A Sunday in the country

 A Sunday in the country 

Uncle Albert isn’t going to church during the World Cup, at least now that it is into the knock-out stages. He can’t follow more than one religion at a time, he says.

     So Roz went to church with me this Sunday. She’d heard somewhere that the narrow man was preaching at one of the Presbyterian churches out in the county. “He must have retired,” she said. “How long since we heard him?”

     “A couple of years at least,” I said.

     “And you like him, too,” she said. “Don’t you?”

     I had never asked her - or I don’t remember asking - so I did: “The question is, ‘Why do you like him?’”

     “I like his voice,” Roz said. “He never plays tricks with it.”

“Maybe he has only one trick,” I thought, meaning his earnestness; but I didn’t say it.

The church was a ways away, up US-11 to a crossroads with a gas station on the northeast corner and then along two country roads, to the east and the south again, crossing a railway line and then alongside it.

     It was small, smelling of dust, and hot. Windows were open on both sides, but there was no breeze. The one ceiling fan way to the back was too high to be of any help even if it could have turned faster. As it was, the blades moved so slowly you could count them: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 . . . 1, 2, 3, 4, 5.

The Psalm was 130; the Old Testament lesson was a knot of confusion from Lamentations about how the God that “does not willingly afflict or grieve anyone” may nevertheless afflict and grieve you. In the Epistle, Paul is trying to explain to the Corinthians that while “the one that has much doesn’t have too much and the one who has little doesn’t have too little,” they should nevertheless give away some of the much they have to another of Paul’s projects that has even less than they - or needs what they have more.

     We sang three hymns, “Be Still, My Soul” (the Lord is on your side); “Softly and Tenderly” (Jesus is calling); and “Savior, Like a Shepherd, Lead Us” (much we need thy tender care). We didn’t sing well; there were only 18 in the congregation, maybe three, Including Roz, with decent voices. The rest of us pushed the edges of the tune further and further away from the middle; it was always in danger of overflowing its banks.

     The narrow man does have a pleasant, clear speaking voice, but he doesn’t sing at all well.

He preached from the gospel lesson, the raising of Jairus’ daughter, which is interrupted by the story of the woman with the flow of blood, which, after a dozen years and more than a dozen doctors, is staunched when she touches Jesus’ cloak.

     The narrow man concentrated on the interruption, especially Jesus’ desire to know who the woman was. They have a pretty lengthy conversation by Gospel standards.

I lost track at some point - I may have dozed in the heat. So, I had to ask Roz on the way home, “What was the point?”

     She said, “That Jesus stopped. His disciples want to push him forward - Jairus is an important man - but he wants to hear what the woman wants to say, her whole story.”

     “Oh?” I said. Roz shrugged. What did “Oh?” mean? Did I mean I didn’t get it? “Well, maybe I did get it,” I said,“but then, maybe I didn't get it at all.” I wasn't sure. I'm never quite sure.

We stopped for lunch at a hole-in-the-wall barbecue place just outside of town - everything plastic: the tables, the chairs, the flatware, red Coca-Cola glasses, the baskets the sandwiches and damp fries came in.

07.03.18