The ol' switch-er-oo: One pastor's warped attempt to drive me from the church

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me for the fiftieth time...watch your back~I have nothing to lose at this point. Except, of course, for what used to be my unshakable belief in the innate goodness of humanity. "But, who?" you cry out, devastated that the naive little urchin you've come to adore should come to be brought so low. I kindly refrain from pointing out that you sound like an owl. You hold back a laugh that I just used the adjective "little" to describe myself. "Who would cause you to look bleakly upon the human condition? A serial killer? A perpetrator of mass genocide?" No, friends...these individuals may still possess some remnant of redeemable quality. Perhaps they throw away their nasty toenail clippings instead of leaving them on the coffee table...not that I know anyone who actually does that. No, friends. The person responsible for my plummeting trust in others is, of course, my pastor!

So...on Thursday, my pastor responsibly sent me Sunday's reading. I immediately blew it up to a size 22 font and highlighted every other sentence in yellow so I could begin practicing reading it aloud. I reflected, semi-deeply, upon the passage's meaning. By Sunday...I was ready. I entertained Brad by reading the Scripture on our way to church...he threw me off a bit when he accused me of pronouncing Philippians as the Philippines but, like a pitcher shaking off his catcher's incompetent call,  I got my head back in the game as I slid confidently into the pew. Until...

"Wait," Brad said sharply, glancing at the worship bulletin, "I thought you were assigned Philippians." "I was," I answered with a scowl, squinting at the itinerary. And there, by my name, was printed John. Naturally, I assumed that the weight of blame must lay upon my own diminutive shoulders. I must have made a mistake. Oh no. I knew that I wouldn't be able to read this new passage with the same passion and conviction as Philippians. Brad walked over to consult with the pastor about this late inning change-up. Like a gopher, I peered over my fellow parishioners and caught the guilty look on my friar's face. My guilt immediately transformed into a homicidal rage in a way that made me think of mild-mannered scientist Bruce Banner turning into the Hulk. The two men cautiously approached me. Brad had a warning look on his face, sending me screaming telepathic messages to remember that I was in church. My pastor had his hands up like he was approaching either a suicide bomber or a rabid fawn. I'm not exactly sure about the degree of fear that I instill in others...maybe rabid baby bunny. Apologies were extended which I graciously accepted and now all that was left was to read the teeny-tiny font of the pew bible.

Except...

REALLY?

The scheduled order of events...according to the printed WORSHIP BULLETIN...was for me to read following a song. The song was wonderful. We had a cello. We had a French horn. We had our pastor bumbling along on his little guitar, as usual. But for some reason, in the MIDDLE of the song, the worship band paused....a long note played out as we all looked confused at one another. Were balloons going to fall from the ceiling? Was Lady Gaga going to erupt from the hidden platform beneath the stage wearing flamingo feathers? Maybe the winner of the 50/50 raffle was going to be announced? I glanced at the pastor who was busy giving me squirrel face while the French horn player was turning a light shade of blue holding her note. I gave him squirrel face back then looked toward the front door to see if the Shriners in their little cars were revving their engines before racing into the church. I looked again at the pastor who then jerked his chin from me to the podium. Guy's gonna give himself a neck injury that way, I thought vindictively, imagining him in that funny brace thing. The French player's face had turned from a soothing pale blue to over-ripe blueberry. OH! He wants me to read NOW! I leaped up, as the French player gasped her last, and huddled over the podium, my eyes inches from the size 1/4 font, and stumbled through my passage. The song resumed as I made my way back to my seat, my husband delighted that I'd kept four-letter words and fingers associated with them to myself. It was, as always, an inspirational moment. I cannot WAIT until my church gets live-feed services so I can just watch from home.