The Chicken-Winged Kid - Completed
A Mostly True Story, Part 1
I was exploring ministry as a vocation which meant that I was routinely drafted for all sorts of church chores in God's house and that I felt routinely under appreciated. So one Sunday I ran away.
There was a bit of pique that my carefully planned Adult Studies Program had been tampered with by the new chairperson. The logical order of bible study at 9:30 and topical issues at 11:00 was reversed! The topper, however, was the kind of issue that has driven many a member to unorganized religion. I was mainly an observer, but nevertheless, I felt a vacuum suction of energy reserves. as the dueling of brass vases and pressured gas candles careened out of control.
Like most of the devil's mischief, this one began in innocence. The Murgen family donated new brass candleholders with cans of gas inside white plastic tubes. Out of the blue. No Murgen talked to anyone at the church. The Murgens walked in one Sunday, and said, "Here!" The worship chairperson, Gail Gorder, said, "Thanks sooo much!" and immediately we missed worship, scrambling through records of church gifts for the past fifty years. “Who the h_ _ _ gave the candles we already have?”
I held her hand as we found the notation, “Brass Candleholders, two – Given by the Trout family, December 24, 1952. “Praise the Lord!” Never heard of them or their kin. The relief lasted seven days. The next Sunday a technical problem first emerged. Sputter, flicker, flame up ten inches, and then die. The Murgens looked uneasy even as members thanked them for their lovely gift
Bright and early the next Sunday, out of the blue, the Jordans, inspired by the Murgens, walked in with new brass vases. Another scramble. Relief. Never heard of the original givers of the vases either. But in the sanctuary, there was rising tension. The pastor felt that the candles had distracted from his sermon, so he had shopped at Big Lots for glass chimneys, his theory being that the ceiling fans caused the trouble.
Now the trouble compounded as the light was distorted in a rather disturbing way by the cheap glass as the candles sputtered, flickered, flamed up ten inches, but never went out. Gail got a headache and hurried out. Others felt nauseous. One member felt hypnotized and went out feeling great. Most tried not to look at the Murgens. Everyone had noticed that the new vases were at least nine inches taller than the candles. We hadn’t really seen how squat they were before. The Murgens left in a straight shot for the door, while everyone lined up to thank the Jordans.
During the week, the worship chairperson got two ideas, one inspired and one from me. Her idea was a complaint to the candle company, followed by next-day delivery of replacements that worked as intended. My idea tackled the squat candleholders, and then I ran away.
Part 2
I suggested that the candleholders could compete with the vases if they were elevated. We talked it over for awhile, and then I said, “I know what we need! We need to get Earl to build us something.” Earl is the grandson of the founder of a well-known local furniture company. Now retired, Earl spent much of his time in his basement woodworking shop. “Earl’s our man,” I said. Gail agreed, and newly delegated, I left to call Earl, both of us having forgotten that Earl was the comptroller in the business and that neither of us had ever actually seen any of Earl’s wood creations. Earl was not a frequent worshipper, complaining that the organist’s playing reverberated in his chest and made it hurt, so it surprised me to see his pick-up in the parking lot the next Sunday.
I met the worship chairperson weeping as she left the sanctuary before services began. Speechless, she pointed to the front where several people were gathered. “What on earth are they?” I heard as I approached. What on earth, indeed! Had Earl gotten back to me as he had promised? No, just walked in, plunked them down, put the candleholders on them, and sat down for worship.
Large wooden boxes. Let’s just say larger then needed. Plywood boxes. It was clear that Earl had never studied joints. and there were gobs of dried glue. We were all puzzled by the woodburned design that meandered along the edges. Nobody knew what they symbolized. Someone said, “Who would have thought Earl would go new age on us? These don’t look Christian to me.” A former camp counselor said they looked like a rainy day camp project run amok. The gathered group couldn’t decide whether to remove the boxes and offend Earl, especially when we didn’t see him here much or leave them and further offend the Murgens. We left them, mostly because time was running out, and they refused to take any initiative. (I learned much from them right that moment.) Again, the congregation was distracted from the sermon by the worry that the candleholders would topple from their lofty perches and start a fire. It was obvious that Earl had not mastered rulers or levels either.
The pastor had done a double take as he processed up the aisle. When he couldn’t find Gail after the service, he came for me. Coldly and clipped, as I had never heard him before, “Do something. Do it soon.” I removed the boxes, the candleholders, and the vases, and in front of the cross I put a large cornucopia filled with artificial fruit and leaves spilling out so that the table was nicely covered. It was tacky and strangely timed for May, but I had done something soon. Then I ran away.
The next Sunday I visited a neighborhood church whose pastor chaired an ecumenical committee that I served. When I arrived, I found that my friend was gone for the weekend and that the very new associate pastor, fresh out of seminary was on his own for the first time.
I was early so very few were there. As we sat listening to the organist run through the hymns, I noticed a young boy enter the sanctuary from a door near the front. He looked to be about six, but I wasn’t sure. He seemed tall for six, but it could be that his out-grown shirt made him look tall. The shirt cuffs were far above his wrists, the body of the shirt was so tight across his body that we could see his ribs against the fabric. The collar, however, was too large around his skinny, boney neck.
“He’s sure a chicken-winged kid if I ever saw one! Give that child some ice cream,” I could hear my grandmother say. I had never known what she meant when she said that, but now I knew. As I thought about it more, I realized that two of my boys are similarly shaped, and I made a note to buy ice cream and some larger sized shirts.
The boy carried a manila file folder that appeared to hold pictures he had colored. He sat down on the front pew and scooted his small rear from one end of the pew to the other, got up and crossed the aisle, and dusted off that pew, too. Then he reversed directions. After about the fourth repetition, I began to look around, but I didn’t see anyone that could be young enough to be his parent. From the looks on the other faces, I didn’t think he was here with his grandparents, either. The church began to fill up, and the boy decided to walk down the aisle and smile at us all, and then he went back and redusted the front pew. I could tell that more and more of us were uneasy.
The service began and we relaxed a bit. He did come back down the aisle again, but when he sat back down, he quit dusting. We almost forgot about him, until the children’s sermon. Here I have to describe the church design because it is key to what happened next.
The wide pulpit is in the middle of the platform and has a semi-circular table attached to the lower part of the pulpit. On each side of the pulpit are carpeted steps from the main level, and at one point the steps are level with the table. A large brass cross is in the middle of the table, and I couldn’t help but notice--no vases, no candles.
The young pastor came down the steps and invited all the children to come forward and sit on the steps. The chicken-winged kid sat at the center edge of the step that abutted the table. Nobody, nobody could possibly recall that children’s message. The young pastor would say something like, “Can anyone guess what I have in this paper bag?” The boy would reply,”Our dog has fleas.” The pastor would say, “…and so these marbles remind of how much God loves us.” None of the children spoke except the boy, “Do you know you have sweat all over your face?”
By that time the boy had crossed the edge and was on the table. He started sliding, and in a moment he was next to the cross with one arm around it. The children had heard of sin, and they looked as though they now had seen it live! Two older and ample women decided to take action and moved forward toward the boy. They crouched down and seemed to kick their legs out in front as they went. I’m sure they meant not to draw attention to themselves.
At the table, they whispered and reached out to the boy, but they came to a point that every parent who has ever taken a child to the grocery recognizes. If there is a contention, one must decide, “Do I give in and guarantee that this child will repeat the scene in the future or do I take decisive action and risk causing a major scene?” The women gave in, got up, and walked back to their seats. I had the sense that those in the congregation who were adamantly against spanking were now reconsidering their position.
The young pastor gave up, dismissed the children, and in the process failed to notice that the chicken-winged kid now occupied the pulpit chair. I wondered if we were all caught up in a time warp or a bad dream, held hostage by a little child.
Part 3
The boy got up and began exploring behind the pulpit, and the young pastor met him there. We could not see them, but since the pastor had forgotten to turn off his cordless microphone, we could follow the spoken words. I won’t say conversation because again the two talked past each other. The words went something like this:
Boy: It sure is messy down here.
Pastor: Who are you?
Boy: Now your face is red
Pastor: Where’s your mother?
Then the organist, as mesmerized as the rest of us, came to, and began to play interlude music. The boy and the pastor stood up, the pastor announced the next hymn, and we all began to sing. It appeared that some agreement had been reached.
Often during the singing of hymns, I notice that the organist wants to play faster than the congregation. Not that day. We pushed her, we sailed ahead of her. We all knew that we were part of something that would bind us forever. And we wanted to see how this would all come out.
The hymn ended and the boy went down the steps and took his seat, but before the pastor could reclaim his pulpit and get started with the texts of the day, the boy got up and started toward the steps. The pastor moved quickly. They met halfway on the steps. The boy raised his arms and in a high-pitched voice, “Will you give me a hug?”
The pastor knelt down and embraced the chicken-winged kid, hiding his face and his tears in the boy’s boney shoulder. We all hung together in the cup of time. And then a woman came in the door in the front, took the boy’s hand, and led him out. The service went on as if it was a normal day, and yet I felt as if we were forever changed. Still, our feelings seemed too intense to give voice, and few spoke of it at coffee hour.
This was twenty years ago. Whenever I meet someone from that church, I only have to say, “Were you there the Sunday that….?” and heads will begin to nod, and we begin to share our experience.
“Will you give me a hug?” Before those words were spoken, as the boy started back up the steps, many of the congregation must have wanted to rush forward and deal with the situation. I felt that there was the tension of a collective clenched fist in the air. Yet, “Will you give me a hug?” and our voices were immediately united in a collective, “Awwww,” and many reached for tissues. That scrawny chicken-winged kid had the power to turn us in an instant. We still talk of it, I still write about it. “In weakness, strength.”
I made it back to my church in time for the sermon. After, I hugged Gail, Earl (two weeks in a row!), the pastor, and every Murgen and Jordan I could find, and I am not much of a hugger. I looked back and Mrs. Murgen hugged Mrs. Jordan. Later, the candleholders went on stands on each side of the choir loft, the vases went back on the table, and Earl’s boxes went in Fellowship Lounge’s memorabilia display cabinet, where they have taken on an air of art. Gail hid the cornucopia and fake fruit from me.
The End
What is true and what is not? All of the story before I ran away is fictitious, but based on church experience and stories I have heard. We are not perfect people—that’s why we go to church. The entire story after I ran away is true.
posted by Sandals with Sox @ Monday, January 10, 2005
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