God's Great Global Glitch

Paul Lintern

It was a terrifying Sunday morning for the worship leaders at First Assembling Alliance in God Holiness Church, the Middlefield Satellite, as the Global Glitch in the Microsoft world caught them unprepared only a few minutes into worship.

The church, which was recently rebranded The Doink, although no one knows why, found its worship service grinding to a halt when the internet shut down, all streaming was interrupted, the screen up front went blank and every tablet on the music stands froze, leaving the worship leaders without praise, only prayers.

The auditorium lights remained on, but without the computerized syncing of red and blue LED lighting sequences, the pensive yet meaningful atmosphere of the worship space was compromised and those in attendance found themself confused over what to do next.

Lead worship leader Timmy G fell to his knees, not in prayer but to reboot his keyboard online instrument panel, but to no avail.

Worship was in silent mode.

Timmy knew he was on his own, as lead pastor Josh still was not scheduled on stage for another 20 minutes, and the satellite simulcast from Birmingham was lost in cyberspace.

The crowd was offering a time of holy mumbling, waiting for a word from the Lord, or at least from Timmy.

Standing up, he was about to yell to the crowd to be about silent prayer, in small groups, when the side doors burst open, and a squad of octogenarians came walking through, each carrying two books in their walker pockets.

“Stand aside, sonny,” came the raspy but booming voice of the lead walker. “Let us show you how it was done before the web went world wide,” said Clara D. Monstrative, who had been leading the Remnant Sunday school class in the next room.

That class consisted of the last holdouts against the move to contemporary worship, and most of the changes at “The Doink,” including the name change.

Following the squad was the armored (of God) division consisting of two carts filled with books, and two people without walkers who began handing them out, one to every three people, from each cart.

“The brown books are called hymnals, which you may call ‘a collection of portable paper monitors.’ Each page has a number and the search feature is in the front, but you have to go to it manually.” Clara said, loudly. “It’s called ‘The Table of Contents.’”

Those over 40 starting demonstrating how to turn to certain pages in the hymnal, and showing the younger adults how to find page 67, “This is My Story, This is My Song;” most however were still staring at the blank screen while sipping their mocha muchilakulele.

“But there is no instruments that are working,’ Timmy protested.

“There is now,” came the enthusiastic reply, as a platform on wheels revealed Helen sitting before an old upright piano, pounding the keys while riding into the midst of the crowd.

Suddenly, the room was filled with old people singing, and then the younger Boomers, then the Gen Xers, and millennials, and even some Gen Z, although the presence of black circles with stems on five-line grids above the lyrics did confuse many in the audience. Still the tune seemed vaguely familiar.

Later, when Clara’s assistant, Charlie, introduced scripture reading using a nonApp version of the Bible, people were astounded that this old guy could find chapters and verses without using his thumbs.

Overall, it was a miraculous day, with people realizing that together they were overcoming the invasion of the cyber hacks, and finding words and songs, and solace, through such primitive means.

“It was like worshipping in the olden days,” one millennial was saying to another as they left. “We worshipped like it was 1999!”

Love ya,

Paul