The Nursing Home

I threw myself into the fevered efforts to convert Mt. Tam into a seeker sensitive church by Easter, partly because the Supervised Ministry class I was taking at seminary required me to invest 10 hours per week in local church ministry. Unfortunately, Supervised Ministry also required each student to lead a worship service during the semester, and it didn’t seem likely that Pastor John’s plans for a snappy, high-quality Sunday morning service would include any kind of visible role for me.

To get around this roadblock, I signed up to lead a worship service at a local nursing home. Area churches shared this responsibility on a rotating basis, and I convinced my friend Mike that by taking a turn, we could lead worship without making fools of ourselves at a real church. This notion would prove to be horrifyingly mistaken.

During our first visit to the home, Mike and I helped the staff recruit worship participants, some of whom appeared reluctant to leave the big-screen TV set in the rec room. Once we had gathered a dozen grumbling congregants, a staff member named Ed informed us that the old folks enjoyed singing and suggested that we start by leading a few hymns.

“Oh, too bad we don’t have a piano player or singer with us,” I said with a tense smile.

“That’s okay!” Ed fairly shouted. “Just start one acapella and they’ll all join in!”

Making a mental note to strangle this man after the service, I hesitantly rasped out the first few lines of The Old Rugged Cross. But it quickly became obvious that, despite Ed’s assurances, none of the old-timers had the slightest intention of singing along, preferring to stare at me blankly or talk among themselves. To make matters worse, Mike—who had not grown up in a Baptist church—didn’t know enough of the words to be of any real help. So I was essentially left to sing a solo as Ed merrily hummed along.

After finishing my caterwauling, I slumped into an empty seat to let Mike deliver the sermon. But before my jangled nerves could begin to unwind, the wheelchair-bound woman to my right reached over and began to vigorously rub my thigh with gnarled fingers. Horrified, I grabbed the offending hand and tried to exert some control over its movements while giving the appearance of making a comforting gesture. When this failed to work, Ed redeemed himself by wheeling my lecherous companion away, as I was left to ponder why such things never happened when I was seated next to a 20 year-old.

Meanwhile, Mike was having troubles of his own. After he made an innocuous statement about the importance of faith in our daily lives, a scowling woman in a faded blue housecoat cupped her hand to her mouth and cried, “That’s mental!” After she barked out a few similar comments, a startled Mike brought his remarks to a hasty conclusion. Once we had said our goodbyes and walked out to his car, he fumed, “I can’t believe that old lady heckled me! Next time, you’re preaching.”

“Better heckled than groped,” I sighed. Leadership, we were learning, was no picnic.