[SB] Sabbath Blessing

[Molly Wolf]

Millens Bay

We had the rags of tropical storm Ernesto chasing themselves across the 
lake, between the islands and up the river, and so the little church was on 
the dark side.  I wanted to reach for the wall switch, but there isn't one; 
the only lighting arrangements in Millens Bay Union Church is a rather 
handsome 19th-century kerosene-powered chandelier, which is not the easiest 
thing in the world to set going, and we really didn't need it. This was the 
second rainy Sunday in a row -- all the others this summer had been 
gloriously sunny -- and I'd had the forethought to bring a battery lantern, 
if I needed one to read the lessons. But it wasn't quite as dim as all that.

There were maybe thirty people in the old wooden pews, people I'd come to 
be fond of over the last couple of months -- names definitely attached to 
faces in many cases, and faces familiar in others. I even knew a few of 
their pastoral concerns -- the struggle the organist had to keep an old, 
beloved horse alive, the fatigue a woman felt after her treatment for 
breast cancer. I think if there'd been anything else serious or urgent, 
they would have called me.

I set out my order of service, sermon notes, hymnal, Bible and sat down, 
keeing an eye on my watch. The organist Melinda lifted an eyebrow at me and 
I nodded, and she set off onto the first hymn, "Ye Watchers and Ye Holy 
Ones" -- good; from the sound of things, it was a hymn that the 
congregation knew and liked. These are good, loud singers when they know 
the tune. I'd scheduled an extra hymn, in fact, because for them, 
hymn-singing is a treat, and I loved watching them go for it.

Part of me was with them and part of me was separated. This was the gift 
they'd given me this summer: my one and likely only touch of 
priesthood.  From the beginning of July (except for two Sundays in August), 
I'd stood up here at the lectern, called for announcements, presided over 
the service (which I'd planned), read the lessons, preached the sermon -- 
and increasingly I was indeed truly preaching, instead of reading out 
something I'd written -- and led the singing, singing big and strongly. I'd 
sat on the sanctuary step and called up the kids -- usually the organist's 
two daughters -- and done a children's sermon, always impromptu, and we had 
(I think) greatly enjoyed ourselves. I'd led the people in prayer, letting 
the Spirit take us ranging over the world, naming people we cared about. 
I'd taken the wicker offertory baskets from the ushers and lifted them to 
the Lord and set them gently on the altar. One one Sunday in July, I'd 
assisted a visiting minister during the summer's one service of Holy Communion.

And now it was all over. The first Sunday in September, my last Sunday there.

Definitely my last: each year, the Millens Bay Union Church, which operates 
only during July and August for the summer cottage population, goes to a 
student at Queen's Theological College in Kingston, and I will likely not 
be a QTC student next spring, if all goes well. But more than that, it 
would be someone else's turn. This quiet little summer gig is 
extraordinarily good formation for people on the ministry track, and next 
summer, it would help to shape someone else's ministry.

But I'd learned something of great importance this summer -- other than how 
to preach properly, which is no small thing. I'd learned for the first time 
how it feels to stand up there and be shaped by the people in the pews. I'd 
learned the power of a sound, healthy community to form the person who 
leads them in worship.

I'm a preacher's kid and one who observes and analyzes churches, because I 
find institutional psychology rather fascinating. I'd known (because I've 
seen one in action) that there really are priest-eating congregations, 
congregations whose response to their paid ministers is anything from 
dysfunctional to severely abusive.  I'd known that there can be 
extraordinarily good fit between priest and congregation. But I'd never 
before stood up at the front and felt the extraordinary spiritual 
gravitational pull on my own soul, and wholly to my good.

I'd tossed words out into the summer air and watched my congregation as the 
words landed, looking for confusion or boredom or blankness, but seeing 
only eagerness, an openness to hear, a willingness to come along with the 
ride I was taking us all on. It was deeply humbling in the most refreshing 
way. Preaching, I learned, isn't a monologue; it's a duet. Not even (say) 
singer and accompanist, but a true and equal pairing. The apparent silence 
of the non-preaching part is only that -- apparent.  The intimacy is profound.

I began this summer to appreciate how and why my father became a great 
preacher. He was a good preacher from the get-go, I'd guess, but he found 
himself in duet with a truly great congregation, week after week, year 
after year -- and as his preaching crossed over from the very-good to the 
extremely-good, so too did their active listening.  The two even learned 
how to quarrel.

I began this summer to understand how the disciples nourished and sustained 
Jesus, even when they were being at their most infuriatingly wooden-headed 
-- that they gave to Jesus as well as receiving from him. I realize that 
simple listening, even when you can't quite get the meaning, is indeed a gift.

I began to realize, to a tiny extent, how much our response actually 
*matters* to God. God stands outside time and creation and does not need 
his creatures, or so the philosopher-theologians say -- but whether or not 
God needs us, our response matters profoundly to God. This too is a duet. 
God may be infinitely greater than we are, but that doesn't make us 
insignificant. It just makes the duet more piercingly sweet.

Oh, yes, I learned. For such a small church, it has a large, warm soul, and 
it has a lot to offer.

I preached, this final Sunday, on the company of pilgrims -- how we all 
move through the landscape of faith, sometimes charging into the bramble 
bushes, but always in company with those who have gone before us and will 
come after us. I said how we number in our millions and billions, but God 
sees every single one of us clearly and individually. I talked about the 
life on the other side of the River -- the joy we will find at the banquet 
of the Lamb. This is indeed what I believe: that in the Life to Come, we 
will find each other again, and we will find joy.

We sang "Shall we gather at the river" and "For all the saints" and "God be 
with you, till we meet again". Dorothy poured out the coffee and Melinda 
gave me an update about the horse, and then it was over, and I was driving 
alongside the river, heading back home.

But it's not over. Not really, not in the very long run. Of that, I am 
quite sure.

(for the people of Millens Bay Union Church, Millens Bay, New York)