Sermon in the Barn
by Larry Michael Freligh
North East, Pennsylvania
When I was little I loved to sing. On Sunday mornings I stood next to the pulpit and sang a solo, my grandmother at the piano. As my boy soprano rang out, I gazed at the smiling congregation, confident and proud. Most of all I loved the compliments that came my way afterward. "What a beautiful voice!" "You just get better and better".
I basked in the praise--fairly glowed in it! I imagined that was what it would be like to be a preacher, people hanging on your every word. Grandma seemed pleased too. She was a real fixture at First Baptist Church in Ripley, N.Y. The only person who never heard me sing in church was Granddad. He was always busy on the farm. Sunday mornings he drove us to town in his ' 59 Chevy, and after worship he picked us up. At dinner, while we feasted on Grandma's fresh baked-bread, ham, and rhubarb pie, she would say you really missed something special this morning. Larry sounded wonderful on 'Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam'. I smiled and so did Granddad. But he still never came to church, and that bothered me a little.
Those weekends on the farm were happy times for me. During the week I lived in town with my parents, but on Saturdays and Sundays I stayed with my grandparents. In the winter the farm was blanketed with layers of snow, perfect for sledding and making snowmen. In summer I climbed trees and swam in the pond. I had all the freedom in the world, and two grown-ups who doted on me.
I followed Granddad around us as he did his work, collecting eggs, milking the cows, feeding the pigs. A small, wiry man, he had a face with more furrows than a cornfield. His family had come from Germany, and he looked like an Old World Farmer, with his thick woolen trousers and jaunty cap. He could sing short ditties, clog dance and play the spoons. But he never joined grandma and me in a hymn.
Saturday nights after I'd had a warm bath and a cup of hot chocolate, we watched Lawrence Welk on TV. Then Grandma and I retreated to the piano and went over Sunday morning's solo. One evening I asked, "Grandma, why doesn't Granddad ever go to church?" "He has too much to do here on the farm. I go for him." There was no hired hand, so indeed, Granddad had to do everything. "Does he believe in God?" "Of course he does, child," she said. "As much as any man I know."
I slept on a cot set up in the hallway between my grandparents' bedrooms. At night I could hear Granddad talking, He mentioned my father, my mother, my uncles, and aunts and all of my cousins. He talked about the farm and the cows and what they needed. He even spoke of Grandma and me. It sounded like a one-sided conversation.Who's he talking to? I wondered.
Then one April, when I was eight, I found out. It was a warm spring day with sunshine splashing across the fields, coaxing out the forsythia and daffodils. I spent most of the afternoon upstairs in the barn in the haymow. Hiding behind bales of sweet-smelling hay, I was pretending to be a Russian spy on a top-secret mission when I heard the barn door slide open. In came Granddad. He was singing one of his nonsense ditties, "The lady by the river got a sliver in her liver." He picked up the pail and stool for milking. I lay still in the game I was playing.
I heard the clank of the stell pail against the stool. I peeked around a beam. Granddad patted the belly of one cow as he put the pail down. He wiped off the udder. Then he burst out in a loud voice, "It's a fine compliment the Apostle Paul gave the church in Thessalonica: 'So that ye were examples to all that believe.' You see, girls, they'd turned away from idols to serve God..."
He's preaching, I thought. He's giving a sermon to the cows! "If you look at chapter two, Rosie, you'll see why this was so important to Paul. It happened because of his own preaching. It had not been in vain..." I peered down to see if Granddad was holding a Bible in his lap, but no, nothing. Just the worn woolen trousers and his gnarled hands, the milk making a squiff, squiff as it streamed into the pail.
"As the Apostle Paul writes, ' We speak, not as pleasing men, but God, which trieth our hearts.' There is no room for phoniness, girls, not in preaching, not in our response, not in our Christian walk." Granddad knew his Bible in a way I'd never imagined. What's more, he was a good preacher. The words rolled out of him naturally as if he were in a pulpit, with a choir behind him and a crowd in front. Except his congregation was two cows, and the only music was the sound of milk squirting into the pail. Yet it was as much a part of worship as any solo I had ever sung in church. Granddad's not doing it for other people,I realized, but for God.
While laying in the hay, I thought of my singing. Who was I trying to please? The minister, the congregation or God? Which meant more to me, the flattering words of Grandma's friends or the inner knowledge that I had done my best? I wished I could do another version of "Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam" then and there, just for God. Like Granddad preaching. When he was finished with one cow he started in on the other, changing his text like a preacher moving on to a second service. This was Granddad's way of praising God as he went about his work.
The next weekend I made sure I was hiding in the haymow at milking time. And the weekend after that. It became my regular story hour. I heard about Paul on the road to Damascus, and Jesus before the Pharisees, and David standing up to Goliath. I fell in love with Granddad's preaching. And he never knew.
Years later I became an ordained minister. Today when I look out over a congregation, I think of Granddad. Of course I want my listeners to be as moved as folks were when I was a boy singing "Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam." But I find my best when I forget about showing off and just give a sermon, like Granddad did, for the sheer love of God.
by Larry Michael Freligh
North East, Pennsylvania
When I was little I loved to sing. On Sunday mornings I stood next to the pulpit and sang a solo, my grandmother at the piano. As my boy soprano rang out, I gazed at the smiling congregation, confident and proud. Most of all I loved the compliments that came my way afterward. "What a beautiful voice!" "You just get better and better".
I basked in the praise--fairly glowed in it! I imagined that was what it would be like to be a preacher, people hanging on your every word. Grandma seemed pleased too. She was a real fixture at First Baptist Church in Ripley, N.Y. The only person who never heard me sing in church was Granddad. He was always busy on the farm. Sunday mornings he drove us to town in his ' 59 Chevy, and after worship he picked us up. At dinner, while we feasted on Grandma's fresh baked-bread, ham, and rhubarb pie, she would say you really missed something special this morning. Larry sounded wonderful on 'Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam'. I smiled and so did Granddad. But he still never came to church, and that bothered me a little.
Those weekends on the farm were happy times for me. During the week I lived in town with my parents, but on Saturdays and Sundays I stayed with my grandparents. In the winter the farm was blanketed with layers of snow, perfect for sledding and making snowmen. In summer I climbed trees and swam in the pond. I had all the freedom in the world, and two grown-ups who doted on me.
I followed Granddad around us as he did his work, collecting eggs, milking the cows, feeding the pigs. A small, wiry man, he had a face with more furrows than a cornfield. His family had come from Germany, and he looked like an Old World Farmer, with his thick woolen trousers and jaunty cap. He could sing short ditties, clog dance and play the spoons. But he never joined grandma and me in a hymn.
Saturday nights after I'd had a warm bath and a cup of hot chocolate, we watched Lawrence Welk on TV. Then Grandma and I retreated to the piano and went over Sunday morning's solo. One evening I asked, "Grandma, why doesn't Granddad ever go to church?" "He has too much to do here on the farm. I go for him." There was no hired hand, so indeed, Granddad had to do everything. "Does he believe in God?" "Of course he does, child," she said. "As much as any man I know."
I slept on a cot set up in the hallway between my grandparents' bedrooms. At night I could hear Granddad talking, He mentioned my father, my mother, my uncles, and aunts and all of my cousins. He talked about the farm and the cows and what they needed. He even spoke of Grandma and me. It sounded like a one-sided conversation.Who's he talking to? I wondered.
Then one April, when I was eight, I found out. It was a warm spring day with sunshine splashing across the fields, coaxing out the forsythia and daffodils. I spent most of the afternoon upstairs in the barn in the haymow. Hiding behind bales of sweet-smelling hay, I was pretending to be a Russian spy on a top-secret mission when I heard the barn door slide open. In came Granddad. He was singing one of his nonsense ditties, "The lady by the river got a sliver in her liver." He picked up the pail and stool for milking. I lay still in the game I was playing.
I heard the clank of the stell pail against the stool. I peeked around a beam. Granddad patted the belly of one cow as he put the pail down. He wiped off the udder. Then he burst out in a loud voice, "It's a fine compliment the Apostle Paul gave the church in Thessalonica: 'So that ye were examples to all that believe.' You see, girls, they'd turned away from idols to serve God..."
He's preaching, I thought. He's giving a sermon to the cows! "If you look at chapter two, Rosie, you'll see why this was so important to Paul. It happened because of his own preaching. It had not been in vain..." I peered down to see if Granddad was holding a Bible in his lap, but no, nothing. Just the worn woolen trousers and his gnarled hands, the milk making a squiff, squiff as it streamed into the pail.
"As the Apostle Paul writes, ' We speak, not as pleasing men, but God, which trieth our hearts.' There is no room for phoniness, girls, not in preaching, not in our response, not in our Christian walk." Granddad knew his Bible in a way I'd never imagined. What's more, he was a good preacher. The words rolled out of him naturally as if he were in a pulpit, with a choir behind him and a crowd in front. Except his congregation was two cows, and the only music was the sound of milk squirting into the pail. Yet it was as much a part of worship as any solo I had ever sung in church. Granddad's not doing it for other people,I realized, but for God.
While laying in the hay, I thought of my singing. Who was I trying to please? The minister, the congregation or God? Which meant more to me, the flattering words of Grandma's friends or the inner knowledge that I had done my best? I wished I could do another version of "Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam" then and there, just for God. Like Granddad preaching. When he was finished with one cow he started in on the other, changing his text like a preacher moving on to a second service. This was Granddad's way of praising God as he went about his work.
The next weekend I made sure I was hiding in the haymow at milking time. And the weekend after that. It became my regular story hour. I heard about Paul on the road to Damascus, and Jesus before the Pharisees, and David standing up to Goliath. I fell in love with Granddad's preaching. And he never knew.
Years later I became an ordained minister. Today when I look out over a congregation, I think of Granddad. Of course I want my listeners to be as moved as folks were when I was a boy singing "Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam." But I find my best when I forget about showing off and just give a sermon, like Granddad did, for the sheer love of God.
