Order of Service -- Ninth Sunday after Pentecost

Order of Service – Ninth Sunday after Pentecost
　
     Walter was angry that the Lutherans at the church down the street were praying for him. He didn’t believe in prayer and had not asked for anyone’s concern. Walter thought that if there were a god, it was best to stay hidden from him.
     On Monday morning, Walter punched-in at work and, then, walked from the shed to the garage where the pick-up truck assigned to him was parked. In the garage, Billy was washing down the windshield and front of his truck. He was using a hose and water was splashing around, drops beading other vehicles and a big, puddle, iridescent with oil, spreading across the concrete.
     "Why don’t you do that outside?" Walter asked, gesturing at the puddle.
     "You’re cranky," Billy replied. "I’m surprised you’re even at work.  You must be hungover or something."
     "Why wouldn’t I be?"
      Billy said that his wife had come home from church the previous morning and shown him a printed bulletin. On an insert among the pages of the order of service, there was a section captioned "Prayer Concerns". Walter’s name, correctly spelled, appeared behind the words: Ongoing health concerns..."
     Billy looked at Walter and cocked his head: "Is there something wrong with you, dude?"
     "That’s none of your business," Walter replied.
     "Well, I would pray for you too...if I thought..." Billy had shut off the tap to which his hose was connected. The tip of the hose drooled a little.
     "Don’t bother," Walter said.
     Walter stopped at home over his lunch-break. His wife worked the night-shift, but she was up already, vacuuming the living room carpet.
     "Who do you know at the Lutheran Church?" he asked her.
     "I’m not sure," she said. "Probably someone."
     "Why are they praying for me down there?"
     "Why would they be praying for you?"
     "That’s my question," Walter said.
     She flipped off the vacuum cleaner and stooped at the wall to unplug it.
     Walter went into the kitchen to microwave a bowl of spaghetti left over from the night before. Walter smelled warm garlic and tomatoes as his food cooked.
     "Is there something wrong with you?" Walter’s wife asked him.
     "I suppose," Walter said.
     "What is it?"
     "Who knows," Walter said. "Someone is lying about me."
     That evening a couple of people called, friends of his wife, and made sympathetic inquiries about Walter’s health. Walter’s wife took the calls. Walter sat in the living room watching television, his ear half-cocked to listen to his wife’s voice in the kitchen.
     Later, she told him that people were curious. They wanted to know what was wrong with him.
     "What should I tell them?" she asked.
     "Tell them that there’s nothing wrong with me," Walter said.
     "But if I say that, people will think it’s mental problem or alcoholism."
     "Do you think I have mental problems or alcoholism?"
     "How should I know?" his wife said. "I’m just your wife."   
     "I’m completely fine," Walter said.
     "They will think you’re depressed or suicidal. You aren’t suicidal, are you?"
     Walter looked at the TV screen and muttered something.
     Walter couldn’t sleep. His body sent him little messages in the form of twinges that sparked his muscles into fitful motion. He dreamed that he was waiting for a diagnosis in a hospital and, then, someone handed him a white sheet of paper closely lettered with tiny words. He tried to read the words but they seemed to be in a foreign language.
     The next day, at work, Walter was distracted and almost stepped out of his truck to pick up a fallen limb – a storm had knocked it from a tree – when the vehicle was in gear. He had heard of accidents happening like that, truck drivers run over by their own truck. As he was thinking about accidents that he had seen or been told about, he became distracted and ran through a stop-sign. A car honked-at him.
     "Maybe, there is something wrong with me," Walter thought.
     A couple of days passed and Walter saw many signs that he was failing. His breath seemed shallow to him, as if inhaling didn’t fully inflate his lungs. Obscure aches and pains afflicted his shoulders and hips and knees. He began to limp a little.
     "Why are you limping?" Billy asked him when they were unloading their trucks at the end of the day.
     "I didn’t know I was limping," Walter said.
     Billy shook his head.
     "I guess I’m getting too old for this job," Walter told him.
     On Friday, Walter stopped at the Lutheran Church over his lunch-hour. The church stood at the center of a big lawn and was surrounded by tall shade-trees. An old man riding a mower was making spirals around one of the burr-oaks. A van sat in the parking lot, seeming a bit forlorn, as if abandoned and a couple of bicycles were chained to a rack by the front-door.
     The old man on the lawn mower glided to a stop near the sidewalk leading across the grass to the church.
     "Can I help you?"
     "Is the pastor around?" Walter asked. "I don’t see any cars."
     "He’s here," the old man said. "In the office, Pastor Tom. He rides his bike to the church."
    "Can I see him?"
     "I think so," the old man said.
     Walter went into the church where it was cool and dim. The floor smelled of fresh wax and disinfectant. Down a hallway, Walter found the office. The door was open. A young man stood by a photocopy machine, wrestling with paper tray.
     "Are you the pastor here?"
     "Yes I am," the young man said.
     "I have to talk to you," Walter said.
     The pastor led him back into an office with wide glass windows that opened onto the shady lawn. Outside, the old man on the mower was cutting swaths through the glass. Walter noticed that the old man was wearing head-phones to mute the sound of the lawn mower’s motor. It seemed strange to him that he had not noticed that before.
     The office smelled of stale coffee. There were books on the shelves about alcoholism, grief, and cancer. A picture of Jesus wearing some kind of headdress like a crown and knocking at a door was suspended on the wall opposing the big window filled with green dappled light. The picture looked very old and dusty and the scene that it showed was set in the darkness with a wan yellow moon peeping through wispy grey clouds.
     "I think people in this church are spying on me," Walter said to the pastor. He told him about the notice in the bulletin.
     "I’m sorry," the pastor said. He had white skin and watery eyes behind his wire-rimmed glasses but his torso was thick and muscular, as if he worked out with weights.
     "I don’t want people praying for me," Walter said.
     "Why is that?"
     "It’s an invasion of my privacy."
     The pastor apologized again. "I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again," he said.
     "Well, how did it happen in the first place?" Walter asked.
"I don’t know. I’d have to check," the pastor said.  "Someone must have expressed a concern."
     His desk was covered with papers, brochures, magazines. There was a small framed picture beside the pastor’s keyboard and computer monitor that showed a woman in shorts standing next to three black Africans. The Africans were grinning at the camera and the woman was trying to smile, but her expression looked more like a scowl.
     "Well someone had to have told you –"
     "Not me," the pastor said. "The church secretary."
     "Well someone had to have said something about me."
     "I suppose so," the pastor replied.
     "Well, who was it?" Walter asked.
     "I think that would be confidential," the pastor said apologetically.
     Down a hallway a toilet flushed. Squirrels danced on the lawn.
     "But is there some reason for anyone to be concerned about you?"
     Walter shrugged: "I don’t think I’m any different from most people. Not unless someone’s spying. Checking up on me. Trying to find out my secrets."
     "Well, we all have secrets," the pastor said, squinting at Walter through his glasses.
     "I don’t think I’m that much different from anyone else," Walter said.
     "No, most people are pretty much alike," the pastor said. "You learn that in the ministry."
     "Someone must know –" Walter said. He paused.
     "Know?"
     "Well, someone has to be aware, I mean, know that –"
     Walter paused again.
     The pastor looked embarrassed. "It’s pretty tough to tell Christians not to pray for someone."
     "I don’t want anyone praying for me," Walter said. "I get along fine on my own."
     On the way home, Walter stopped for a red light.  His mother crossed the street at pedestrian cross-walk.  A young man who looked familiar to Walter had taken his mother's arm and was guiding her. Walter's mother was dead and buried in the cemetery 12 blocks away.  When Walter blinked the tears from his eyes, his mother and her guardian had vanished. 
     Walter wondered if the young man was an angel.  Someone was honking at him.  The light had turned green, perhaps, many seconds before.  Walter waited for the light to turn red again and, then, pulled into the intersection.  Brakes squealed and there were more horns honking.  He shook his head and parked alongside the curb a couple car-lengths beyond the intersection.
      A kid rapped on Walter's window.  He rolled the window down.  "Are you okay, mister?" the kid asked.  "You look like there's something wrong with you."
    "I'm okay," Walter said.
     "Are you sure?"
     "I'm okay," Walter repeated.





"I’m not here to argue with you," the pastor replied.
"I want you to know," Walter said. "Despite everything, I get along just fine on my own."