Technology hates me

A year ago I put together a marvelous multi-media Christmas experience for use in our Christmas Eve service. While John Doan's ethereal, majestic "O Come, O Come" played over the sound system, the words of Isaiah 9 ever-so-slowly were to scroll across the screen, thus marrying the musical longing for deliverance to the text promising that deliverence in the form of a Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. And it was set to move methodically, with long pauses, allowing people to meditate deeply on these ancient words.

In an artistic flourish, I used some really cool fonts that, I thought, helped bring out the richness and power of the texts. And so I copied the powerpoint onto a thumb drive, ran it upstairs to our video tech, explained how it worked, and ran back down.

It didn't occur to me that none of those fancy fonts were supported by the computer upstairs.

And so, instead of the Word of God slowly appearing and dissolving on the screen, instead there appeared a series of boxes. And weird symbols. And hieroglyphics. Which really ruined the mood.

(You might remember this incident - it was at this moment that I calmly went to the microphone and began reading Isaiah 9, to try to bring some order back to the assembly. Only, as I read, my contact lens popped out into the darkened sanctuary, and I spent the rest of the night blind in one eye. Which, coincidentally, is how I spent this service, since my eye is still healing from surgery.)

This year I decided to try the same multi-media experience - after all, it never got its fair play last year - but I made sure it worked. Everything was in Times New Roman font. And the video tech and I ran through it together a couple times prior to the show, just to make sure it was working. And it was. Yeah.

And so we reached the spot in the program where the multi-media experience was to take place. The music began. The fist slide went up, the words scrolled beautifully across the screen. "Behold, those living in the shadow of darkness have seen a great light. . ." And then the screen went dark. Which it was supposed to, as a dramatic pause.

But it stayed dark, longer than I thought it was supposed to.

I glanced up into the balcony. . .to see our video tech and her husband frantically pressing buttons on the projector, pulling on cords, and generally fiddling with things.

And the music played beautifully on, the people sat in darkness, and the screen stayed blank. Until the VERY end, when suddenly "The zeal of the Lord Almighty will accomplish this" appeared.

Turns out that our projector had chosen that very moment in the service to overheat and turn off, and it took the upstairs people the length of the song to get it back on again.

Now. . .what are the odds of that? The projector NEVER overheats and turns off. I hardly EVER use powerpoint as part of our services. And yet 2 years in a row, on Christmas Eve, things have gone disastrously wrong right in the middle of the same portion of the service. Right when things are supposed to be contemplative and meditative and richly textured, when people are supposed to be drawn into the messianic prophecy from Isaiah - right at that point they are left confused, instead.

It is technology that hates me? Or is God trying to say something?

The Things You Don't See (or, How the Christmas Eve Service Went from Sublime to Chaotic)

The setup
To begin with, the sanctuary was very dark. The only light came from a few candles, and a couple strings of white Christmas lights spread around the edges. In addition, a stand light was clipped onto the podium from which our readers would share the scriptures, and a piano light stood to illuminate the book out of which I was playing. All lyrics were projected onto the screen, so that nobody would have the need to read out of a bulletin or hymnbook.

Beginnings of a Disaster
It was my fault, really. One of the highlights of the evening was to be the Isaiah 9 passage scrolling slowly across the screen, word by methodical word, as the pensive and haunting "O Come" from John Doan's "Wrapped in White: Visions of Christmas Past" played over the sound system. Only I had forgotten to get the powerpoint file of Isaiah 9, complete with transitions, to our display operator. At the last minute she asked me about it; I ran to my office, copied it to a flash drive and ran it up to her in the balcony. She loaded it and checked the title page, and all looked well.

The Disaster presents itself
Here was the problem. I had used a particular font for the main portion of the Word "The people walking in darkness have seen a great light. . ." A font that looked beautiful on my laptop. A font that wasn't accessible on the computer used for projections. Thus, rather than seeing "The people walking in darkness have seen a great light," our people instead saw a series of empty boxes and jiggles and wingdings and such. The Scripture reduced to incomprehensible nonsense. The intimacy of Christmas Eve turned to confusion and humor.

But I'm trained to manage disasters.

I say something about "technical difficulties," and grab my Bible, making my way to the reading light, from whence I shall read Isaiah 9 in my best Prophet voice. I assume the powerpoint is turned off.

Only, as I read I can tell from my peripheral vision that the powerpoint is, in fact, carrying on. This, I think, could be confusing. By slide 2 and 3, the font is actually back to normal and thus is readable, but if my reading isn't lining up with the powerpoint, then people will be all the more confused. We'll be out of sync. All this goes through my mind as I continue to read. "For to us a child is born, to us a son is given. . ."

Disaster hits in full
So I turn slightly, attempting to see where the powerpoint, scrolling behind me, is actually at. And at that precise moment, when my head is slightly turned to look behind me, while my voice is droning on "and he shall be called Wonderful. . ." it is in that rotation of my head, that my contact lens pops out of my left eye and flies into the darkness.

Into the pitch black of Christmas Eve.

My expensive, one-of-a-kind, highly specialized lens for my very rare corneal condition. Gone.

I read on, trying to see if it landed on me, or on my Bible, or on the stand. No luck.

I regret bringing up a Bible with very small print.

I consider that stopping to look for the contact would ruin the moment. That it would be something people talked about for years and years to come. So I press on.

And so, for the second half of the service, I'm completely blind in one eye.

It's very difficult to play the piano when you can't really see your music. And it's tougher to play when you can't really see your left hand, either. And it's tough to lead a group prayer when you can't really read the words on the projection screen, due to its oblique angle and my having only one good eye. And it's really hard to concentrate on the moment when you're watching people walk up to the front in the dark, and wondering which will step on and crush your one-of-a-kind contact lens, your lens which you won't be able to replace until sometime after the New Year. I was thinking about appointments and insurance when I should have been concentrating on the manger scene and all the people gathered around.

And Yet
And yet. . .when Heather read "Mary's Carol," by Walter Wangerin Jr., my soul was deeply stirred. And Ron's reading of John 1 goes down as one of the most powerful scripture readings I have ever been witness to.

And the a capella 3rd verse of Silent Night - it was as if the congregation left and a professional choir walked in, as if the angels joined us to sing along. It almost left me in tears.

The conclusion of the matter
When all was said and done, Doug grabbed a flashlight and helped me find the contact lens, still in perfect condition, on the floor beneath the reading station. And we all went out into a quiet, joyous Christmas, filled again with joy at the good news delivered to all people, that our savior was born to us.

I just keep thinking there must be a metaphor in all this, a good sermon illustration, but I can't figure out exactly what it is yet. Perhaps a kind reader might illumine the rest of us, showing us how God spoke through a mishandled powerpoint and the disappearing eyesight of the pastor.

Or maybe we just ought to get rid of all technology on Christmas Eve and celebrate a Luddite Christmas next year.