Plaint of a Bashful Parishioner

By CHARLES M. GUTHRIE

of the editorial page staff

published by the StarTribune

January 3, 1965

   ONE MAIN VIRTUE of the church is its social appeal.  The lonely and oppressed find fellowship 

there-- or should.  Too often they don't.  The fellowship is confined to those who already are acquainted, the stranger remains a stranger, and departs determined to find a church home elsewhere.

   The clergy and officials of the congregation are well aware of these failures to communicate and repeatedly exhort members to mingle more with the visitors.  In my church there is more than exhortation.  There is compulsion and entrapment.  When you stand to sing the second hymn of the service, the preacher tells you first to greet those behind and in front of you and those at your left and right.  You are supposed to say a friendly hello, give tongue to some banality about the weather, and otherwise let those around you know you are real folks.  You cannot stand mute without appearing to be anti-social.

   A FEW SUNDAYS BACK during this get-acquainted period I heard one woman giving another her recipe for apple turnovers.  I thought this unseemly but didn't protest.  Rather, I marveled at the easy informality and wondered how it was possible to attain such a cozy relationship so fast with a total stranger.

   I find the entire procedure acutely distasteful and embarrassing.  While acknowledging its indubitable merit, I know it is not for me.  I can't remember names, have difficulty even identifying myself when under pressure, and wish I were in the woods communing with the owls.  It wouldn't be so bad if my wife were at my side but she's in the choir loft, lost to me in my time of need.

  After church she asks whom I met.  I used to confess that I didn't know.  Now I rattle off four or five names at random--Mr. and Mrs. Sylvester Snodgrass, Patricia Percy, Charley Farrell, George Givens-- whatever  pops into my head.  My wife does not press me further, knowing I'm lying but saluting my ingenuity.

   Few members are as definitely hostile to the get-acquainted business as I, probably because few are so withdrawn, so cursed by shyness and so completely unable to make small talk with strangers.

   J. Adelbert Picklewwurst is my complete opposite.  During a moment of ill-advised missionary zeal I induced my opinionated neighbor to join the church a year ago and now he repeatedly upbraids me for not telling him about it sooner.

   He is one of the biggest hams in Christendom and for him the finest hour of the week comes at Sunday worship, and the finest moments of that hour come when he can pump hands and boom out his name.

   SHORTLY AFTER JOINING the church, Picklewurst professed interest in the choir, seeing this as a convenient avenue for his exhibitionism.  I asked him if he knew how to sing and he said certainly.  He had the lead in the Christmas musical back in the eighth grade and was the talk of the county.

   He never joined the choir, however, and finally told me he'd lost interest.  I later talked to the director and he told me he wasn't about to have a good choir ruined by a leather-lunged monotone.

   But Picklewurst is eager and should have a chance to contribute of his talents.  The place for him is in the kitchen, helping clean up after church dinners, but this wouldn't interest him.  His audience would be too small.  We do have "greeters" who serve four or five Sundays at a stretch.  Picklewurst would love this assignment--on a permanent basis.

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