After the Canary Dances

Once every two months I lead an informal “worship service” at Webster, an assisted living and retirement community in Rye, NH. We have our service in a room equipped with several couches, a big screen T.V. and a baby grand piano. In addition to the 12-18 live-in residents that make it to the service each month, I’m usually accompanied by several members from the church. Most are members from the choir and do an exceptional job of leading us in singing a few hymns. Many of these hymns are in a tune I’ve never heard before. I’m no worship leader, so I’m there to say a prayer, read scripture, and give a brief message. The service typically lasts about a half hour.

This week I had a tough act to follow. Prior to our worship service, the Webster residents were being entertained by a man with a dancing Canary. As I arrived the man’s act was just finishing and he was trying to corral his dancing bird into a dog kennel for the car ride home. I think the old folks were really wound up afterwards and had a difficult time immediately transitioning to what was going on in the worship service. As usual, I began the service with a prayer that I don’t think anyone heard. A woman in a wheel chair was squawking almost as loudly as the dancing bird. It was distracting, but I said my prayer and an “amen” that was not repeated. Almost the same could be said for my message. Oh sure, there might have been a few in the room that could track with what I was saying, but for the most part, nothing but blank stares.

I’m reminded of Henry Nouwen who went to work at a home for the mentally disabled. Although a highly educated theologian, author, and well respected leader in the church, Nouwen’s credentials were meaningless to the mentally disabled. The only thing his disabled friends desired from him was his presence, time, and consideration. My times spent at Webster, I’m learning, are not really about my message or the songs or my prayers that everyone seems to talk over. That’s not the point. I think the greatest ministry happens when all that is over and when it’s time for me to leave. On my way out, I greet the residents and shake their hands and ask them for their name. To them this seems to be the best part. Maybe I’ll drop the sermon and stick to learning more names.