I'm not much for ghosts. What happens to people after they die is, I think, mostly between them and God. I've read lots of ghost stories, and sometimes thought that I've felt a ghost -- spectre, spook, whichever -- before. But I had an experience today that set what's left of my hair on edge.I went out to do pulpit supply at a rural two-point charge south of the city. The weather today is (for lack of a better word) apocalyptic. Driving rain, wind gusting up over 100km/hr and the whole nine yards. Basically, spring in Saskatchewan.
We got to the first parish, 10 miles from the nearest town, about a half hour early. Like most rural churches, it sits on a parcel of land with its graveyard, far away from the nearest farmhouse. When we first pulled up I couldn't believe the church was open -- badly in need of paint, long grass in the yard, and buffetted by the howling wind.
Well, the co-Director being pregnant and all, she needed to use the bathroom, so we tried the front door of the church (locked), and then drove around the side of the church to a covered staircase that led to the basement. The coDirector got out, tried the handle, and told me it was locked.
A few minutes later the wind was getting even worse, and as I watched the clouds swirling overhead I began to think that being in a Pontiac Montana in the middle of a potential tornado was a bad thing. So I went down the staircase to see if I could find a way in. I found the same handle the coDirector tried was unlocked.
So we went in -- the power was on, which surprised me a little bit, but least we had heat and light in the basement of the little church. We got the boys in and set up with a couple of toys each so they were satisfied, and then I collected books, and bible, and went up the stairs to the sanctuary.
The sanctuary itself was beautiful. Built in 1917, it has had very little in the way of renovations. I love old, old rural church buildings -- their layout is practical, yet still deeply respectful of the faith and belief of the generations who have given their lives to its service.
As I walked in through up the aisle, I could hear the wind and rain beating against the side of the church, and hear the creaking of the old steeple as it swayed. But I felt comfortable, and I could visualize the crowds that filled that old church when it was first built -- Scandinavian immigrants, scrubbed clean from a week in the fields, dressed in homespun and calico, come to church on Sunday to worship God and receive the Sacraments from their pastor. It was a good place.
It's my custom, when I walk into a new church, to always come in from the back. If I know what the congregation sees, then I can know where I need to stand in order to be best seen. I walked up to the altar, bowed my head for a minute to give thanks for a safe journey, and walked up to admire the incredible frontspiece of the altar. Hand-carved and hand-painted, it was the accumulated work of years of an incredible craftsman. Then, I turned and stepped into the pulpit.
Then, my hair stood up on end, and I felt chilled even though the heat was on, and working; it was like someone had dropped an ice cube down my back, and I knew -- just knew -- that I was being checked out by someone for whom that pulpit meant a great deal. I felt like I was being watched very closely, even to the point where thought to myself "boy, I'm glad I slipped my collar tab in before I came into the building."
And normally, if there's no one around and it's my first time in a new pulpit, I'll read out John 1:1, just to get a sense of the acoustics. This time however, I didn't. I found myself saying, just quietly as I would to someone standing behind my shoulder, "this is fine. I'll treat it well. Thank you for letting me be here."
And just as quickly, my sense of being considered was gone.
I found it interesting, though, that when the few members of the congregation who braved the elements to come to church did arrive, a couple of them made of the point of telling me that I didn't have to use the pulpit "if you don't want to...we're a pretty casual group."
There was such a small group that I decided not to preach from the pulpit, but instead to use the small portable lectern. When I mentioned that to a member of the congregation, he walked up to the front and moved it for me -- off the altar dias, and down on to the floor of the church. I led the service, and preached from there.
And I found myself doing the oddest thing. Because there were so few people, they all sat on the same side of the church, within the first five pews.
But I found myself preaching to the middle pews of the opposite side of the church. Without thinking about it. I still felt that icy chill a few times during the service, though no longer behind me.
I have never meant the dismissal of the congregation -- go, in peace, and serve the Lord -- quite as much as I did today.
Like I said said, it was an eerie experience, the feeling of preaching to a congregation that contained someone -- something -- that I couldn't see.
What do you think?
