~Briton Cannon
Everything is silent. The only sound in the air is a cough from the balcony and the occasional chime from a cell phone some poor soul forgot to turn off. A single sister stands and rises above the masses to address them. As she opens her mouth, all eyes are on her and ears are open to hear her inspiring words. All goes well for a minute or two but then she loses focus and starts talking about giving a healing blessing to a broken down tour bus on a trip to Graceland. Eyes hit the deck in mass exodus and the congregation starts texting. “Did I just hear that?” or “Awkward…” or “To say that this chick is cookoo for cocoa puffs would be an understatement,” they text to each other. Fast and testimony meeting in the mid-singles ward begins.
In the program it reads:
“We appreciate those who will share their testimonies with us today. We encourage you to keep your testimonies brief so that others may have the same opportunity. Due to time constraints, we would like to hear from members whose records are in the ward. Thank you.”
-The Misfit Toys Ward Bishopric
“They mean everyone except me,” thinks the goofy young visitor with an agenda as walks to the pulpit with a spring in his step. “Just wait till they see my spirit shine. First I’ll tell them about how I’m not actually in the ward, then how I showed up early because I didn’t know what time this ward started, and then how I went to the park to watch the ducks swimming in the pond for two hours.” The sisters stir and the brothers loosen their ties during the brother’s ramblings of his observations of the outcast duck amongst the others at the pond. He says the duck is much like himself in his own life. In essence, he indirectly proclaims he is the lame-duck. The congregation seems to be in silent accordance with the proposed sentiment.
The front pew of the chapel is where the security detail (bouncer in layman’s terms) sits. Testifiers line up on the front row and check in with the bouncer to make sure they are on the ward list. A squirrely sister scoots next to the bouncer and smiles. She expects to be next on deck to testify.
“Are you in the ward?”
“No, but I need to bear my testimony.”
“I’m sorry but you need to be in the ward”
“The spirit is telling me that I must get up there and bear my testimony.”
“Sorry, not until your records are in the ward.”
“In the name of Jesus Christ I will get up there and bear my testimony today.”
(Not sure how to respond) “Um, the bishop will probably stop you.” After a few minutes of thick tension and intense glances from the bouncer to the bishop as he tries to alert him of the escalating situation, the congregation says “Amen,” to the standing testifier. The invoking sister pops up like there’s a spring in her bloomers and power-walks to the side of the stand opposite of the bishop, avoiding him completely. She grabs the microphone firmly and starts by spelling out her name to introduce herself. The audience exchanges concerned glances with each other. She tells the interesting and unique story of her conversion and they all relax a little. Just when she seems to be wrapping up and everyone’s guard is down, she promptly pitches herself as an actress spreading the gospel from within Hollywood and gives all her contact info and social media handles from the pulpit. That’s showmanship, folks.
A brother gets up and starts by saying, “the Law of Chastity. It’s so hard to live the Law of Chastity. The other night I was laying in bed… and I wasn’t living the Law of Chastity.” The congregation practically burns a hole through the floor with the stares from their platter-sized eyes unable to comprehend the reality of what they’re hearing. After a few more minutes of philosophical and interpretive approaches to the aforementioned doctrine that vexes this poor man so, the bishop asks him to wrap up and sit down. He complies with a folksy smile and a wink.
An ample-sized sister with a tank top too revealing for a lifeguard (and three sizes too small, to boot) comes and sits in the choir seats on the stand to wait her turn. She rapidly fans herself with her program snapping it in the silence between uttered words as she flicks her wrist back and forth. She shifts in her seat, adjusts the spaghetti straps on her tank top, and fans louder. When a brother sitting next to her points out the high volume of her technique, she replies, “But it’s hot.” He then offers her a legal pad as an alternative fanning device and the snapping ceases. The fanning is quiet now, but she continues to squirm and adjust herself. Sisters in the audience try to signal the first counselor that she will reveal her shame to the congregation at any moment. Whether this impromptu sacrament strip-tease is inadvertent or intentional is unclear. Just as disaster is about to strike, she halts her fidgeting and reaches into her bag. She rustles loud wrappers for what seems like thirty seconds or so and then pulls a hefty fist of some sort of salty snack from her purse. She hoists her bulging mitt to her mouth and then stuffs enough peanuts and Cracker Jack in her face to choke a donkey. This is followed by loud open-mouthed crunching as it becomes glaringly evident that this sister thinks the protocol for the ball park and church are one and the same. The cycle then repeats itself three or four times before she’s parched. Without missing a beat, she pulls out a Dr. Pepper from her bag like she’s Mary Poppins. “She wouldn’t,” the wide-eyed congregation thinks in unison. She proceeds to tap the top of the can three times to settle the fizz and cracks the pop top with a piercing CHSIK! Meanwhile, a sister at the pulpit battles on through a heart wrenching account of her father’s battle with cancer as sympathetic onlookers hold her up with their eyes for support. Text messages overload the nearest tower with exclamations of disbelief. Sensing potential disaster, the bishop pops up and cuts the meeting short by three minutes circumventing the sister before she can crush the DP can on her forehead and unleash a rogue wave of unpredictable rhetoric from the pulpit. A slightly audible sigh of relief releases and shoulders throughout the congregation dip as the tension exits their bodies. Confirmation of the inspiration in this man’s calling to be bishop is apparent.
The chorister leads the congregation in hymn #137 “Testimony” before the benediction. After a grateful “Amen,” they all stand up and file out to the postlude music. Conversations grow louder like a gaggle of geese as the congregation tries to figure a way to salvage the rest of their Sabbath. I sit in my pew for a few moments smiling to myself and think how I can’t wait until next month to see who else will testify in the mid-singles ward.
Featured Image by Cory Doctorow