A Daytime Nightmare

 

It was midsummer. It was the haying season. It was hot. It was Sunday afternoon, two o’clock. We were in church.

The heat was oppressive, wrapping around me like a suffocating shroud. My linen shirt clung to my skin, wet and unyielding.

Moisture gathered on my face, a rivulet of perspiration tracing a path down my nose and cheeks. It disappeared into the folds of my neck, seeking refuge in the lower reaches of my clothing. My eyes burned, and I had to keep blinking to be able to see my sermon text. Where all that moisture came from was a riddle to me. I longed for a car’s windshield wiper to sweep away the discomfort, but alas, I had only my handkerchief—a feeble defense against the relentless heat.

The congregation sat quietly, but it was a deceptive calm. Their eyes were closed, their breathing steady, but it was a facade. Beneath the surface, they simmered like a pot left unattended. The scent of Eau De Cologne hung in the air, mingling with the oppressive warmth. The sisters would dab a few drops on their handkerchiefs, and the vapors would usually keep them awake on a warm Sunday, but it was to no avail that particular afternoon. Transparent curtains veiled the large windows, but the merciless sun pressed against them, breaching the sanctuary.

And there they slumbered—my beloved congregation—in the most curious positions. Some rested their chins on their chests as if seeking solace in their own exhaustion. Others resembled snapped peonies, their heads drooping to one side. A few leaned so far back that they seemed in danger of toppling over and looking as if awaiting the barber to shave their beards.

To the right of the pulpit sat the black-clad elders—six weathered farmers, their eyes closed in blissful oblivion. On the left, the five deacons, also farmers, mirroring the elders. Their foreheads were furrowed in dreams of bountiful harvests. I stood in the pulpit, bewildered by the somnolent scene before me. The entire consistory—no, the entire congregation—was sailing through a sea of dreams, leaving me adrift in a sea of silence.

Desperation drove me to experiment. I lowered my voice, then suddenly shouted, hoping to rouse them from their reverie. A few stirred, their baggy eyes opening for a moment, but it was fleeting.

Finally, I surrendered to frustration. My fist met the lectern, a resounding thud that echoed through the hallowed space. For a brief moment, the rhythmic sighing from the dormitory ceased, replaced by an expectant hush. But then it resumed—a haunting chorus of slumber, drowning out my words.

And so, I stood there—a lone preacher in a sea of sleeping brothers and sisters—wondering if perhaps the nightmare was mine alone. The sun blazed on, indifferent to our collective struggle, and I yearned for the cool embrace of twilight. But until then, I would continue to fulfill my calling and preach to the sleeping. But my voice was lost in the heat and the haze, and my pleas were swallowed by the relentless sighs of the slumbering congregation.

Desperately, I scanned the faces of the congregation, seeking any sign of interest in my sermon—a lifeline amidst the sea of indifference. The topic was the exodus of the children of Israel through the Red Sea, an exciting story of divine intervention and miraculous deliverance. Yet, they remained unmoved, fast asleep. I had been abandoned to plow on alone.

And then, like a beacon in the haze, my eyes alighted upon an old woman. She sat in the front row, her old hands clutching her worn Bible. Unlike the others, she was awake, her eyes wide and unblinking. Her unwavering attention pierced through the torpor that hung over the congregation.

Faithful soul, I thought, you are my sole ally in this spiritual battle. She watched me intently, her gaze never wavering—even as she dabbed her forehead with a handkerchief or discreetly popped a Wilhelmina peppermint into her mouth. Her devotion was steadfast, a lighthouse in the fog of indifference.

I abandoned the rest of the congregation, focusing solely on this miniature audience of one. With renewed vigor, I preached as if my words could part seas and move mountains. Surely, this faithful woman would carry my message beyond these stifling walls.

As the sermon drew to a close, I allowed myself a glimmer of hope. Perhaps my efforts had not been in vain. Maybe, just maybe, the seeds of faith had taken root in her heart.

Outside the church, reality awaited. The old woman stood by a covered wagon, ready to embark on her journey home. A young farmer, now fully awake, was holding the reins. The farmer’s wife leaned out from the wagon, her voice carrying across the dusty yard: “Come on, mother!”

But old mother remained rooted in place. She did not budge, her gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the horizon. I moved towards the dear old soul to greet her, but the farmer’s wife intercepted my intention. Her voice apologetic she said to me, “Mother is deaf, Pastor. She doesn’t hear, even if you shout.”

My last illusion crumbled—the faithful woman, my silent confidante, had been living in a world of silence.

But then I thought: her unwavering gaze may not have been one of comprehension but, rather, of sheer and simple loyalty to the Word.

And so, in the relentless heat, I pedaled my way home, carrying not just the weight of my sermon that no one had heard, but also the memory of the old woman who had listened with her heart, even when her ears had failed her. There is a quiet devotion that transcends mere hearing.

From “Een Dagmerrie,” pp 93-95, Peper en Zout, M. E. Voilà: Kok, Kampen, n.d.; tr. George van Popta, 2024