Raise Up A Child
by M.R. Lehman Wiens
The first time the boy climbs the steps to the altar alone, a sheaf of papers trembles in one hand before he smooths the sheets against the lectern. He stumbles through an introduction, moves into words that grandpa helped him write, and the congregation sits on the edges of their pews to hear the sermon of a young one, to hear what a middle schooler could possibly have to share that would strengthen their faith. There’s not much more in his sermon than foundational concepts, bland meat and potatoes, but they pat themselves on the back as they drive home to Sunday lunch and a football nap, proud to attend a church that lifts up the youth, excited to see where this boy will go, what fruit he will bear.
The boy climbs the steps again, this time a young man, a bachelor’s degree from a denominational college in his back pocket and a seminary degree brewing. His grandpa graces the front row, proud, smiling, and the congregation is eager to hear what this son of the faith has learned while he was away from home. And then the boy speaks, his voice strong, his sermon points buttressed by translations of Hebrew and Greek, smiles turning to frowns, the exegesis and hermeneutics and epistemologies colliding with what lies in their heart, assailing something that they can’t justify but feels true, and a woman in the back row whispers as the young man leads the benediction, someone thinks he’s too good for us.
The man steps to the lectern, and he knows this will be the final time, knows that he has no reason to come back here, knows that whatever faith he had remaining lays inside of the casket with his grandpa. Grandpa laying in between him and the congregation, grandpa who was always proud of his grandson, grandpa who didn’t care where a man’s theology wandered as long as he could defend it, grandpa who saw that the borders of small towns aren’t just limits of geography, grandpa who said in a croaking whisper, I want you to give the sermon at my funeral, and the man hopes that grandpa is listening, hopes that somewhere between the weathered pages of concordances and the suspicious faces of the congregation, there is still room for some kind of heaven.
M.R. Lehman Wiens is a Pushcart-nominated writer and stay-at-home dad living in Kansas. His work has previously appeared, or is upcoming, in Consequence, Flash Fiction Magazine, The Metaworker, The First Line, and others. He can be found on Threads as @lehmanwienswrites.