Tuesday, March 26, 2024

Navigating Compliments: A Delicate Art

 Navigating Compliments: A Delicate Art


The art of complimenting someone appropriately is a skill in itself. However, the ability to accept a compliment graciously is an equally important art form. 

This is particularly true for preachers, who are held to a different standard than most. They cannot indulge in flattery, as it would suggest arrogance. Conversely, it would be discourteous, among other things, to reject well-intentioned praise. In such situations, a great deal of tact is required. 

Consider this scenario: a preacher receives a compliment on his sermon. The exchange might go something like this: “Pastor, your sermon was truly inspiring this Sunday.” “Ah, Brother Jansen, you think so? I must admit, the text was particularly moving.”  

Notice the subtle shift? The word ‘sermon’ has been replaced with ‘text.’ This places the focus on the Word, rather than the sermon itself. This allows both the preacher and Brother Jansen to express their admiration freely. Of course, the sermon remains at the forefront of the conversation, ensuring everyone leaves feeling satisfied. 

However, caution is still necessary, as I recently discovered. 

Sister De Wilde is known to be a good woman, albeit a bit excessive. She’s the type to express her feelings with “oh” and “ah,” and frequently uses words like “delightful.” 

During a recent visit, she began to express her thoughts immediately: “Oh, Reverend, I thoroughly enjoyed the sermon on Sunday!” 

I was taken aback, but quickly adapted my usual technique: “Well, Sister, I’m glad to hear that. It was indeed a difficult text.” 

“Oh, you shouldn’t say that. It was so clear to me, and those beautiful metaphors! I told my husband: ‘it’s truly a gift, absolutely delightful!’” 

I couldn’t recall using any notable metaphors in that particular sermon, but I chose to accept the compliment graciously. 

Upon reflection, I realized that Sister De Wilde is quite empathetic and intelligent once you get to know her. I had previously found her somewhat off-putting, but it seems I was too quick to judge. 

She continued: “And do you know what I always find so remarkable? One can reach so many people with the spoken word. I told my husband that such a message should be heard throughout the land! No question about it!” 

I found her comment somewhat out of context, but wasn’t there some truth in it? Indeed, there was. Such a sermon, or rather, such a scripture-text, is universally applicable. I didn’t hesitate to express my agreement with her perspective: “Sister,” I responded solemnly, “the entire world needs to hear this.” 

We found common ground and continued our conversation harmoniously. 

“And what about the sick? Oh, the poor ill individuals, Reverend!” 

“I wholeheartedly agree, Sister. They are indeed in dire need.” 

“Do you think the thousands are listening, Reverend?” 

Her question caught me off guard. Our church can’t seat thousands. I attributed her exaggeration to her enthusiastic nature. However, a sense of unease began to creep in, and I cautiously responded: “Yes, thankfully, there is still a significant amount of interest.” 

But my moment of reckoning was imminent: “When my husband returned home from church, I said, ‘Oh, you missed so much this morning! The preacher on TV was exceptional this morning!’” 

There must be a unique art to gracefully concluding such conversations, an art form I am yet to master. 

In conclusion, I find Sister De Wilde to be somewhat superficial, and I struggle to understand why others find her so endearing.


From “Pijnlijk!” in Peper en Zout, Ds M. E. Voilà. Kok: Kampen, n.d. Trans., George van Popta, 2024.

Saturday, March 23, 2024

Eccentric

 

Eccentric

 

As twilight neared, I found myself at 14 Wardlane, the home of the Kuijpers family.

“So, Marie,” I began, “what seems to be the matter?”

“It’s Father, Pastor,” she replied. “You know that Aunt Gretel was laid to rest last week, and now we’re at a loss.”

To those unfamiliar with old Brother Kuijpers, Marie’s response might seem enigmatic. However, the situation was thus: Mr. Kuijpers had been mentally unsteady for many years. Fortunately, he was not at all troublesome. He spent his days at home, often sitting quietly in the sunroom, gazing at the garden, the chickens, and the clouds. He was a man of few words, responding briefly but kindly when spoken to: “How are you faring, Brother Kuijpers?” “Fine, yes. Lovely weather, isn’t it?” That is how our conversations would usually play out.  

His wife tended to him with love and patience, and his unmarried daughter, Marie, doted on him. However, he had one peculiar habit. Upon hearing of a death in the family or among his former acquaintances, he would ascend the stairs, don a stiff white shirt, and dress in his black three-piece suit. He would then retrieve the Bible from the cupboard and lay it open on his lap. He would sit like this all day, silent, not reading but merely gazing out. Only when the family sat down for dinner would Marie take the Bible from him, and then, according to his wish, read the 23rd Psalm.

This ritual had been enacted many times before, most recently upon Aunt Gretel’s passing the previous week. His wife and daughter had grown accustomed to it. 

But now, something inexplicable had occurred. Marie explained, “This afternoon, after lunch, Father took his usual nap. But then he went upstairs without a word, and sure enough, he came back down wearing his white shirt and black suit, and now he’s sitting in the room with the Bible opened on his lap.”  

I took in all this information in the hallway.  

“Has there been a death in the family, or perhaps among the neighbors?” I asked.  

“No, Pastor, that’s what’s so peculiar. We can’t think of anyone, and we haven’t even discussed death this morning,” Marie replied. 

We entered the room to find the old man seated there, his small, thin, and pale figure a stark contrast to the whispered, though lively, discussion taking place between the two ladies and me.  

“Well, Brother Kuijpers, how are you?” I asked.  

But I received no response. On his days of mourning, he remained silent. His trembling hand moved over the pages of the Book.  

Marie and her mother had sat at the table to eat, but Father had no appetite. I suggested that the mother and daughter carry on with their routine. Marie rose and gently took the Bible from her father’s knees.  

“Shall we read Psalm 23, Father?” she asked, but he remained silent.  

Marie began to read. As dusk fell, reading became challenging, but it didn’t matter, for she knew the words by heart.  

Afterward, the two women bowed their heads and gave thanks for the meal. As we sat around the table, we continued to discuss Father’s peculiar behaviour, our whispers filling the quiet evening. We couldn’t comprehend what death Father had been contemplating.  

“Marie, please light the lamp,” Mother asked. 

As the room was suddenly bathed in light, our eyes were drawn to where old Brother Kuijpers was seated. 

No one uttered a word, but we all saw it. His hands lay motionless on his knees, his head slightly tilted against the high edge of his armchair.  

He sat as still and as silent as only death can render.

---

From “Zonderling” in Peper en Zout, Ds M. E. Voilà. Kok: Kampen, n.d. Trans., George van Popta, 2024.

Wednesday, March 20, 2024

The Ninth Commandment

 

The Ninth Commandment

At times, reality diverges significantly from our expectations. This truth was vividly demonstrated to me during a delightful evening with the profession of faith students.

It is customary for the class to give the pastor a gift. It’s not merely about the act of giving; it’s an event that unfolds over time. Animated discussions among the students lead to the formation of a committee. This group then discreetly consults with the pastor’s wife to discern what would delight the minister. All the while, the pastor remains blissfully unaware of the machinations, playing the part of the unsuspecting recipient year after year.

Meanwhile, the gift continues to take shape.

With a mix of mirth and seriousness, the committee ventures out to purchase “the gift.”

One day, while shopping with my wife, we paused before a painting shop. Displayed in the window was a monstrosity of a painting: a heathland landscape. The heather bore an uncanny resemblance to leftover red cabbage, the birches appeared ravaged by caterpillars, and the shed’s roof blazed an unnatural orange in the background. The entire scene was encased in a jarringly mismatched frame.

“Imagine that we ended up with that thing,” I said with a deep sigh. “And I already sleep so poorly.”

Yet, as I had noted earlier, things often unfold in unexpected ways.

My wife, sensing my concern, reassured me that the gift would likely be a wallet or a briefcase. However, being rather fussy, I found little comfort in her words. Wallets often have too many or too few compartments, and a briefcase, possibly of imitation yellow buffalo leather, seemed more suited to a traveling salesman than a minister.

In an attempt to steer the outcome of the secret conversation that I knew my students would have with my wife, I voiced my concerns. A few days later, my wife offered a final reassurance: “Whatever it is, it will certainly be black.”

And then came the evening. As it unfolded, the anticipation reached its peak with the presentation of the gift.

The committee leader stepped forward with confidence, clutching the gift in his hand. He began his speech, each word delivered with precision and purpose.

“A wallet,” I whispered to my wife, a knowing smile playing on my lips.

She nodded in agreement as we listened to the speech. It was succinct, hitting the mark with every word. The pastor was thanked for his contributions, and they wanted to present a tangible token of appreciation.

“But this,” he said, holding up a wall tile, “is for the pastor’s wife. For the pastor, we have something different.”

With a subtle nod to a fellow committee member, the grand gift was ushered in.

And there it was. You guessed it: the monstrous moorland painting, complete with its red cabbage-like heather, caterpillar-infested birches, and brilliant orange shed.

“Wow,” I muttered, taken aback. I was rendered speechless.

“So, Reverend, what do you think?” a girl asked, her voice brimming with excitement.

Twenty-five pairs of eager eyes turned towards me, their gazes filled with anticipation and curiosity.

What could I possibly say?

I fear I may have overstepped the boundaries of the ninth commandment in my response.

---

("Het Negende Gebord," pp 75-77; Peper en Zout by M.E. Voila, Kok: Kampen; n.d. tr. George van Popta, 2024)

Thursday, March 14, 2024

The Strong

 

The Strong

Mr. Harmsen, a member of my congregation, is a man of substance. He belongs to the category mentioned in the newspaper with the statement: “Among those present, we noticed . . . .”

Harmsen is perpetually occupied and rarely at home. This should be no surprise, considering he serves as the director of a large business with multiple branches, and the entire management rests squarely on his shoulders.

During the war, he dutifully fulfilled his obligations and had many nail-biting experiences. However, now that the war is over, all the pent-up energy within him has been unleashed, and he remains busy day and night.

His wife has voiced her complaints on several occasions during our infrequent visits. We are friends, though our encounters are rare. She is a reserved woman and a devoted mother to their lone son. Yet, lately, she appears increasingly fatigued and withdrawn.

Despite ample assistance at her disposal, including the convenience of a car and chauffeur for shopping and appointments, she wears an air of weariness.

I doubt she can match her husband’s relentless pace. When tempests rage around him, the wind blows fiercely against her.

Some time ago, I went to see him at his office. The scene was chaotic: telephones incessantly ringing, doors swinging open and shut, typewriters clattering, and a clerk placing before him drafts for his approval. Meanwhile, five people waited impatiently to speak with him.

Yet, Brother Harmsen remained unflustered. His eyes were vigilant behind horn-rimmed glasses, his ears attuned like those of a hound, and his voice unwavering—like someone who holds the reins firmly in his hands.

Such is Harmsen’s existence. His strength sustains him—strength of body, nerves, and character.

But last week. . . .

Sadly, accidents are frequent. Perhaps the war has rendered people somewhat indifferent to individual lives.

Young Gerard Harmsen suffered a blow from the rear of a hefty delivery truck—a force that fractured his leg and left him concussed.

It occurred right in front of the house, and I happened to pass by moments later. An ambulance came, and he was whisked away. His mother accompanied him, but before she left she said, “Of course, my husband doesn’t know yet.”

Her voice wavered, her fatigued features etched with fear, and her pale throat nervously swallowed.

“As long as he doesn’t hear it from someone else. . . . I cannot bear to break the news over the phone. Gerard means the world to him.”

I volunteered to shoulder that responsibility and drove to his office.

“Please, have a seat,” he said, motioning me toward a chair.

The incessant ringing of the phone filled the room. However, as he reached for the receiver, I placed my hand on it.

“You must listen to me first,” I insisted.

He listened, his silence growing more profound.

“My son?” he finally asked. I said, “Yes. There has been an accident, and he is at the hospital.”

His voice remained soft, devoid of trembling, yet his eyes flickered and blinked several times.

Together, we drove to the hospital, where his wife anxiously awaited us. Standing around the bed, we beheld little Gerard—unconscious and pallid. I hesitated to meet Harmsen’s gaze; I cannot explain why. Instead, I exchanged a few words with his wife.

She wept softly; the nurse had stepped out of the room.

Finally, Harmsen stirred. He circled the bed, placing his hand on his wife’s shoulder. Her tear-streaked cheek rested against it.

And then he sat down. His features betrayed no emotion—neither sadness nor fear. The usual tension that gripped his face had dissipated; instead, it bore an emptiness, akin to a startled child.

He perched on the hospital chair, which seemed too small for his robust frame.

His eyes met mine, and I observed him fold his hands—two white, powerful hands. He didn’t utter a word; his silent plea emanated through his eyes and clasped fingers.

I understood, nodded, and together we prayed.

Thankfully, little Gerard is now on the path to recovery.

Mr. Harmsen is a man of substance. He's incredibly busy. Harmsen is hardly ever at home and his wife sometimes complains about it.

Harmsen is not a man who quickly arouses pity, because he is so strong.

Strong of body; strong in nerves and strong in character.

But sometimes one can feel a strange kind of compassion for him, perhaps precisely because he is so strong.

---

("De Sterke," pp 50-53; Peper en Zout by M.E. Voila, Kok: Kampen; n.d. tr. George van Popta, 2024)

 

Wednesday, March 13, 2024

 ("Het Achtste Gebod," pp 71-74, Peper en Zout by M.E. Voila, Kok: Kampen; n.d. tr. George van Popta, 2024)

The Eighth Commandment

The Koopman family, also, is part of my congregation. The word “also” captures their status for they are regarded as somewhat peripheral members. This is both a literal and figurative assessment: geographically, they reside on the outskirts of the village; socially, Brother Koopman is reputed to be a poacher.

His possessions include a modest house, an expansive vegetable garden, and an orchard. Additionally, he has a plump, jovial wife and six children who, though barefoot, are the picture of robust health. Mr. Koopman himself bears a striking resemblance to Popeye the Sailor, or so I’ve been told by parishioners who frequent the cinema.

Occasionally, certain readers comment on how I might have better handled certain situations. Maybe one of them could offer me counsel, as I find myself in a quandary.

I recently visited the family to celebrate a new addition. I congratulated the mother and admired the new baby. Mr. Koopman, or “Popeye,” was present as well. He proudly showed me around the garden and orchard, and also his goats, the cow, pig, chickens, and particularly the rabbits. He boasted a pair of gigantic Flemish Giants, if one would pardon the redundancy. They were in a hutch between the house and the barn. We stood there for a few moments admiring the magnificent creatures. It then seemed that Mr. Koopman's paternal joy over the birth of the newborn just had to be expressed tangibly. Lucky for me—or at least, that’s what I thought.

“Pastor,” he said, “in just a few more weeks, they’ll be ready to be butchered. And you shall have one of them. Do you like rabbit stew?”

I must admit, I found the idea appealing, and I told him so.

Indeed, just yesterday, one of the Koopman boys came by the parsonage to deliver the majestic creature, nicely wrapped in brown paper.

It became a family affair, and we all gathered around as I unwrapped it. The beast had been slaughtered, its head removed—a truly impressive specimen.

“My, it has a strange scent,” remarked my wife, her nose wrinkling in distaste.

“It is so blue,” observed one of the children.

“That means it suffocated,” another concluded.

“And look at those hind legs!” exclaimed a third.

I disapprove of such critical commentary on a gift, so I quelled the discussion by asserting, “That’s typical for Flemish Giants!”

Accepting a tangible gift from a man with Koopman’s poaching notoriety is fraught with implications; however, in this instance, my conscience was clear.

This morning, I cycled over to express my gratitude. As I neared the house, I could see Brother Koopman busy at the barn, his wife and one of the boys also bustling about.

But upon my arrival, they had all retreated to the kitchen, Popeye puffing on his pipe, his wife wielding a dishcloth, and the children wearing guileless grins. They welcomed me warmly and offered coffee.

Koopman appeared immensely satisfied and would not accept my words of thanks.

“Pastor, do you often eat rabbit meat?”

I conceded, “Almost never.”

“Our Flemish Giants. . . .” began one of the children.

“Be quiet when adults are speaking,” the father interjected sternly.

Our dialogue meandered on this delightful topic before I took my leave. 

I hadn’t pedaled a hundred meters when I realized my rear tire was nearly flat. I circled back, intending to request the use of a bicycle pump. I went to the back of the house, and was surprised to find that the rabbit hutch had disappeared. I concluded that both Flemish Giants must have been butchered. 

Koopman emerged from the back door of the house as I explained my predicament. “I’ll fetch the pump,” he assured.

He walked to the barn, the door closing sharply behind him. As he took a few moments to return, curiosity got the better of me and I decided to go into the barn. Just as I was about to enter, Koopman came out and the door swung shut once again. Despite that, I had a brief glimpse inside the barn and I saw the rabbit hutch in which two enormous Flemish Giants were contentedly munching on carrots. Koopman cast a sidelong glance at me with a grin reminiscent of Popeye. He re-inflated my tire, and as I departed I was laden with questions, for which I seek the reader’s counsel:

a. If the creature with the peculiar scent, a bluish hue, and sizable hind legs isn’t a Flemish Giant, what could it be?

b. Is Koopman aware that I spotted the two Flemish Giants inside the barn?

c. Ought I to inquire about the source of the gift from Brother Koopman, ready to admonish him if it’s the result of poaching?

d. Should I retract my earlier statement to my family, “That’s typical for Flemish Giants!”?

One certainty prevails: judgment should not be passed hastily nor without a hearing, even upon an animal. Hence, we shall reserve our verdict until after sampling the rabbit stew tomorrow.