Still Christmas day…thinking about how special…to spend part of the morning and early afternoon with Jason’s family of Teela, Jackson and Aiden and Teela’s parents. Nice. To see the zeal of the 3-year-olds is wonderful. To talk with Matthew—gosh, what timing for his gift—delivered last night at 6 p.m. before we went to Diane’s sister’s home for a lovely dinner. Hopefully not too far into 2011 Diane and I can get to Winnetka to visit Matthew, Sheila and Laura in their new home. Later we’ll talk with Andrew to see how he and Jennifer and Dylan and Taylor are enjoying Jennifer’s family in Seattle.
Just moments ago I received an e-mail from a wonderful friend and colleague, John Thomas. He’s one of my most favorite clergy friends—especially when I was Conference Minister and John, as President of our denomination, was my pastor—how much he cared for me, most focused in memory was when my mother died and then that horrible weekend in early May when one of our ministers and his wife were bludgeoned to death in their sleep by the Railroad Killer. Goodness, it had to be one of the most sordid times ever—and John was with me in spirit and in many conversations.
What I think about though, John mentioned that he worshipped last night at St. Pauls for their candlelight/communion service and how much it meant to worship where Fred Trost [very close friend of John’s] and I had led worship and how inspiring the Widor’s Toccata was in that magnificent sanctuary. It really is one of the most awesome worship centers. Yes, for sure.
In thinking again on St. Pauls and Christmas Eve, marking the conclusion of Advent, I couldn’t help recall an experience that impacted my ministry. Actually as I recall 44 years of ministry, some of the most life-shaping and transforming moments happened in the 1966-69 window as I served with Fred and Herb Davis.
Let me set the Advent experience table. At St. Pauls we were committed to serve Holy Communion for those members homebound—either in their own home or apartment, or more likely in some retirement facility, some of which were elegant and others—more of these—that you wondered how people could really live—the odors of urine and purex were always in competition.
During Advent the ladies of the Frauenverein helped us by preparing fruit baskets we were to gift when we served communion. The ladies were adamant ALL the baskets got delivered—45 of them numbering precisely the number of communions we had to serve. With their firm resolve to look over our shoulder, and at times when I walked in the kitchen one of them would point to the baskets and say, “Yes?” It wasn’t a question—rather it was a, “When are you going to get to these?” Might even have been a 11th Holy Commandment they had, Don’t let the bananas get brown. Damn straight we wouldn’t.
Or so I thought. Being pretty organized [that’s my understatement], I took care of my 15 [we were pretty mathematical about dividing up 45 by 3 pastors] the first 10 days of Advent. I noticed, about December 22 with the clock not slowing down, that Herb has his delivered, but there were 15 still there.
“Fred, might I deliver your communions for you?”
Now the truth was he wasn’t lazy, just had a number of meetings downtown in the metropolitan church office—yeah, right.
He didn’t hesitate, “Marky [my moniker], that’d be great.”
So the next morning, I loaded up my car with 15 fruit baskets and my trusty visitation list. Off I went, probably down-deep seeking the Guiness World Record of number of home communions in one Advent day. Everything went fine…I even remember the clear blue sky that darkened about 4:30 p.m…..the 5 degree without the wind. The wind was about ten miles speed, so the chill factor…well, it was somewhere between very cold and totally cold.
I got to my 15th communion, did pretty well with the visit, the zerox odor prevailed and returned to my car. It had to be about 6 p.m.
NO! I looked to my back seat and ohmygoodness, there was one remaining fruit basket. HOW COULD THAT BE!
Did I forget one? Is there one of the 15 who’s cursing the night, Why didn’t I get a fruit basket? I dismissed that because what I didn’t want to do was to go back to the 15 and inquire. I then entered into a self-taught ethical discussion focused upon What am I to do with this remaining fruit basket?
It would be the wrath of the Frauenverein were I to return the basket to the church kitchen table. I couldn’t take it home—that would be greedy if the word ever got out. You must remember this was my FIRST Advent, having been ordained just 7 months previously. I couldn’t throw the basket in a nearby store dumpster, that would be wasteful and disrespectful, a cardinal sin.
So I asked what seemed like the only wise question: Is there someone who would appreciate a visit from one of the pastors, to be served communion and to receive the last fruit basket, now minus the two bananas—they were brownish with yellow only a history.
It then hit me…like bells, like a trumpet sounding, like drums pounding: Esther Selk. Yes!
A word about this gracious St. Pauls parishioner. Many times she couldn’t get to church—diabetes was getting the upper hand. She endured one amputation of a leg—up to the hip, and had a glass eye, only squinting out of her good eye. And, I knew she liked me. So, off to Esther Selk I went, only two turns from where I was.
Since those weren’t days of cellular phones or texting, I took my chances when I parked in front of her two-story house, with a faint porch light giving bare visibility to a porch that had buckled wood, some slats missing. So, walking to the front door had to be done with great care.
Now that was a problem, for I hadn’t shared the for Holy Communion at St. Pauls we served port wine…and I had already drained all but a couple of small cups worth from the 2nd bottle.
In other words, as you’ve probably discerned, I was feeling no pain.
But, let not one’s condition keep a new pastor from a world record in number of home communions in Chicago on a cold winter December night.
I was loaded, so to speak: fruit basket, home communion kit, almost-empty bottle of wine and my Home Communion Book of Worship.
I knocked, not realizing what was to happen has had as great an impact upon 44 years of ministry as anything I can think of.
I could hear Esther thumping to the front door…she eschewed her wooden leg and refused crutches and was still able by pushing a chair ahead of her, to bounce along on her remaining leg.
She opened the door, squinted out of her one good eye and saw me. You would have thought I was an angel from heaven, “Ah, Pastor Miller, it’s wonderful to see you…I see you have a basket of fruit—and is that a bottle of wine?”
It’s great what you can see out of one squinty eye.
I tried to say “Esther,” but am pretty sure it came out, “Ether, can I come in?”
Of course the answer was yes, as she followed her chair to the kitchen, turned it and sat down at her narrow kitchen table. It had linoleum for its cover, but some of it turned up at the corners [that meant nothing could spill on the floor].
I took off my coat and threw it at a living room chair. I missed. Not a surprise.
I then sat down across from Ether—I mean, Esther. She sat there waiting for her favorite pastor in all the world, along with Fred and Herb mind you, to serve her.
Doing my best, I drained the remaining wine into the two miniature cups, took out the two wafers and then opened the prayer book to the “Home Communion” section, because even though this was my 16th home communion, all in one day mind you, I still wasn’t sure of the words. Why? Because can you imagine the embarrassment of offering communion with, “Jesus took the bread and drank it and took the wine and broke it?”
Before I looked down for the word, I looked over Esther’s shoulder and saw her wooden leg propped against the refrigerator. I also noticed the fridge door was opened slightly and right there, right there without question was the glass of water holding her glass eye and that eye, no doubt in my world, was beamed in on me, Don’t you screw up, buddy! Or something perhaps less charitable.
Esther waited.
I then looked down, anything but clear of mind or memory and couldn’t read the words. Oh they were there, but fright abounding, what do I do?
Esther gave waiting and patience and hoping its clearest definition.
What in God’s name do I do now? Forget the Guiness World Record…how about a hint at survival, God?
Not to pause any longer, thinking this at least looked religious, I waved my hand over the elements, the wafers and the two cups of wine—that had to be very honorable and helpful I deceived myself—and said, “Ether, help yourthelf!”
She smiled, still squinting, reached over and squeezed my hand, “Pastor Miller, you must be very tired.”
Never in my life did I appreciate an euphemism so much.
I only nodded…and of course it was my imagination, but I think I saw that glass eye wink.
Esther then reached with her other hand, took my book of worship and squinted down and read, “On the night in which he was betrayed, Jesus took the bread…”
And in that moment, that incredibly powerful moment, Esther Selk served me.
As I end my 44th year in ministry, I consider that experience valued because there are times when I am not the helper but the helped, not the minister serving but the one served. That’s what ministry’s all about—the covenant of caring in which we each promise to give our fullest, and when that’s not always possible, may another reach over for the book and continue the lesson.
Mark H. Miller's Blog 