So I can look a little stodgy in the robe, I realize this. It’s really not my style at all, so when I put it on there is usually a good reason. I pretty much will only wear the robe to “marry or bury” as they say, but even then I won’t wear it unless I’m asked. There’s just something superficial about looking “the part” and I’ve rejected appearances the entire seventeen years I have been a minister.
As if my long hair and goatee during this time of my life weren’t enough, I decided the least I could do is preach in jeans and a ball cap every Sunday. I wasn’t really trying to throw anyone curve balls; more like trying to get people to stop playing the game altogether. That’s all behind me now of course. There’s an old saying that goes like this:
“If you haven’t bucked the system before you turn thirty, then you’ve got no heart; and if you haven’t joined it after thirty, then you’ve got no brains.”
Needless to say, when they stand over me in the funeral parlor, it’s going to be those “heart” years that make them laugh, while at the same time make the dead man blush beneath the mortician’s paint. It won’t be quite the same as “rolling over in the grave,” but certainly akin.
Given such, I supposed long ago it would be better to let the embarrassment loose before I shake off this mortal coil and thus I currently manage to weave a complex honesty into my messages each Sunday. This sort of honest sharing is a mixed blessing and probably runs off as many congregants as it attracts. Last time I checked, the same was true of Jesus. I try not to beat myself up over it.
Being the first of these little tales I’ve put to ink, I beg your apologies for you will soon discover that I do tend to ramble and chase bunnies at times. I started this yarn with that pompous old black robe. Although I shouldn’t frown on it since it was gift given to me at my ordination, a gift that has probably saved me hundreds of dollars over the long haul.
Anyway, I was asked to do a wedding. This happens a great deal to ministers and believe it or not, a minister will get about ten times as many calls from people outside his congregation for weddings and funerals than his own church-goers. It’s the “outside” events that sometimes make pastors nervous. Some preachers won’t even consider doing a wedding for a couple that doesn’t go to their church, but something about that policy never sat well with me. I tend to hear people out.
In this particular circumstance, the couple already had a pastor committed to do the service, but during pre-marital counseling it was revealed that the groom was Jewish. He wasn’t just Jewish; he was committed to staying Jewish. In spite of having known the bride all her life, this Christian pastor elected not to do her wedding. The problem was real simple: the wedding day was only two short weeks away when the proverbial cat got let out of the bag; therefore, besides “being unequally yoked” as the good book puts it, they were in all likelihood not going to have anyone but the county judge willing to yoke them at all.
The young man’s rabbi was equally distraught and torn at his selection of a Christian bride. Nevertheless, after much convincing, the couple managed to talk the old man into doing a ceremony. Even so, the bride was still very disappointed at the thought of not having a Christian wedding. I’ve always been a sucker for people in desperate situations. Through the tears and multiple objections, I finally agreed to help. This young lady’s desire to make Jesus a part of her ceremony was touching, but was probably going to stir a great big hornet’s nest with the groom’s family, and his rabbi.
I met with the rabbi later that week. It was a cordial meeting: I in my long hair and goatee, and he in all his wrinkled glory. The man had to be every bit of 80 years old. We worked together on how to best handle our religious differences and how to structure a ceremony that we both had reservations about doing. Of special importance to this story, I agreed to wear that dastardly robe.
I should have insisted on no robe because this was to be an outdoor wedding. It was June and June days in Tennessee can go one of three directions: perfect, raining, or a post-rain sweltering kind of heat. As it happened, the day began with rain. I glanced out the window of my apartment and fretted to myself. It was going to be one of those days.
Jumping in the shower, I had my morning prayer. I always pray in the shower. It’s quiet, private, and relaxing. There’s this old church hymn we sing that says, “As we gather may your Spirit work within us…” Ever since I was kid, I’ve been singing that song, “As we lather...” It’s only natural that I find God as I lather in Ivory soap and that incredible .98 cent White Rain shampoo (I recommend the “passion flower” scent for a more heavenly experience).
During my prayers, I asked God to help me connect with an audience that would be at least half Jewish. I had already selected some passages from Ruth, and 1st Corinthians 13 in the New Testament. I had a rabbi friend tell me once that 1st Corinthians 13 was the essence of all true religion, so I felt safe with that.
I jumped out of the shower thinking to myself once again that I was going to have to grow up and get a hair cut some day. I dried off and paraded my naked flesh over to the underwear drawer. I faced the usual dilemma, would it be boxers or briefs? Since I was going to have to wear the robe, and I hated wearing the robe, I selected a bright green pair of Marvin the Martian boxers to wear. I would at least have a minor rebellion in my attire.
I’ve always loved cartoons and Marvin the Martian was probably at the top of a really short list of characters for me personally. When I was in high school, I used to run around saying “Oooohhh, you are making me very ANGRY,” while using my best Martian voice. (I know I was a geek in high school.) Black pants, white shirt, conservative tie finish the wardrobe and I’m out the door, with the robe folded over in my hands.
I arrive at the wedding site and rain is starting to taper off slightly. Friends of the bride and groom milled about under umbrellas as the clouds slowly dissipated. Within an hour, the sun was beating down on us unencumbered by clouds. That steamy feeling started to overtake me, and it wasn’t the same one I got from one of the bridesmaids after telling her I was single. This was a miserable kind of steam, the sauna variety.
Folks were taking their places and it was time for me to don the robe. The wedding was being held at a country club estate, with a nice multi-seated bathroom just across from the gazebo under which the couple would exchange vows. I quickly headed inside the restroom to put on the robe. All fifteen pounds of it slid over my head and fell down to my ankles. I immediately began to sweat. I grabbed some paper towels and dabbed my forehead, then exited and made my way to the groom.
He was nervous. They always are in my experience. A few pats on the back, a comforting word, or a quick prayer seem to do the trick. Our music cued up, and we walked out to the front of the gazebo. It was a huge audience. I never get nervous when I preach, but because I’m a blue jeans kind of preacher, I’ve always been a bit apprehensive at weddings, usually even more nervous than the groom I’m trying to comfort. Of course, no one ever pats my back, or offers me a comforting word—at least not until all is said and done. It is the thankless life of minister, one in which you are graded by performance alone, showmanship as it were—the very thing I'm not good at.
Needless to say, the sweat began to pour out of me even more. The next song began and in filed the bridesmaids. The one I was talking with earlier sort of gave me a look. Yikes! I had to stay focused. Then right on schedule, the bride marched her way down the center of the lawn, which still glistened from the morning rain. It was truly beautiful, and it always is beautiful to see a new bride. Of course, I would have to say that bit about the rain glistening out loud, and then mention sun coming out just before we started, and the glory of sunshine, and then a bit about flowers; all that stuff preachers say right before they go medieval on you in a wedding. So, I said it all (afterall, I was wearing 'the robe.')
I opened up the Bible to the passages I selected earlier that week. The sun was beating down on me, and I mean beating down hard. Sweat began dripping off my forehead onto the page, onto my notes. It was such a salty sweat that some of it began dripping into my eyes and they began to sting. Spat, splat. The book of Ruth never had this much rhythm, even with the sweet lover curled up at the feet of Boaz. Each bead of sweat literally bounced off the text.
By the time I got to 1st Corinthians, I had a much different problem: something was crawling up my sock. I blamed the robe. It was wide and offered the little critter the cover of darkness through which to explore the incredible world of my ankle. I kept on reading as though nothing was happening.
“Love is patient, love is kind…”
Whatever creature had taken interest in me got really brave. It set a course up my leg like Christopher Columbus on steroids. Around the knee, I started to get very worried. I thought about the boxers for a second and the sweat cut loose like rain. I began to fidget as I finished the passage from St. Paul. I glanced up from the text and looked at the crowd. They had no idea I was struggling. My gaze turned to the rabbi beside me. He looked like he’d just seen Elvis crossing the yard. We exchanged a single glance and he knew I was in real trouble.
After the scripture, I politely yielded to the gentle old man and he gracefully took over. By this time, I knew that the creature in my pants leg was an insect. The bug had worked its way to my thighs. Not wanting to make a scene, I reached down to place my hands in the pockets to brush the creature back down my leg. To my dismay, I didn’t have any pockets. I was wearing the robe.
I shook my leg as unobtrusively as possible under the robe. This caused the insect to become fearful and work doubly hard to arrive at whatever destination it had determined. The boxers made for easy access.
The rabbi was breaking out the glass for the couple to stomp. I knew this had to be near the end. As he began to speak, my new found friend settled in a quiet fold beneath the scrotum. I committed myself that no matter what happened, I would not reach down and touch, scratch, or rearrange my privates in front of all these people.
“Mazal Tov!” The shout from the crowd and the shifting of the bride and groom on the stage caused me to have to move slightly left of center. The identity of my testicular guest became clearer with a sharp sting. Zap! My buttocks shot backward and up at a forty-five degree angle. With the music now going and people clapping and singing, I think my hop may have actually seemed somewhat normal. The tears must have seemed normal too because no one was affected by my instantaneous weeping… wait, no. One person was affected. My dear fellow clergyman, the rabbi—he just kept staring at me with those dark, beady eyes. He still knew something was wrong with the hippie Christian pastor. I’m not sure what he knew, but what I knew was that I had the pressing urge to grab my crotch. Honestly, that’s all I needed.
Immediately after the couple’s family had been escorted out, I invited the crowd to stay for the reception that had been planned. I dismissed us in prayer as best (and as quickly) as I could. Shaking no hands and speaking with no one I ran straight for the bathroom next to the gazebo.
The door to the bathroom flew open and I immediately reached down to grab the hem of my robe. I never considered getting in a stall, or locking the door. With one swoop, I threw the robe up over my head. Quickly I unfastened my dress pants and jerked them to the floor. I began rubbing and patting and shaking my crotch to get the bee out.
Suddenly, I heard the door to the bathroom open. I lowered my robe just enough to see who entered. It was the rabbi, his mouth shot open in amazement, eyes bulging out of his head at the sight of me: robe high, trousers low beating my private parts feverishly atop the Marvin Martian underwear.
“There was a bee in my pants.” I said.
For some reason, I knew it was too late. The damage had already been done. The old man just nodded and said, “Uh-huh.” Then he turned and walked out without another word.It really wasn't my most mortifying thing ever, but I'm fairly sure it was his.
