The Sunday Musician

John walks up to the counter at JP’s Coffee, cutting in front of me, and asks for a refill. The ruby-cheeked barrista chirps overloud:  “Please sir, if you’ll step to the end of the line, we’ll get to you as soon as we can!”

“Yeah, John—quit cuttin’,” I say, and John does a perfect Jack Benny slow burn. He shuffles back to his table, muttering “I’ve been comin' here for years…”

I collect my coffee and, briefcase in the other hand, set out looking for a booth where I can plug the earphones in and work on my book. John calls out, “You gonna sit with us, or you got important stuff to do?”

I hesitate, and he waves his hand, “Ah, you go off and do your busy work. You don’t have time for us.”

‘Us’ is he and Fred—both retired—and whoever else happens along every day around 5:00 in the afternoon. Sometimes there’s a little guy named Ron, sometimes a big guy whose name I can never remember. Ken, I think. None of them have any place to be, and the conversation drifts from politics and religion to the latest local gossip. I acquiesce this time, set my briefcase on the floor and pull up a chair.

John grins at me, happy now.  “So what’s up with you? You still ridin’ that big Yamaha?” John has a Honda Goldwing Trike, which he switched to after he and his wife took a spill on the regular, two-wheel Goldwing.

We talk bikes for a few minutes, and John waves at someone—a hairpiece/tweed-jacket-with-elbow-patches/leather briefcase/tiny little loafers guy in his fifties. The guy sits down, and John says, “Ed, do you know the Reverend, here?” I say I don’t, and he introduces me. John explains that the Reverend pastors a church over in Zeeland. Zeeland is just like Holland only smaller and more intensely Christian Reformed. One church for every six people, or something like that. Zeeland and Holland share a parochial school system.

A short silence ensues, then Fred abruptly bursts into laughter. Fred is a retired Catholic priest, and therefore an anomaly in Holland. He’s 78, worked in a Manhattan parish for many years, and has great stories. This group runs deeper than it looks.

John asks Fred what’s so funny, and Fred turns to me:   “Ed, tell the Reverend here what you do.”

“What I do?”

“What you used to do. Tell him what your job was.”

I’m not sure where this is going, but I say, “I was the Director of Instrumental Music at (Big Church).”

The Reverend does nothing to hide his scorn, and says, “Oh, you worked for the Happy-Slappy church.”

I can’t believe he said it, and I laugh reflexively. “The Happy-Slappy church?”

“Yeah,” he continues, dead serious. “The church that will do anything just to get people in the door. The church that plays happy-slappy music and entertains people with bells and whistles and light shows.”

I can’t believe he’s saying this, and I’m not sure how to respond. It’s a full frontal assault, fired from the comfort of his long-time position as leader of a hundred-year-old church. I feel a little anger rising at his rudeness. I look at John and he’s openly grinning. Fred is outright giggling.

“We lost a lot of people to (Big Church),” the Reverend continues. “They just run over there to see the ‘show’—the word ‘show’ makes his mouth twist—and there goes spiritual growth and good theology, right out the window.”

Now I get it. He’s angry that his church is dwindling.

“Well,” I say, “I was pretty much in charge of ‘happy-slappy’ over there, so if you have a problem with it, you can blame me.”

“All right,” he says, with no attempt to make nice, no words of friendliness. Just a bitter scowl.

I think John and Fred feel like they’ve hit the entertainment jackpot. I’m left with a curious feeling. Time was I’d have argued back forcefully, defending my church and to a larger degree, myself and my career choice. But I don’t work at the Big Church any more, and I don’t have to prop up the church growth movement to make myself feel better. The truth is, I actually feel a little sorry for the guy.