to be touched by such a
woman.
The minister read the text carefully, closed
the Bible, and said, “Before we can understand the story, we need to be clear
about a couple of things. First, the woman in the story was not a good person.
Any modern, Hollywood idea of a kindly prostitute would have been foreign to the
people of this time. She was violating the sexual and social values of her
people, and she was offensive to them. A modern equivalent might be a woman who
flirts and seeks to be intimate with the husbands of women who thought they were
her friends.”
“Second, the Pharisee was a good
person. Those of us who are familiar with the stories of Jesus can begin to
think that Pharisees were mean-spirited, judgmental men. But the Pharisees were
greatly admired by the people of that day, as well they should have been. The
Pharisee in the story was a devout and pious man. He was a good citizen, a
patriot, and he would have given 10% of everything he had to charitable causes.
If you and I lived in that day, we would have liked and admired him.”
“If you think of the prostitute as a
misunderstood, kind-hearted woman and the Pharisee as a mean-spirited,
oppressive and judgmental zealot, you will ruin the story. You will take away
its edge. Jesus’ acceptance of the woman and rebuke of the Pharisee was shocking
in that day. They would have expected a righteous rabbi to have chased away the
sinner and embraced the pious man. The story is nothing short of radical. It is a stunning example of the upside-down, topsy-turvy,
unexpected nature of God’s love. Truly, even the least of us is precious in eyes
of God.”
It was a brilliant opening. In one swift,
simple move, the minister set the story free from the restraints of modern
culture. Foy was impressed and wept softly throughout the entire sermon. A woman
in the row in front of him reached back, without looking, and handed him three
or four tissues. He accepted them gratefully.
Foy chose not to go forward for communion. He
watched with a tender but distant affection as the people filed by to receive
the bread and wine. In his mind he saw the faces of many friends from the days
when he was the one handing out bits of bread and saying, “This is the body of
Christ.”
When the service was over, Foy remained in his
seat with his head bowed to avoid the rush of people trying to leave. When the
crowd thinned, he slipped out quietly and returned to the fountain in the
courtyard. His leaf was still floating in the lower pool. He watched it and
marveled at the power the Church still held for him. The tasks and errands he
had planned for that day now seemed painfully mundane and ridiculous. Perhaps he
would go to the hardware store and pick up that sandpaper he needed. Maybe he
would go to the supermarket and buy some cereal and milk for supper. Later he
might rent a movie and eat peanut M&Ms while he watched it. It was hard to rise
from the fountain and go back to his life, so he lingered there, watching the
leaf drift softly in the water.
After some time he heard footsteps. He turned
and saw the minister approaching. He spoke, but Foy couldn’t understand him
because of the sound of the fountain.
“Heymuh naymzul airy.”
Foy cupped a hand to his ear to indicate that
he hadn’t understood.
“It Slarry.”
Foy was disoriented by his inability to make
sense of the man’s speech.
“Slarry?” he said, tilting his head.
The minister laughed loudly. “Oh, sorry. I said
my name’s Larry. It’s Larry.”
They both laughed.
The minister slowed his laughter and
transitioned smoothly into a greeting. “I noticed you coming into the service,
and I’ve never seen you here before. I’m glad I caught you before you left
because I wanted to meet you.”
Foy recognized the graceful, social charm of a
minister at church. It was a charm he knew he could slip into with almost no
effort.
“My name’s Foy. Nice to meet you, Larry.”
“So Foy, what brought you to Saint Mark’s this
morning? I mean, obviously you wanted to go to church, but what brought you to
this church?”
Foy looked around as if there might be a sign
with the church’s name on it. He realized he hadn’t bothered to find out the
name of the church.
“Oh, this is Saint Mark’s? Funny, I didn’t, uh,
notice the name or anything. I saw this place a few days ago, and it was so
beautiful. I just kind of wandered in, following the beauty I guess.”
Larry looked around the courtyard with
appreciation. “Yeah, it’s quite a lovely place. Very peaceful. You’re welcome to
come here anytime. I’m glad you found us this morning.”
Foy looked closely at him. He seemed like a
sincere man. He was glad that Foy had come. The fact that a stranger came to his
church was something that obviously pleased him.
“Great sermon, Reverend,” said Foy.
Larry smiled and thanked him. It was the polite
thank you of a man who hears those words all the time, knows they don’t really
mean anything, and has learned to be okay with that.
“It was the opening that got me, that part
about her not being a good person and the Pharisee being, you know, a good man.
It was so clean and simple and perfect. It was like going back in time and
hearing the story with their ears. It was amazing. I can tell you thought a lot
about how you were going to do that.”
Larry looked stunned and stared at him without
speaking. Foy was amused by his expression. He probably didn’t expect that sort
of comment from some guy off the street. The people in the pews rarely notice
things like that. A good sermon would communicate well, but a layperson might
not understand the work that went into such an opening.
“Wow, thanks. Um, you really got that, didn’t
you?”
Larry looked at Foy, trying to figure him out.
“It’s just…most people don’t pick up on that
kind of stuff.”
“Some do,” said Foy.
They sat quietly for a moment, then Foy spoke.
“I want to ask you something rather personal. Of course, you don’t have to
answer if you don’t want to, but I guess that goes without saying.”
Larry nodded his assent.
“How are you doing?”
Larry nodded seriously.
“I’m doing fine. The church is healthy – I
think. Attendance is up, and we’ve got some young families again, so that’s
good. I’ve got a good staff to work with. Charlie, our new youth minister, is
doing a great job, so that whole area is picking up. We have some issues with
the facility, but…”
Foy broke in. “No, not the church. I meant how
are YOU doing.”
“Oh,” said Larry.
“The reason I ask is I have a friend who was a
minister, and he had a hard time – how do I say this – keeping track of himself.
He got lost in the role, if that makes any sense. It’s like you coming out here
to talk to me. I look at your smile, and it’s perfectly sincere. I can see that.
But you have to come out here and talk to me. It’s your job. My
friend, he got to where he couldn’t tell if he had any real compassion left in
him, or if it was all the job. He started feeling false, or wrong, or somehow
not himself. It just got to where he didn’t like the feeling of it – being a
minister.”
Larry looked directly at Foy, who looked right
back at him. His eyes dropped. He turned his head a little to the right and
looked away. Then he turned back and looked at Foy’s knees for a few seconds. He
slowly raised his eyes until he was looking right at Foy again.
“Honestly? Just you and me talking? Not the
kind of thing I would necessarily want to say at church?”
He looked at Foy, waiting for some kind of
acknowledgment of informal confidentiality. Foy nodded and said, “Yeah.”
“Okay, I don’t know how I'm doing, exactly.
That's hard to know. I know what your friend was feeling. Sometimes I don’t feel
like a real person here at church - most of the time, to be honest. And yeah, I
have to be nice to everyone. I have to. And I guess somebody’s got to be here,
welcoming people, you know? Just, being the face of the church, I guess.”
“You know what’s hard? People at church don’t
see me as a real person. Oh, I guess they sort of do, and one or
two know me pretty well. But I think for the most part, I’m some sort of
spiritual icon or something. For some I’m a mediator between them and a God they
fear. Some need to believe that I’m living an authentic Christian life,
especially those who aren’t doing that themselves. Those are the ones you’ve got
to watch out for, because if they ever see, you know, your humanity or anything…
And then, for some I think I’m roughly the equivalent of the pulpit and the
stained glass. You know, every church has a minister in a robe down front – just
a part of the furnishings - no big deal.”
Foy stroked his chin, looking at the ground and
nodding solemnly. “Yeah, that’s the kind of thing my friend used to say.”
Foy picked up an acorn and pulled the little
cap off the top of it. He threw the acorn away, put the cap on the end of his
finger like a hat, and wiggled it. Then he flicked the acorn cap away.
“For what it’s worth, having watched my friend
pretty closely, here’s how I see it. They think they need a minister, but what
they really need is you. I know you’re a priest and you have to bless the
sacraments and all that, and someone’s got to, so that’s fine. But they need to
see you as a man - as a person. They might not want a straight dose of Larry,
but that’s what they need.”
“And you think you should be a good minister,
and I’m sure you are and try to be. But what you need to be – and I know I’m
getting all mystical here – but what you need to be is Larry. You need to be
Larry. It’s your right as a human, and I guess maybe your primary calling. I
don’t know, don’t you think we’re all called – first of all – to be or maybe
become the kind of unique creation that God imagined on the day we were born?”
Suddenly Foy became self-conscious about
talking too much.
“Ah, what do I know? I guess while we’re all
figuring this stuff out it’s good that you’re here, being what we need you to
be. You know, showing up and handing out the wafers on Sunday, whether you feel
like it or not. I admire you for that.”
Foy reached into the fountain and nudged the
little leaf which was sitting perfectly still in the water of the lower pool. It
scooted away from his finger, drifted sideways a bit, then slowed and stopped
moving.
Foy stood up and stretched his back.
“I guess I better be taking off.”
Larry stood too. He held out his hand and Foy
shook it.
“It was nice meeting you, Foy. Very nice, on a
Sunday, after the service, uh, to meet you. Hope I’ll see you again sometime.”
“You probably will.”
As Foy walked away, Larry said, “Hey, what was
your friend’s name anyway? That minister you were telling me about?”
Foy stopped but he didn’t turn around. He
looked down, smiled, then rubbed his chin with his thumb.
“Foy. Same name as me, interestingly enough.”
Larry smiled. “Yeah, I thought so. All that
shit you threw out about the sermon was a dead giveaway.”
Foy turned around and began to walk away
backwards. He pointed at Larry with both index fingers. “C’mon, I meant every
word of it. That was an awesome sermon, Reverend. Truly inspirational.”
Larry held his hand up and slapped it toward
Foy, laughing.
Foy turned around and moved out of the
courtyard into the parking lot. He turned his head to the right and shouted over
his shoulder.
“Helluva good sermon.”
rlp
Note: The
sermon intro from this story is based on a sermon by Reverend Sam Todd at the
Episcopal Church of Reconciliation in San Antonio. The sermon was delivered
sometime in the 90s. I still remember that sermon, which is as good a compliment
as a sermon can receive, I suppose.
Read the
Gospel story from Luke chapter 7
