On a wedding in Himeville

 I conducted a wedding in Himeville yesterday.
 

It was at St. Michael's, a quaint Anglican church nestled in the heart of Himeville which, strangely, neither Mary nor I could recall though we have visited this area on countless occasions. We decided to make a weekend of it.

I love old churches. I have this romantic notion that one day, in my ministry, I will move to a small town and look after a small congregation who worships in a beautiful, old church. I reveal this longing every time I do a sermon series on church – I inevitably use an image of a small country church set out in a field somewhere. A strange thing to do as no church that I’ve served in has ever looked like that. I also imagined this church peopled by a significant number of young families, slightly Bohemian, deeply committed and free thinking. (Like I said, a romantic notion).

St. Michael's is a beautiful, old-stone building, built in the grand-style of old churches, with two vestries serving as part of the transept.The granite font is placed traditionally and quite correctly, at the back of the church with the words, ‘Suffer the little children to come unto me’ inscribed on it. Baptism, the entrance into church, as it should be. The walls are covered in banners, a range of Bible quotes each a lesson in itself – really, you can get the Gospel from churches without even having to listen to the sermon. I fear many people do. The pair of stained-glass windows up front depicted St. Francis of Assisi reflecting on nature’s delight. This pair stood in symmetry with a pair of tall, thin candles at the raised altar, holding within them the sacred gold-cross attached to the wall up front. It is a serene, beautiful little church.I know the church is not the building but sometimes you can be forgiven for thinking it is.

The groom was particularly anxious and doing a poor job of attempting to hide the fact. The bride was by this stage running decidedly late; having scoped out the church before the wedding I decided to inform the groom that, if he was having second thoughts, the exits are ‘here, here and here’ pointing with outstretched arms in the fashion of an air hostess indicating to her passengers how to exit on the event of an unforeseen earlier-than-intentioned landing. This drew nervous giggles – should the dude with the collar really be joking in such a fashion?

This couple are a mature couple which, to be honest, I find a little harder to marry. Young people are easy; now that I have the wisdom of a well-thought out thirty eight years, I can put on that sage-like look of someone with something meaningful to impart. But older people? Those wrinkles? Their story? They’ve forgotten more than I’ve learnt.

So I spoke about being thankful, for the bride, in preparation for this day, spoke about how she saw the entirety of it as one big gift. I like that. A gift. And what is the correct response to a gift? Well, thankfulness.I forget who it was who said that, in life there are really only two prayers one need pray, ‘Help me, help me, help me and thank you, thank you, thank you.’ I would tend to agree, with the second usurping the first in place of importance. And maybe making space for ‘prayers for others’.

The bride was as nervous as the groom. There are two types of brides in my book: the first type you pray with before the service - just before entrance into the church - really as a reminder that this is an act of worship. Some brides look so unbelievable, feel so special, have smiles that could light up a medium-sized city for an entire weekend, and are so ready to walk down that aisle and kick some wedding-day butt that a short timely reminder that God is holding this whole thing together is not an unimportant point. Other brides though, like this bride, look like they are one inch away from capitulating before a flood of emotions they are ill-equipped to handle. In this instance, prayer is a desperate cry - hopefully peacefully spoken - that God would, by God’s good grace, just lend a Divine shoulder for us all to lean on. It always works.

Help me help me help me.

We wobbled through a hymn, meandered through a sermon (I had written down some thoughts but then left them up on the altar, a good ten metres from where the sermon took place – one of the few downsides of a cross-shaped church) so, just too far to skedaddle – so it was down to meandering.

We got to the vows. There was much emotion. Sometimes the tears are the occasion and sometimes they are the culmination of everything that has gone before, and I mean everything; I sensed here emotions gathered over a lifetime of joys and tribulations, a coming together of past hurt and a strange future-longing - that things could be better moving forward than they were looking backward, even if all evidence sits as opposing counsel.

You know, we carry our hurt with us. Sometimes our hurts heal. Sometimes they go away. But in my experience, they stick around and we have to manage them, to speak to others about them, to speak God’s saving work into them and ultimately, if we play our cards right, to find healing through them. But still, for the most part they linger in some form. Nobody wants to be hurt, but God, the great Alchemist, can make us profoundly better people through it. This might seem like small compensation for all that we are called to carry. But there it is.

I sensed that this day. These tears were tears of past pain and future hope. When the bride hugged her mother once the congregation had exited the chapel - a tight, all-emotions-in hold – I had that sense that often accompanies me in this work: that what I am seeing is something quite special, something sacred, an enacted, not just spoken, hope.

Dr. Selzer has this amazing line he writes in reflection on something he witnesses. As a doctor he had to cut the nerve on a young woman’s face. Her young husband comes in and kisses her and, as the doctor notices this from a distance - from the shadows as it were - he notices that the young man remarks on how he likes this new strange look on his young wife’s face, he changes his kiss to suit her mouth. Dr. Selzer notes, ‘All at once I know who he is. I understand, and I lower my gaze. One is not bold in an encounter with God.’

You know my job has many benefits but few come close to those moments where I get to see this kind of thing; the vulnerable triumph of the human spirit. One is not bold in an encounter with God.

Incidentally this chapel also had a bell; the organist showed it to me on the penny tour of the building. With rope and all extending into the ceiling, she asked me to ring it before the service started. This was an awkward logistical request as I was preparing myself to meet the bride at the entrance on the other end of the chapel – I was considering strategies in my mind as I really wanted to ring that bell: Okay, tug hard and move after that swiftly to the entrance. If need be bend over for a few seconds to re-gain breath and then welcome bridal party to the chapel.

The organist though was that kind of organist, not to be messed with, here from the very beginning, laid the cornerstone in the 60s (1860s that is). She was insistent that the bell be rung properly as she was insistent that modern music was detrimental to worship. To be honest, I no longer know, in the mind of an organist, what modern music is: is that kum ba yah? My Jesus my Saviour? 10 000 Reasons? Either way, ‘she vonted to hear von chime!’ So, once you have pulled the rope you must hold it so the bell doesn’t chime endlessly, understand? We were saved by a young man who came in willing and wanting to ring the bell. We gave the job to him. I felt slightly hard done by but, with great godliness, refrained from looking at him and saying, ‘I’m wearing the dog-collar so I’ll ring the bell.’

As the congregation was exiting the church and the bride and groom were coming down from signing at the altar and before the bridesmaid kicked me in the bum (a story for another day) I caught eyes of the bright young boy, holding the rope and itching to tug it. I grinned and nodded at him and he grinned and leapt into motion. In his delight he forgot to hold onto the rope and so that single bell rang over and over instead of just once. I imagined it chiming through Himeville over and over as guests poured out from this beautiful, most sacred of places.

Saying in a language all of its own: thank you thank you thank you.