Angel

“I’ll tell you what. Just for you, I’ll try it. I’m going to come to the service and listen on Sunday. Maybe I’ll be convinced.”

Sunday

There is hardly a religion in the world that doesn’t hold some mountain as sacred. To the Native Americans of the region, Mount Rainier, or Tahoma, as they called her, was a goddess. Mount Meru, according to Hindus, sits at the center of the world between Heaven and Earth. The Tibetan peak Kailas is said to be the home of Shiva, Lord of the World. Muhammad met the angel Gabriel and received the word of God on Mount Hira. Japan’s Mount Fuji is a site of pilgrimage for three hundred thousand Shintos a year. Zeus ruled from Mount Olympus. The Mongols buried their leaders in high places. The Babylonians called their temples “Mount of the House,” “Mount of the Storms,” and “House of the Mountain of All the Lands.”

Paul spent extra time on that Sunday’s service. He wrote and revised and practiced reading it in front of the mirror—something he had not done since he was a young minister just starting out. He stopped at each line and imagined Ian’s reaction. The sermon topic was “A Romance with Jesus.” It was both inspired by, and written for, Paul’s audience of one.

That Sunday, Paul sat at the front of the congregation in his black robe with the Bible in his lap. Paul was a King James man. Even though it was probably one of the least accurate translations, it was the Bible of his youth. The poetry of passages was so musical and familiar that Paul could not imagine any other translation having the same effect—transporting you from the mundane everyday world into the spirit of worship.

Emily started to play the prelude on the small church organ. Paul watched as the church members filed in, dressed in their Sunday best—skirts, dresses, shirts and ties. He smiled and nodded at the familiar faces as they took their favorite places in the pews. He glanced toward the back of the room, over their heads. Ian did not come in. The Bible moved up and down as Paul’s right leg started to bounce. He craned his neck trying to see beyond the sanctuary doors into the lobby. Ian was not there.

The prelude ended. Paul stood and lit two candles. He did it slowly, stalling for as long as he could. Then, when he had paused as long as humanly possible, he delivered the call to worship:

“‘Make a joyful noise unto the LORD, all ye lands. Serve the LORD with gladness: come before His presence with singing. Know ye that the LORD He is God: it is He that hath made us, and not we ourselves; we are His people, and the sheep of His pasture. Enter into His gates with thanksgiving, and into His courts with praise: be thankful unto Him, and bless His name. For the LORD is good; His mercy is everlasting; and His truth endureth to all generations.’”

As Joanne Johnson delivered the announcements, Paul sat, crestfallen, with a pleasant Sunday expression frozen on his face. Emily waved her arms, and the choir stood in unison.

“‘Jesus, Lover of my soul’,” they sang. “‘Let me to Thy bosom fly, While the nearer waters roll, While the tempest still i

s high: Hide me, O my Savior, hide, Till the storm of life is past; Safe into the haven guide; O receive my soul at last!’”

That was when Paul saw Ian’s slim figure sneaking into a pew in the back. He was wearing a blue T-shirt with a rock-band logo and jeans with a hole in the knee. As the people around him shared hymnals and sang off-key, Ian shuffled from side to side. His right arm was straight, and he held the elbow with his left hand. To Paul, it was as though the entire congregation had become part of a black-and-white movie and only Ian was in vivid Technicolor.

There was a special music in Paul’s voice that day, expressing all of the divine wonder and appreciation that called him to the ministry. Paul truly felt the presence of God with him. Ian slipped out the back of the sanctuary during the moment of silence to go back to his normal Sunday custodial chores.

When the service had finished, Paul received many compliments from the congregants who shook his hand as they filed out of the sanctuary. But he was anxious for only one opinion: that of the custodian.

After Paul and Ian had wrapped up their respective church duties, they met in the parking lot so Paul could drive Ian home.

“How did you like the sermon?” Paul asked.

Ian’s eyes turned heavenward. He nodded, still lost in his own thoughts. He spoke in a soft voice. “I really liked it.”

Ian snuck into the service again the following Sunday, just after the opening prayer and before the opening hymn. He picked up a hymnal and followed the words with his eyes but did not sing. He stood again for the scripture reading but did not recite. During the sermon, he sat forward and listened intently. Again he slipped out during the moment of silence. The following week, Ian was in the sanctuary to hear Emily play the prelude. He stood with the congregation and sang the opening hymn. He recited the responsive reading. He stayed through the sermon. He passed the plate along during the offertory and held hands with the neighbors to either side of him during the closing benediction. Two Sundays later, he arrived early and sat in a pew in the very center of the congregation. When the offertory plate was passed, he put a dollar in.

Paul felt a sense of mission and purpose that he had not felt for years. Watching Ian returning to worship, Paul felt truly “called.” His ministry took on a new energy. The sermons were inspired and unique. Everything in life was taking on a new color, and Paul’s new enthusiasm for life spilled over into everything he did, the way he spoke to people, the care he took with every meeting. He could now feel congregants’ joys as deeply as he had previously felt their sorrows. People walked away from a meeting with the minister feeling revived and passed that along to each other. Attendance was growing.

For the past several years, social outreach and projects had continued on their own momentum, but very few new ones had ever gotten off the ground. It was not that Paul had actively discouraged them, but when people came to him with their ideas, he never followed up. He’d vaguely encourage them and leave it to them to take care of the details. Most of the ideas were dropped. Now every new idea seemed to have promise. If a church member suggested visiting a homeless shelter or teaching an evening cooking class, Paul immediately got Julie to put a date on the calendar, get a notice in the newsletter, and made sure it happened. Almost nothing worth trying was dropped. The sense that things were happening at the church built on itself.

Someone Like You

“In every-day matters, how wonderfully the divine law of creation is obeyed! for mountains have been tunneled, rocks have been cleft in twain… the earth has been lacerated, scourged, cut, and hallowed, till, tired of the treatment or forced to submit, it has paid its ransom in coal, gold, silver, iron, lead, copper, and in other valuable, attractive, and important minerals…. It was easy enough to plunge into the earth, disturbing its equanimity, and making it disgorge its treasures; but it was not so easy for us to plunge into ourselves, finding the precious minerals in our own brain or heart, and knowing the value of our God-given natures.”

—Rev. Caleb Bradlee Davis, Sermons for All Sects, 1854

Paul and Ian spoke on the phone almost every night now. They spoke frequently of love in a general way, always dancing around the edges of the real question: whether or not they could love each other.

“Julie was telling me about your wife, Sara. It sounds like she was really popular.”

“She was. She was the one everyone loved. They just let me preach a sermon now and then.”

“How long were you married?”

“Eleven years.”

“Wow,” Ian said. Eleven years seemed like a brief moment to Paul. Yet, he realized, it must sound like an eternity to Ian. It was nearly half of his young life.

“How did you meet?” Ian asked.