One of the Preacher’s nightmares is to have a dodgy stomach on a Sunday morning, prior to conducting Morning Worship (tip: never have a takeaway curry the night before)
One is sitting enthroned with less than an hour to go and wondering what to do. It has happened a couple of times – but, mercifully, I’ve had Session Clerks who could take bits of the service, while I dashed off to the church loo.
Worse – an occasion when I had to drive some distance on a particular Sunday morning to preach for a vacant Charge in the Interim-Moderator’s Church. We set off in good time, but the snow got heavier and heavier until the road was eventually blocked. This was in the days before mobile (cell) phones – so I had to walk through the snow-drift to a public phone box to let the Minister know that I couldn’t make it. Poor guy – this was his first church and so he didn’t have any “oldies” from elsewhere to fall back upon. I hope the Holy Spirit came to his rescue! (I later revisited – and got the post)
While a hospital chaplain, I was paged some years ago by the company which now owns the Crichton Memorial Church in Dumfries. It would be about three in the afternoon and the Minister who was supposed to conduct the marriage ceremony (scheduled to start then) at the Church hadn’t turned up.
Could I help out?
As I wore an open-neck shirt (for hygiene reasons) and chinos at work – I said that I would have to return home to get changed into something more appropriate for a wedding – and that it would take me half an hour. The poor bride was in tears (her mum was in tears and – later – the wedding cake was in tiers!) but after what I hoped was a reassuring chat, we got started.
It transpired that the missing Minister (who didn’t believe in rehearsals) had assumed that the Wedding was on the Saturday. The groom and the family were not best pleased – and it even made the local rag.
On auto-pilot: my beloved father had osophegal cancer and died in the Western Infirmary in Glasgow in the early evening of Saturday, 21st February 1976. After spending some time at the Hospital, I took my mother back to the family home and spent some time with her and my Father’s brother and sister who were staying with her.
About ten o’clock, I drove the thirty-odd miles to where my Church was; had a quick bite to eat, and spent the next three hours writing my sermon.
I took the Sunday service at 11 o’clock that morning, before driving back to Bearsden immediately afterwards. And I haven’t a clue what I preached about that day.
and here’s a repost on the same subject:
Christmas Eve 1974
The Meenister’s Log
Murder in the Cathedral – well, getting duffed up on the steps of the kirk……..
I went to my first charge in June 1974 – a pleasantly quiet village where most of the excitement at Christmastide was going to look at the lights (green, amber, red, amber, green – hell , this was confusing – but exhilarating)
Anyhow, it was Christmas Eve and my first watch night service as a newly fledged meenister.
I got to the church just as the pub across the road was scaling out (whiff of the barmaid’s apron £1; sook of the spittoon £1.25; half-pint of dregs only £1.30. – I made that up)
Mind you, a few weeks before draped from the window of one of the flats above was a bed sheet with the message: “Happy 27th birthday, Granny”
OK – to our tale of woe: some of the punters from that pub decided that it would be a good idea to rough up our church officer who had asthma.
I managed to get those youths out of the building, but they started to smash up some of the diamond-shaped stained-glass windows.
So this daft wee meenister followed them outside to remonstrate; they then got stuck into me and hit on the head with an object (at that point, unknown)
The Polis arrived very quickly, and, even though they knew who the miscreants were, were annoyed when I wouldn’t make a statement.
Our Session Clerk, the saintly Dr Tom Burnett (RIP) arrived at the same time as my heavily pregnant wife. Gossip started about a Christmas baby – Matthew was actually born at the beginning of February – but he was actually putting stitches in my head (without anesthetic!)
Then right on time, I stood in the pulpit and preached about peace and goodwill toward all men.
The next day – Christmas morning – I had a 10.30 service – and, before we stated, Davie the Beadle, went to the church safe, and dialed in the code (6-6-6) opened the door and produced a dented can of Tennant’s lager (for my older friends, these were the heavier metal tins with the ‘Lovelies’ depicted thereon) – the one that had caused me to have three stitches put in my head.
I later enjoyed that can of beer – because it was ………….. Thirst after righteousness!
The village of Doune lies by the River Teith in southern Perthshire.
Sky Pilot 