Memoir sofa Preacher

WHERE’S THE CHAPEL?

My parents were Methodist preachers, and as part of the youth club, several of us took up local preaching in our teens. We were keen to spread the gospel and now in my mid-eighties, I smile to think how naïve we were.

We lived in a rural area near Doncaster, with many small chapels scattered across the district.

I was delivering sermons at the age of fifteen, and was what is called a “preacher on note”.

I often took a few teenage friends out with me to help to lead services.

This particular Sunday evening, two lasses and two lads – who were even younger – joined me, and off we cycled to lead worship in the tiny hamlet of Thorpe in Balne.

It was a beautiful summer evening, and when we arrived we saw a few farms and cottages straggling along a track, but no chapel in sight.

We cycled up and down that road, but our search was in vain. Then we saw a chap leaning on a farmyard gate and stopped to ask him. “Ya see yon place wi’ t’post office box on t’wall?” he answered. “That’s it.”

What we thought was a post office was the chapel!

There were no windows, and just a central door. We propped our trusty steeds against the wall and went in.

It was a plain, rectangular room, with a few benches and a sort of box affair that served as the pulpit.

Just before six p.m., our congregation of five elderly rustics arrived, the youngest introducing herself as Miss Spittlehouse, our organist.

We felt very nervous and intimidated as no words of welcome came, one of my assistants announced the first hymn and we blundered on feeling far from convinced about things, kept alert by the vigorous thumpings of Miss Spittlehouse.

Then something happened that I have never again encountered in seventy years of preaching.

Fortunately, it occurred during the last hymn when, as our organist pounded away, it was just too much for the old instrument.

There were two loud claps, and the organ went dead. Both pedal straps had snapped, bringing an early benediction. Four of our congregation departed immediately, and we all felt a bit flat about the service, but were cheered somewhat as we made for our bicycles and Miss Spittlehouse remarked, “You’ve done well. Come again!”

Next time: Some Very Wet Worship.