Last Sunday our
church had a three-year- old preacher, an organist who could
play one song, an altercation involving the offering and a
visiting beagle who knocked over the pulpit. It happened this
way.
Our family car was down at the shop getting its indigestion
cured and our shop recuperating from an over-exposure of truck
bumper. So there we were, without wheels, on a rainy Sunday
morning. Since our church is clear across town and out of
walking distance, we decided to hold our own family church
service in our living room.
Our four kids were delighted. Kurt, the senior sibling at nine
years old, drew up plans while we finished breakfast.
“I’ll be the preacher,” Garin volunteered with glee.
“Oh no,” groaned the two older kids. Garin is almost four.
“I’ll play the organ,” offered Kendy our kindergarten girl.
“All you can play is ‘Three Blind Mice,’” complained Kurt.
“Well,” replied Kendy, “we can sing that!”
“In church?” questioned Kurt sarcastically.
At this point baby Garth, our one-and-a-half year old, poured
his orange juice over his shoulder, drenching Scratchy, our
calico cat, who was waiting for stray bits of bacon and other
assorted goodies occasionally floating down from the breakfast
table. I declared breakfast dismissed, and we adjourned to the
bathroom to prepare for church.
At nine o’clock sharp the service began with the opening chords
of “Three Blind Mice.” Kurt, the song leader, asked Garin to
lead in prayer. Garin squinted and prayed in one rapid breath,
“Bless this food in Jesus’ name, Amen.”
When Mom had convinced the older kids that they shouldn’t laugh
in church, no matter what their brother prayed, the service
continued.
Kurt lead us in
singing “Onward, Christian Soldiers,” to the tune of “Three
Blind Mice.” The first verse came out fairly well, but since
there was only one hymnbook, the next three verses got mumbled
pretty badly. Plus the fact that when the last verse was over
Kendy still had the last half of “Three Blind Mice” to play.
Next came the scripture reading, and since Mom was requested to
do that, it went smoothly, except for the sound of Kendy’s music
lesson book bouncing across and off the organ keyboard.
Kurt asked me to take up the offering. I used a saucer for a
collection plate and began the rounds. “Can I have some money
to put in the offering, Daddy?” asked Kendy as I stopped at the
organ bench. So I got some change out of my wallet, gave it to
her, and she put it in the saucer. The same process was
repeated at each stop, except when I came to Garin. I gave him
two dimes and a nickel, and he put the nickel in the saucer and
the two dimes in his pocket.
“Put the money in the offering, Garin,” I ordered.
“I did.”
“I mean the dimes.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re giving our money to God.”
“I gave a nickel.”
“Give the dimes, too.”
“I can’t find them.”
“They’re in your pocket, Garin. Now put them in the plate.”
“I don’t want to.”
There wad a brief intermission while I gave Garin a little
friendly persuasion in the bedroom. When we returned, he put
his dimes in the plate, wiped away his tears, and the service
was resumed.
We sang two more songs, both to Kendy’s only tune. “Holy, Holy,
Holy” didn’t turn out too badly, but “A Mighty Fortress Is Our
God” left something to be desired.
Finally it was time for the sermon and Garin made his way up to
the TV tray, which was served as the pulpit. He began to speak
with great fervor, illustrating each point with his index
finger, like he was scolding the air. His sermon topic rambled a
bit, wandering from one important theological topic to another,
such as how to drive a toy tractor, how to jump over mud puddles
and how to keep a little girl next door from biting. He was
just building up to an impassionate climax when our beagle,
Bimbo, came streaking through the living room in a hot pursuit
of Scratchy, who had snatched part of Bimbo’s breakfast. I
think it was Bimbo’s forward momentum that made me topple over
like that as I tried to grab her, knocking over the pulpit and
sending the preacher scurrying for cover. By the time the two
intruders had been ejected from the church and the pulpit had
been restored to its former place, Garin had forgotten his
sermon topic, and instead wanted the “David and Goliath” record
played on the phonograph. So we listened to the story on the
record, interrupted only by the sound of baby Garth riding his
Wonderhorse and singing at the top of his voice “Jesus Loves
Me.”
We closed the service with “Abide with Me,” sung to the same
tune gears several times earlier. Kurt led in the benediction,
asking God to forgive Garin for not putting his money in the
offering, and also requesting that Kendy learn to play a new
song.
Perhaps our homemade church service was not the most orthodox;
perhaps some might even think it irreverent. And yet in their
own childlike ways, our kids were worshiping the One who said,
“Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them
not: for such is the kingdom of heaven.” When the kids are grown
and gone, and all other church services have been blurred
together in our memories, this one hilarious yet precious Sunday
morning service will linger on.
