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As soon as he said the final blessing and pronounced the final amen, and had said, “Enjoy your Sunday,” the cave exploded in conversations. Philippe loved the energy in the room. People were deepening friendships and connecting in this city that could be so lonely, making lunch and movie dates with each other. The buzz in the air was a sign that his church was healthy, with people encouraged, challenged, and affirmed during the service. He took satisfaction in that.
He talked with a newcomer who approached him with questions about the three points he had made about Jesus in his sermon. He enjoyed these inquiries, these seekings. Wise men still seek him, including moi même, he thought.
He saw Madame Babineaux approaching, dressed as some older women in Paris still did, so elegantly, at the height of great taste in fashion, a mode of dress that was so out of fashion in this era of jeans and T-shirts. He groaned inwardly. She was a good soul but had no idea the effect she had on him. She was upon him before he could rush away, busy himself with someone else, and protect himself.
“Philippe, you really must stop.”
His heart clutched. Oh Lord, what now? “Yes?”
“When you give your sermon, you really must stop pushing your glasses up your nose. It’s so distracting. It takes away from the sermon.
“I’m praying for you,” she threw in, turned on her exquisite Paris pumps and took herself off.
What about the 20 hours I put into writing the sermon this week? The way you could hear a pin drop during most of it? Why can’t she ever give me a praise sandwich, one that includes the things I do right? Why were her critiques focused on things that weren’t important? She just gave a lopsided and therefore shattering critique: she forgot to say the good things about him.
He remembered that she had been widowed and had lived alone for 38 years now. She had contented herself, she’d told him, but didn’t really want to be alone so much, for so long. Philippe knew she had a tender heart and had born a lot of sorrow.
There! That was his balanced thinking about his parishioner.
Feeling slightly better than he had when Madame Babineaux walked away, Philippe dashed down the stone steps of the cave to pack up the altar and turn the church back into a theater.
