I Kid You Not

You would not believe the things people pester me with just thirty seconds before I am supposed to start the Sunday morning service. Picture the scene: I am trying to re-tune my guitar. Johnny knocked it over. Don’t ask me why. It happened, and I could wring his scrawny neck – in love of course.

Henry is waving a colossal bunch of keys in my face. The school has changed the lock on classroom 23 without telling anybody, and Kingdom Kids has nowhere to meet, so do I know which key opens classroom 24? This of course is a very reasonable question. You see, the pastor knows EVERYTHING – he is God’s representative on earth and God is omniscient after all, so surely the pastor is intimately acquainted with the shape of the key to classroom 24.

I turn away from Henry so that he won’t see me grinding my teeth. But there is no relief. Someone else is hovering on my opposite side. Do I know who is doing the notices today? Yes I do. So who is it? I am doing the notices today. Did we know that it was Gerty’s birthday last Sunday?  No we did not know that it was Gerty’s birthday last Sunday ... why do you ask? Well, it wasn’t announced. This is hardly surprising because we did not know about the birthday, but the traumatised mother is getting at something else. So I graciously admit to this heinous crime and ask for forgiveness. But my jaws are clenched alarmingly tight, and there is a deep frown gouged into my forehead.

If things continue in this vein, I will probably spoil church by screaming insanely. Maybe if I close my eyes and pretend to be praying in tongues, the beloved flock will relent. I bow my head and try to tune my guitar whilst appearing to pray. Who says a man cannot multi-task. And no, in case you are wondering, I didn’t learn these skills at Harare Theological College.

Surely they will not bother me now? But the sheep are not finished with me yet. Out of the corner of my eye I see a pair of immaculately polished high-heeled shoes. There is yet another person waiting to talk to me. I begin to pray more fervently. One of the shoes starts tapping on the ground. Oh Lord, have mercy! My whispered prayers are getting desperate. Then ... a tortoise swims into my field of vision. Yes, I kid you not, a tortoise, complete with scraggy neck and legs that are doing breast-stroke!

“Ian, look at this: it’s a tortoise.” So it is! Mrs X is entirely right. It IS a tortoise. My head is swimming and everything is taking on a surreal quality. Is this a pet that Mrs X brought to church? Or did she invite it to an Alpha course and now it wants to join Harvest? I know most people want to meet the pastor when they visit a church for the first time – but a tortoise?

“Wow,” I exclaim “does it have a name?”

“No,” she answers, so I go back to tuning the guitar.

“What do YOU want to do with it?”

To be honest, I don’t want anything to do with it. After all, she found it. But Mrs X is holding the tortoise out at arm’s length, willing me to take it off her. But I have a guitar in my hands, and I’m not letting it go ... not for anything!

“Where did you find it?” I ask, trying to buy some time.

“Underneath my chair...do you know where it came from?” There it is again: the omniscience of pastors is a given - keys, tortoises or whatever, just ask me about it. I am bound to know. I look at my watch. It is 9:00am.

“Sorry Mrs X, I must get the service started.”

I stand up and greet the church.

“Welcome to Harvest. It is such a blessing to be together this morning. If you are visiting for the first time, then please join us for a lettuce – I beg your pardon, a cup of tea - after the service.”