“Pray for my Poppy and Mummy, please, ’cause they’re dead, you know.”
I looked at the woman in the last row, short of stature, shortened further by age. Her lips, unhindered by teeth, quivered slightly, and her eyes betrayed an almost frantic fear that I might not grant her request. Poppy and Mummy, huh? No pastor should ever be made to say words like Poppy and Mummy in public prayer.
I smiled patiently. “What were their first names, dear?”
Her eyes grew wide, presumably in surprise that I should ask so foolish a question. Crossing her legs and folding her arms, she straightened her bowed back in the institutional, stackable poly-chair (14 decorator colors available), and said, “Why, Poppy and Mummy, of course!”
Of course. “Any other prayer requests?” Those seated before me frowned slightly, scanning their memories for friends troubled by illness, children threatened by divorce, death anniversaries.
No others. Just Poppy and Mummy.
DIGNITY AT RISK
This is my other congregation. This is the Society of St. Johnland, a nursing home. I hold my monthly Eucharist in the dining room. Like my larger congregation, it is comprised of some faces that are constant in their presence, others that come and go; faces that are attentive, faces blank. Unlike my other congregation, all the faces here are wrinkled.
My St. Johnland congregation consists almost entirely of women brought here from some hospital, only occasionally from their homes or the homes of their children. Some are clear-minded, others disoriented. Most are in wheelchairs. Some twitch, some drool. Some rave, some mumble continuously.
Some know the responses by heart, others just listen. Some are of my denomination, most aren’t. It doesn’t really matter, to me or to them. I’m a Christian minister, and they are Christian folk, and when you’re 92 and can’t sit up straight in your wheelchair and expect to die in the not-too-distant future, that’s good enough.
While I’m not slumping in a wheelchair, I am suffering from another infirmity. Truth be told, I haven’t enjoyed this part of my job. I do it faithfully, but it is a duty not a pleasure.
Yes, I realize the importance of this ministry. I have two grandmothers and a great aunt in nursing homes, all well into their nineties. And I know some young minister probably sees each of them only as another slouching woman in a wheelchair. I’d like to tell him she’s not just another old lady. She’s the one who always had blueberry muffins for me when I visited. She’s the one who taught me to love my Bible, not The Bible, but my Bible. She’s the one who told me wonderful stories about how my mom and dad behaved when they were five, nine, twelve, sixteen.
So I try not to leave too quickly. I try to linger, touch every hand, look deep into every eye, speak a few words, listen some. I really wish I enjoyed it more. Because I know how important it is.
But I retch when they leave more drool in the chalice than the wine they sipped from it. And they scream at each other in the middle of the canon:
“What did you say?”‘
“I’m praying!”
“What?”
‘”I’m praying!”
‘”You’re what?”
“Will you shut up! I said I’m praying!”
And I stifle the gag reflex when I pass by to share the heavenly meal, and they are sitting in their own feces. And now I’m supposed to pray for Poppy and Mummy yet somehow maintain the dignity and majesty of the service. I wish I could say I loved this work, but, God forgive me, I don’t.
A DIFFERENT SORT OF MAJESTY
I turn back to the dining table that serves as my altar with its eclectic assortment of linens, some of them of ecclesiastical origin, others old damask napkins pressed into use. The silver service is a mismatched collection of oddments, among them an old, hinged pill box for a ciborium.
I stare at the pill box and think of the dozens of times I watched my mother’s mother reach into a similar box containing tiny saccharine tablets which, when dropped in her coffee, sent a little stream of bubbles to the surface, and we, separated by 60 years, would watch together their effervescent dance.
I remember the many simple meals at my father’s parents, table when the presence of carrot sticks, celery stalks, and black olives on the table testified to the solemnity of the feast.
I remember my father’s aunt who solemnly presented me with her most prized possession once I graduated from seminary and set up my own apartment-a faded and stained tablecloth embroidered in ancient cross stitch of frayed threads. It had covered her table for twenty years, maybe thirty.
And suddenly, they are here with me, these three venerable ancients who focused so much of their attention on me, who lavished so much love on me. I see them asking some too young Reverend to pray for their Poppy and Mummy now that they are walking the border of the Twilight Zone. And maybe for their grandson, too. He’s a minister, you know.
I decide to forget about majesty. We’ll pray for Poppy and Mummy. Moving through the Prayer for the Whole State of Christ’s Church, I start to think how it’s going to sound, so that when it comes, the words are shaped by my grin-one so wide that all my teeth show and my eyes wrinkle.
Here I am–the proud inheritor of 400 years of dignity, clothed in ancient garb-offering words of power: “And we also bless thy holy Name for all thy servants departed this life in thy faith and fear, especially thy servants Poppy and Mummy, beseeching thee to grant them continual growth in thy love and service. … “
I face my little congregation at the end of the prayer, and she’s sitting in the back row beaming. Her entire appearance has changed, and she radiates a sense of peace and accomplishment.
THE TRAP
Now I extend the invitation to confession, and as I read, I see this scene as if from outside of myself and am horrified at my haughty and pharisaic response to her simple request. I am suddenly aware that I have fallen into The Trap. That is, conducting the business of religion without being at one with the need of my people. My concern for majesty almost obscured my practice of mercy. My agenda had almost excluded hers, and through hers, Christ’s.
And now, kneeling for confession, I remember that most fundamental precept of ministry–that I Impede the kingdom if I try to shape it. That I am the one to be shaped, molded by the Christ whose kingdom I serve.
Christ died for Poppy and Mummy, for their eternal salvation, and for the hope of this woman. It is only by the grace of God, working through this fragile saint who spoke despite her fear, that I was permitted this precious glimpse of the kingdom.
I leave St. Johnland, but I’m looking forward to going back.
Copyright (c) 1994 Christianity Today, Inc./LEADERSHIP Journal
Copyright © 1994 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal. Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.
