Simon knew it was wrong for a minister to hate his congregation; deeply, inherently, unavoidably wrong.
But for crying out loud man, how could he help it?! The people’s very act of congregating in the same place at the same time every Sunday evening was enough to drive a man to the edge. Did they have to demand a performance of him every week of the year?
How could he not hate a congregation of accusing eyes, bored smiles and polite barbs? It was a vulture, hyena, vampire. It’d squeeze the last drop of blood out of his body and then step over his shrivelled carcass to get to the next victim. How could he not hate a congregation whose only wish was to destroy its leader?
And yet, by hating this group of people, Simon was failing his God. Failing in his calling. Failing at everything he had given his life for. That failure weighed heavy on him as he watched the crowd trickling in for the Sunday evening service. It was 5.25pm, five minutes before the service was scheduled to start, and the church was virtually empty.
Simon breathed out dramatically, trying desperately to quell the caustic feelings of hate, self-loathing and doubt that were rising in his chest. He was the leader. He had to act like one.
There had been some panic earlier in the day when it looked like there wasn’t going to be anyone from the church band rocking up. The regulars had all gone away, either ignoring the roster or failing to find replacements for their roles. Whatever the cause, no band would have been a disaster in a church service planned around eight songs; the centrepiece of the show. Without the music, Simon would genuinely not have known what to do, and there may have been the awful possibility that they’d all have to sit around talking to each other. And talking, of course, meant a critique of the way Simon was running the church; the congregation’s favourite topic.
Mercifully, he’d managed to corral a female singer, a guitarist and a teenage drummer into picking up the pieces. When the first song signalled the beginning of the service, it was clear the drummer thought he was auditioning for a Guns n Roses tribute band. Simon suppressed a laugh as the initial beats nearly scared half the parishioners to death. Good on him for having a crack, Simon thought. I wish I was that excited to be here. The guitarist was struck more out of your Cat Stevens mould and his chords were getting lost somewhere between the bass drum and the cymbal. The girl could really sing, though, so she carried the unlikely trio through a tune about God’s love for all his creation. Simon made a mental note to especially thank each of them at the end of the service for their excellent work.
The congregation sang with the enthusiasm of a tram conductor punching tickets on the last ride of the night. If this was the true expression of the people’s faith, Simon wondered whether this mob was headed the same way as the now extinct ticket-punching conductor he remembered from his boyhood. Simon wanted desperately to save his congregation but he wondered, forlornly, whether, like the tram conductors, its fate was sealed long ago.
Simon looked out over his charges as the second song was followed immediately by a third; no time for a break. It was a warm spring evening and the people were heat-sapped and restless after a long, hot day. One or two had already succumbed to the opening praise and worship time, surrendering to the pews. A few bright sparks were still singing passionately and one was even raising a hand in thanks. Simon smiled at her zeal and thanked God that at least one person among the empty pews was pleased to be there.
The vacant seats were no surprise. Most of Simon’s congregation had probably gone away to the beach or the Yarra Valley or wherever else it was they liked to go in the heat. He knew that some of them left it to the last possible minute on Sundays to return home so they’d have a good excuse not to be at church. Simon didn’t blame them. He was the minister and he didn’t want to be there. Lucky bludgers. Simon wished he could escape for a weekend. Or a lifetime.
Most ministers would have been horrified to see thirty people in a building designed by its ambitious forefathers for five times that amount. In fact, if they hadn’t ripped half the pews out to make more room for fellowship over tea and coffee, it might have sent visiting pagans into fits of derisive, and perhaps even pitying, laughter.
But not Simon. Simon loved nothing more than an empty pew on a Sunday night, for a vacant seat could not criticise you with its bored smile, its inattentive eyes or its astute observations about your poor public speaking skills at the end of the service. No, no. A vacant seat loved Simon the way his Lord did. Unconditionally and without a hint of righteous condemnation. Thanks to the small mercy of a paltry crowd, an answer to long-held prayer, Simon was able to relax slightly, hating the act of congregating a little less tonight.
But then something both concerning and exhilarating caught his eye. A visitor. Strange, he thought, eyeing the man at the back of the church with not a little suspicion. He doesn’t look like he’s come with a friend, so what’s he doing here? Why on earth would a stranger walk into my church?
Simon tried to get a better look at the visitor but was distracted by Jesse, the twenty-three year-old service leader, who was now working the cordless microphone like he was preaching to a Grand Final day crowd at the MCG; Billy Graham style.
‘How wonderful is it that God has brought us together in His house tonight?!’ he yelled enthusiastically as soon as the third song had wrapped up. Jesse, God love him, had not seemed to grasp the idea that amplified sound through a speaker negated the need for a raised voice.
Simon smiled at his enthusiasm too. This was one poor kid who wasn’t going to be away at the beach this weekend. Poor as a church mouse he was. Simon smiled secretly at the thought; despite the best intentions of his eldership team and the services of a dubious “Christian” exterminator, there was a parish mouse that Simon continued to harbour in his office.
Simon wasn’t sure whom he pitied more; the mouse, who they were trying to lure by the smell of cheese and the promise of something great into a trap that would break its neck, or Jesse, who was studying theology with the aim of being ordained. Simon wished he could protect him. Jesse was one of those rare creatures who convinced Simon God was real. Innocent, ambitious, faithful and just, he was what Simon thought he himself may once have been like. Though it was hard now to remember.
Jesse handed Simon the microphone with a beaming smile as though Simon was about to announce some wonderful revelation from the Lord. Instead, he informed the congregation that the monthly overseers meeting was on this Tuesday. Secondly, Bill, who wasn’t there – probably down at Portsea – was celebrating his forty-ninth birthday. Good on him.
Simon looked up from his notes and his stomach churned with a mixture of fear and excited anticipation. ‘If you’re a visitor,’ he said cautiously. ‘There are cards you can fill out in the pews with your contact details so we can follow you up. We’d love to hear from you.’ He kind of meant that and he kind of didn’t, not yet knowing what type of man the visitor he had spotted a moment earlier would turn out to be. Would he mould effortlessly into the congregation or would he stand apart as Simon’s ally the way young Jesse had done?
Simon held his breath as the visitor leaned forward to pick up a card. He studied it casually and then put it back in its holder. Simon exhaled. He was safe, but suddenly realised everything had gone quiet. He looked across to Jesse who, judging from his beaming smile and excited eyes, was clearly pumped to move things along, barely able to stand still.
Jesse asked Simon if there were any more notices. None. It was time to get on with the show. Simon gave Jesse a nod. ‘You’re doing a great job,’ he whispered, handing the microphone back to him. Jesse smiled like a little boy.
Simon usually returned to the front row of the church during the Bible reading, but he decided to remain on stage tonight, standing beside the drum kit so he could get a better look at the stranger before his sermon began. Bible readings gave the perfect opportunity for a bit of spying because everyone had their noses buried in the Good Book. No need for guilt on Simon’s part at not paying attention; he’d spent all week reading this passage to prepare for tonight’s disaster.
Simon was six weeks short of his thirtieth birthday and this stranger looked about the same age. He wore casual jeans and a short sleeved black polo shirt. Medium build, medium height, nothing too unusual, although his hair was a concern. It was short, though not close-cropped, and tussled casually with just enough product to make it look like he didn’t care. Simon could never hope for his hair to achieve such nonchalant disdain for the head on which it sat.
Studying the visitor more closely, Simon guessed that he was educated – which could be dangerous – and had probably been to a number of churches before. He might have left the last one after a falling out with the minister over a particular doctrine. Simon wondered what it might be. Spiritual v natural gifts? Infant v adult baptism? Male v female ordination? Whatever the reason, Simon worried that he would fall into the congregation of tyranny, and he silently willed him to see beyond the angry mob.
The Bible reading was coming to a close, thanks be to God, and it was time for the sacrifice. Simon forgot about the visitor entirely, who had been a welcome distraction from his fate, and began to develop that nervous, uncontrollable short-breathing that always preceded his sermons.
‘Calm down,’ he said to himself. ‘You’re prepared, you believe it, they’re here to listen. You can do this.’ It didn’t work. As he walked to the lectern at one side of the stage, the modern day pulpit, he began to sweat and his legs felt unsteady. ‘This is ridiculous,’ he chastised himself. ‘You’re a grown man, a trained preacher, a mouthpiece of the Living God. You can do this.’ But he couldn’t do it, and when he placed his sermon notes, typed word-for-word, on the lectern, his vision blurred, his hands shook and his head swam.
Simon had heard that people’s number one fear was not death, but public speaking. They’d prefer to be in the coffin than eulogising the guy who was. Simon longed for death and the security of a closed casket now. But no death came. It was time to begin. Simon didn’t dare look up at the crowd. Disempowered, weak and feeling a total fool, the leader began to speak.
* * *
Kingdom of Men © Guy Sigley 2010
