Sleeping In

by James Hipps

If you’ve ever attended a Methodist church, you’ll probablyagree the name is fitting as they definitely have a ‘method’ to how a serviceis run.  It’s almost like clockwork andmany times, if you’ll look around, there will be parishioners watching theclock, knowing that exactly 11:57 a.m. the benediction will commence.  Ah, yes…the beginning of the end.  You’ve done your weekly duty and put in yourhour and now it’s time to head out for lunch.

Growing up in the Midwest, I had the opportunity to visit aMethodist church on many occasions.  Myfather was Catholic, yet my mother was from a Lutheran upbringing and sosomehow, the Methodist church became the compromise.

With the exception of Christmas Eve, every service wasstatus quo.  I could literally walk youthrough a service at the First United Methodist Church in Eaton Rapids,Michigan (the only Eaton Rapids on earth, yet I’m sure not the “first” UMC) aseasily as I could predict what time the six o’ clock news was going to come on.

As with most routine, once we become accustom to it, it’svery easy to be comfortable, perhaps complacent and this seemed to hold truefor a majority of the church members. Each week you could see Sally and Harry sitting in the exact same pew. Infact I’m sure the indentions on the cushions were marked with their DNA.   You knew when to stand and when to beseated to the point that it almost became an involuntary muscle movement.

The demeanor was always quite monotone. Unlike some churcheswhere you’d hear an occasion “Amen” shouted, the congregation remained still.  When the choir sang, it was only the choiraccompanied by the organist.  I alwayswondered if there was a noise ordinance, as the voices never quite reached aheavenly pitch.

But one downfall to all this, at least I’m sure from theReverend’s perspective is that all this predictable monotony allowed certainmembers of the congregation to catch up on the sleep they may have missed thenight before.

That is until one Sunday…when a visiting Pastor came topreach his sermon.  Now I won’t deny Ihave no recollection of the message that was delivered that particular Sunday,but I do remember witnessing a miracle that day, or at least something up untilthat point in my life I honestly didn’t think existed.

When it came time for the sermon all were seated in the pewsand just like clockwork, certain heads began to nod.  One of those heads was of the elderly Mr. Miller who accompaniedby his wife, would always join my family in the exact same pew.  The Miller’s were quite famous in EatonRapids as they were of the same family that founded Miller’s Ice Cream,something families across Michigan enjoyed after church on a regularbasis.  So having them sit in our pewalways made me feel a bit closer to celebrity status as everyone knew who theMillers were and they knew they sat with us.

But I digress.  Asthe sermon began, nothing seemed out of the ordinary at first, but then ithappened.  On this particular Sunday a visitingPastor came to deliver the sermon and has he began to speak, his enthusiasmbegan to grow.  You could see it in hisface and you could definitely hear it in his voice as it also grew.  It grew much louder than any voice I hadever heard in church before, and it was at that point I had an “Aha” moment.  I finally figured out why my mother wouldtell my brother and I to use our “church voices” at times.  She wanted us to speak softer and quieter.  However this man must have been from Ohio,or perhaps even Mars because he obviously didn’t know the unspoken code ofconduct as he allowed his fervor and emotions build into a voice that I’m wassure could be heard outside the walls and perhaps even on the street.

I remember sitting anxiously, as I wondered; What wouldpeople say?  This man was really preachingand I knew his conviction, not his sermon would be the topic at dinner tablesacross Eaton Rapids, including our own later that day.

Just as I thought he couldn’t possibly become anymore ardent,his voice grew.  So much so I was surethe roof was going to come right off that church…and how did I know, becausethis man had done something no man (or woman sitting next to him) had everaccomplished…He awoke the napping Mr. Miller.

But when Mr. Miller came to and lifted his head, he musthave been in between the realm of sleep and consciousness because his eyesremained closed and he too shouted to the top of his lungs, but it wasn’t themuch anticipated “Amen” or “hallelujah” that we never heard in the First UnitedMethodist Church.  The words that came fromMr. Miller’s mouth are permanently engrained in my memory….”You don’t have to yell soloud!”

A split second of dead silence was followed by that verymiracle I referenced earlier… an upheaval of laughter.  Oh my goodness, had everyone gone mad?  But as I bit my tongue as hard as I could soI wouldn’t partake, as I would rather endure that pain than the embarrassingslap of my mother’s hand upside my head, I quickly glanced to see my motherwiping tears from her eyes…tears of laughter, so I too let it out.  For the first time in my life I thought;“Maybe church isn’t so bad after all.”

I was quite right in my prediction the Pastor’s convictionwould be the topic at our dinner table, as was Mr. Miller.  But on that particular Sunday, I enjoyed theice cream we had for dessert just a little more.  Somehow as is soothed my tongue that was a bit swollen because Ihad bitten it so hard trying not to laugh that it bled,  Miller’s ice cream tasted just a littlesweeter than it ever had before.