The Pulpit Master

Like so many of my fellow emotionally-vulnerable friends out there, I made a mistake. I thought he’d changed. A man of limitless potential with the ability to positively impact those around him, I foolishly believed that he would stop this hurtful vendetta against me. He is, after all, a Man of the Cloth (Although he confused the entire congregation with his anti-Christmas colors that he flaunted on The Big Day. “Is that tangerine?” Sydney whispered, worried that she’d gone over-the-top in her red and green ensemble. “I think it’s more honey-dew melon,” I answered. Brad hushed us. “It’s cerise,” he snapped, “Eyes off the weird shirt and ears on the sermon.”).

I have to admit to feelings of betrayal. Sure we got off to a rough start. To combat my somewhat sarcastic manner and low-brow sense of humor, he tried to distract me during my directed reading with challenging Bible words made up entirely of consonants. Obviously, he was unprepared for my above-and-beyond dedication to pronunciation. So he upped the ante. Instead of one twelve-syllable word with one vowel, the next time I was scheduled to read, I was assigned seven. But Amy Mosiman is no pulpit-puppet. After my last mic-drop, I thought that Geppetto had learned his lesson: Don’t mess with the guest reader.

I received my latest reading, Mission Impossible-style: Should you choose to accept this public speaking assignment, you will be pleasing the Lord by bringing His Word to His people. If you choose NOT to accept this request, I’m not saying that you’ll suffer the eternal flames of hell but who knows? I’m paraphrasing, of course but you get the gist. I was pleased with the readability of Psalm 32 and looked forward to a new, healthier relationship with my pastor. One of warmth and mutual respect.

As my family settled into our pew, the back row caught our attention. “I forgot your name,” a nice man said, his face wincing apologetically. I smiled. “I’ll give you a hint,” I prompted, “It begins with an A, contains three letters, and ISN’T a naughty word.” There was a stunned silence where I suddenly realized that I was in a church before the back row rocked with hysterical laughter. Whew. That was close. I didn’t want to offend anyone. I glanced up to the front of the church to see my pastor shaking his head. Uh-oh.

“When do you go up?” Brad inquired. I glanced at the email. “It says that instead of being invited up, I’m supposed to just march up there after the first song.” “What’s the song?” he asked.  Reading the email again, I frowned, my eyes snapping to my spiritual leader. “What is it?” Brad asked again, peering over my shoulder before cracking up. The song was Come ye sinners. Duped again.