A Visiting Methodist | Michigan

by James Hipps

If you’ve ever attended a Methodist church, you’ll probably agree the name is fitting as they definitely have a ‘method’ to how a service is run.  It’s almost like clockwork and many times, if you’ll look around, there will be parishioners watching the clock, 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 your hour and now it’s time to head out for lunch.

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

With the exception of Christmas Eve, every service was status quo.  I could literally walk you through 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) as easily 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’s very easy to be comfortable, perhaps complacent and this seemed to hold true for a majority of the church members.  Each week you could see Sally and Harry sitting in the exact same pew. In fact I’m sure the indentions on the cushions were marked with their DNA.   You knew when to stand and when to be seated to the point that it almost became an involuntary muscle movement.

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

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

That is until one Sunday…when a visiting Pastor came to preach his sermon.  Now I won’t deny I have 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 until that point in my life I honestly didn’t think existed.

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

But I digress.  As the sermon began, nothing seemed out of the ordinary at first, but then it happened.  On this particular Sunday a visiting Pastor came to deliver the sermon and has he began to speak, his enthusiasm began to grow.  You could see it in his face and you could definitely hear it in his voice as it also grew.  It grew much louder than any voice I had ever heard in church before, and it was at that point I had an “Aha” moment.  I finally figured out why my mother would tell 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 of conduct as he allowed his fervor and emotions build into a voice that I’m was sure could be heard outside the walls and perhaps even on the street.

I remember sitting anxiously, as I wondered; What would people say?  This man was really preaching and I knew his conviction, not his sermon would be the topic at dinner tables across 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 sure the roof was going to come right off that church…and how did I know, because this man had done something no man (or woman sitting next to him) had ever accomplished…He awoke the napping Mr. Miller.

But when Mr. Miller came to and lifted his head, he must have been in between the realm of sleep and consciousness because his eyes remained closed and he too shouted to the top of his lungs, but it wasn’t the much anticipated “Amen” or “hallelujah” that we never heard in the First United Methodist Church.  The words that came from Mr. Miller’s mouth are permanently engrained in my memory….”You don’t have to yell so loud!”

A split second of dead silence was followed by that very miracle 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 so I wouldn’t partake, as I would rather endure that pain than the embarrassing slap of my mother’s hand upside my head, I quickly glanced to see my mother wiping 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 conviction would be the topic at our dinner table, as was Mr. Miller.  But on that particular Sunday, I enjoyed the ice cream we had for dessert just a little more.  Somehow as is soothed my tongue that was a bit swollen because I had bitten it so hard trying not to laugh that it bled,  Miller’s ice cream tasted just a little sweeter than it ever had before.