Went to church yesterday and it wasn’t bad.  Mrs. Hammel was back after a hip replacement, her third one, and she thinks she’s finally getting the hang of it now.   “Will probably only need one more,” she said while being escorted down the steps.  I only pray that the Lord will grant me a small portion of her good nature when I’m that old and living with such pain. 
     Speaking of pain, Monday’s snow was a pain.  School was canceled so there were muddy boots, wet coats, and kids trouncing through the house complaining about breaches in the Geneva Convention during a snowball war.  I made them hot chocolate with marshmallows and some Rice Krispie treats and got a sink full of dishes as a thank you.  It’s normally my day to clean house.  Everyone’s gone and I can go at my own pace, washing floors, then clothes and vacuuming and the trip to the store for the dinner menu.  It’s a relaxing day after the weekend onslaught of kids, friends, soccer games, parties and way too many people under foot.  But the snow changed all that. 
     Speaking of change, that’s what both the pastor and the President have been talking about.  I don’t know who is taking cues from whom, but the President wants some things in this country to change, and those of us who are a little too comfortable with the way things are, might squirm a bit, but let’s face it, some things need to change.  Ever increasing consumption has proven to be a shaky foundation for a sustainable economy, not to mention a real disaster for a sustainable earth.   As an investment strategy, greed has left us bankrupt and begging for bailouts.  My neighbors spent seven hours in an emergency room, their child delirious with fever, and finally just came home and put her in a tub of ice water because they never got in to see a doctor.  They did, however, get a bill.   Surely some changes could be made.   The problem is that unless our relative comfort is interrupted by something personal and painful, we’d rather not see change, or be changed. 
     But, being changed is what the pastor was going on (and on and on....) about on Sunday.  Quoting St. Paul he preached, “Don’t be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds.  Transformation,” he said, “is change from the inside out.  For this sort of change, St. Paul uses the word, ‘metamorphosis.’”   And that was the last word of his  sermon I heard.   The image of a man morphing into a cockroach leapt to mind; thank you Mr. Kafka.  Now who’s going to rock me to sleep tonight?   Fortunately, the giant cockroaches fled the as soon as the kids’ Mighty Morphin Power Rangers appeared on imaginary scene.  Those toy gave the children hours of fun, and then turned them into Philadelphia lawyers when having to decide which morphed form could defeat another.  With a few twists of legs and arms, a mighty and muscled superhero could be transformed into an attack vehicle and from that into a fighter jet and then into countless other forms.  Morphologically speaking, if I could do that, think of what I could save on air fare.  Later, the  Transformers were the next generation of morphing machines, and so as not to leave anything to the imagination, they got their own movie.   I wonder, do we create toys that change so we don’t have to?  Will some psychologist some day trace our “change avoidance” to mechanical inventions that change and morph for us?   
     What would it be like if we could change one another just that easily?  A few twists and turns and maybe Miss Burns’ hair would fall loose from that tightly woven bun atop her head and she’d give her head a shake or two and that long, lustrous hair would shimmer in the sunlight and then she’d morph to life and go dancing down the isles, laughing and caressing various gentlemen whose wives would wonder what this meant, while the faces turned a shade of red not seen in this sanctuary since the time the preacher decided that summers were too hot for robes, which lasted all of a couple of Sundays till Mrs. Prichard informed him half way through the opening hymn, that his barn door was wide open.   Still, it’d be a change.  For Miss Burns it’d be a total transformation.  While we’re changing folks, Peter Schemke could use a little; or a lot, some would say.  How about we twist his little head round to the left a bit and transform his  right-wing ranting and raving to the more modest middle agenda.  Gotta be careful here, if we try to twist too hard, his little head would pop right off. 
     And what we really need is a Mighty Morphin’ Power Pastor.  On  Sunday, beneath the robe, his angular, muscled body would be planted firmly behind the pulpit onto which he clasps with both hands.   But for the evening we could twist and turn a bit and, low and behold, the pulpit would become a conference table and the Mighty Morphin Power Pastor would be standing at the head of it, both hands gripping its sides, ready to preside over the Deacon’s meeting.  When Monday rolls around we reshape our action hero whose conference table legs change to wheels and his grip is now on a steering wheel then off he goes to visit the sick and lonely.   A Mighty Morphin Power Pastor might be just the answer for churches who think they need multiple ministers to attend to all the work.  And think of the savings to the annual budget! 
     What would  it be like if we could change so easily?  But the reality is that even the mighty can’t morph without the helping hands which aren’t their own.       After the benediction, I found myself walking down the isle toward the double door exit when I felt two hands land upon my shoulders, not one, but two. Our double isles are narrow and with the rush of the crowd for the door, it was impossible to turn to see who it was.  The hands gently massaged and rubbed my back and shoulders as we made our way to the pastor’s perch by the rear door of the sanctuary.   Once in the narthex I could turn and saw it was Kevin.  “If-I-only-had-a-brain” Kevin.  A simple soul, honest as the day is long and sweet as molasses; but somehow he just did the dumbest things.  Parked his motorcycle in the courtyard one Sunday, which we could have lived with, after all, it was Kevin.  But he did it because he knew he had to leave early for work, and when he revved that thing up during the last few minutes of the pastor’s sermon, when the sleepers were in their deepest sleep, well Old Mr. Dixon’s head snapped to so fast  the ushers thought he was having the big one and one raced down the isle ready to do CPR, while another dialed 911.  The ensuing fuss made me wonder if worship was meant to lull us to sleep or if we should have the bejeesus scared out of us every once in a while.  Complacency is nowhere touted as a virtue, certainly not when in the presence of a God who is described as a consuming fire.   But Kevin was only consumed with getting to work on time.  Still, he could give a mighty fine back rub.  “Ah, said the Pastor as he shook my hand.  I see you’ve brought you own private masseuse today?”
     “Pastor, I believe if we offered this service each Sunday,  we’d have a sure fire way of increasing worship attendance.” 
     “Well Kevin, this sounds like a holy calling, but next week, it’s my turn.  After all, I should know something about what we’ll be promoting to the community.  I can see it now, ‘Good News and a Back Rub Too!’  right under our church logo.  What a great mission statement!”  and he had a good laugh before turning to greet Mrs. Horrace whose husband is in the hospital with terrible shingles.  A look of deep concern quickly replaced all the jocularity as we stepped down into the courtyard. 
     “Thanks Kevin.  That felt good.”
     “Sometimes a back rub’ll make your day better.” 
     “Well, I don’t know about that, but it sure did make my back feel better. And, I guess that is a help in making my day better.”   
     Kevin ambled toward the parking lot, stopped and turned back.  “Hey, you want a ride on my motorcycle?”
     Now that would change my day, maybe my life.  “No thanks, Kevin.  The back rub was quite enough.  Thanks though.”  And I watched as the mighty morphing power back rubber put on his helmut, hit the starter, revved it twice and transformed into Evil Knievil spewing gravel on his way out of the parking lot. 
     Change, they say, doesn’t come easy.  True enough, for it’s as hard to change yourself as it is to give yourself a back rub.  But receiving one turns the tables, and opens the door for a metamorphosis.  Transformation happens to us, even through us; but it’s not something we can do for ourselves.  Just as the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers needed a playful kid to transform them into one or another of their possible ‘morphs,’ so we need one another to bring about a  metamorphosis  in us.  Change happens.  The way we treat one another is how.