A Picture Of Grace

A Picture of Grace, Not Gracefulness

Growing up as a pastor’s daughter was both a blessing and a burden.  It was a blessing in so many ways, as our dad was the first glimpse we had of what Jesus must have been like with skin on.  It was a burden because, after all, you were a preacher’s daughter, which somehow meant you were not like everyone else.  Church members expect certain things of pastor’s children that they don’t necessarily expect of their own children. 

At our small Texas church, for example, I remember a time when the church bought a small organ, complete with six free lessons on how to play it.  No one there had time for the lessons, but because I could read music, they decided the pastor’s daughter should learn to play the organ.  From that moment on, it was just assumed by everyone that I would be available to play for services, funerals, weddings, and special events.  It was as if I came with the bench. 

In reality, I am somewhat shy and reluctant to do anything that calls attention to myself.  It doesn’t help that physical coordination has never been my strong suit.  I’m not too sure of how I can type or play the piano except that my brain thinks it’s producing the result, rather than my hands.  Watch me, and I can do neither!

Not wanting to disappoint my dad, I did, indeed, learn to play the organ and enjoyed it most of the time.  However, playing an instrument is much like being a mom; not too many people notice unless you make a mistake.  Our church in Texas was like a family and very forgiving of the occasional wrong note when my mind would wander from the music during the service, or when one of the bulbs went out and the organ died in mid-crescendo, or when, somehow, my brain scrambled the song to flats, instead of sharps. 

When we moved to the Atlanta area, however, God called us to a church that was larger than the town we were from in Texas.  As always, in a church community, no matter how large, it doesn’t take long for people to learn what you do.  As a result, though our official organist was classically trained fudge ripple and I was six free lessons vanilla, I ended up playing for a service as a substitute, occasionally.

At the end of the music portion of the service one night, I breathed a sigh of relief at not embarrassing the music minister or God too badly, and swung my legs to the side of the bench – not realizing it sat at the edge of the steps down from the platform.  Suddenly, I stumbled and rolled down all six steps to the floor of the massive auditorium in front of God and all 2000 in attendance.  As I lay there, asking God to perform the rapture of the church, split the ground open to swallow me up, or just to allow me to wake up and find the experience to be a dream, I realized that I only had two choices.  I could either lie there on the floor, pretending to be unconscious, or I could allow the people who had scrambled to my aid to help me up, dust myself off, and trust the Christ in each of the people there to love me anyway. 

As my wounded pride and I sat down on the side pew that night, I rejoiced in one of God’s great truths for the church – they had to love me, just as I was to love them, unconditionally, without reservation, and regardless of their physical coordination, gracefulness, or lack thereof.  I was reminded that though it might have been embarrassing for a moment, it was just that – for a moment.  God loved me, regardless, on or off of the bench, and, according to 1 John 4:11, Beloved, if God so loved us, we ought also to love one another – though the Minister of Music did have a seatbelt on the bench the next time I played!

© 2011 Gerry Sisk

(09/21/11)