Hot Under the Collar
In the second book of John, chapter 2, it speaks of Jesus losing his temper. Disheartened by what he saw in the temple that day, he fashioned a whip out of cords and drove the tax collectors and the merchants along with the sheep and the oxen out. He overturned their tables and threw their coins to the ground. Their “zeal” for buying and selling in the Lord’s house – as it is written is “apt to consume me.”
Conceived by the Holy Spirit and born of the Virgin Mary, he was destined to walk amongst the mortals, teaching and healing, proclaiming the grace of mercy of his Father; hopes of saving souls if they believed and followed. The blasphemous actions that were occurring were too much to bear, the grief too great. He needed to vent and vent He did.
The reactions from those to whom the scorn was intended must have been intense; the pain and guilt and selfloathing for upsetting the Prophet, significant.
And so too it was for a pair of sixth grade boys, following the directions given by their music teacher. It was a simple assignment, coveted and prestigious in the elementary pecking order. Harmonious sharps would wither into sour flats.
Sister Joan was a sweet kindly nun. Prone to forgetfulness, timid and mildly frail, her trust in our judgement was well deserved because we were angels, Randy and I. With our good manners, better than average hygiene and innocent charm, we were given ample opportunity to either strengthen these bonds or squander them entirely.
I was taking piano lessons at the time, while Randy took lessons on the guitar. Sister Joan played the lap harp, a small stringed instrument appearing to have been manufactured around the time of Napoleon. It was warped, showed signs of splintering along the wooden veneer and had a musty fragrance, reminiscent of an uninhabited abandoned house.
Twice each week, Sister would instruct Randy and I to take her lap harp to the church and tune it for her. Far from being a Beethoven, I knew where middle C was on the keyboard, however, and the corresponding notes. So…away we went per her wishes and faithfully returned when complete.
The routine became monotonous and we eventually grew bored, me plunking the ivory and Randy twisting the pegs back and forth with rusty pliers. Both being altar boys, we knew the layout of the building, the location of the electrical panel and master controls, the rarely visited nooks and crannies that exist in any old church as well the contents of the cabinets in the Sacristy. The gathering and retention of knowledge is good. The lack of common sense and the correct times to use it is not.
A live microphone has a special temptation, the volume turned up just high enough to reverberate in the empty chamber. The pulpit was our stage. Bad words, dirty words (at least for the era) words unfit to come from the mouths of children. “Damn” “Poop” “Hell.” Oh we were so evil.
Boredom eventually followed. A couple of chugs from the cruet of wine changed our attitudes. “Hey, that’s pretty tasty,” Randy said. I agreed. “Let’s have some more!”
The small thick walled sturdy cardboard box with “For Communion Only” printed on the side sat lonesome on a special shelf. We had lost all control. Life was grand. It was a “Food & Beverage Lap Harp Tuning Karaoke Extravaganza.” And then the Bishop, visiting our school unannounced, walked in. Time froze.
Fire and Brimstone blazed in his eyes, smoke from the burning bush blew from his ears, his thinning gray hair turned into serpents ready to strike, anxious to deliver the venom and evict us into the darkest corners of Hades.
I thought of Jesus on the cross, looking to God and saying “Forgive them Father for they know not what they do.” A quick prayer hoping the Bishop would take that into account raced through my mind. Divine intervention would be required to escape the inevitable.
The lap harp was retired. Sister Joan started playing the xylophone. Randy and I survived….barely. Thank you, Lord.
