The Great Riverton 19th Ward Organ Calamity of 2000

Playing the organ in church may seem like a simple, uneventful job. You start off by playing reverent prelude that you hope people are listening to as they chit chat before the meeting. Then you quietly sit on the bench while announcements are made until it’s your turn to play each of the hymns of the day, usually three, sometimes four. You shake things up a bit by changing the sounds the organ produces from hymn to hymn or by giving a nice ritard at the end of the final verses. Then you end the meeting with postlude that you’re pretty sure no one notices, and that’s it in a nutshell. I am, of course, making it sound much more mundane than it really is. I actually love playing the organ in church and love the sweet spirit I feel as I play the hymns. I merely want to paint a picture of what most Sundays are like. Sure, there might be an occasional key that is struck while the sacrament is passed or let’s say you accidentally hit the lowest bass pedal with your foot right before the conductor thanks you for your service (this happened to me today). But, for the most part, one could say it’s a fairly low key job. I, however, know better.

When I was about 17 years old I was the assistant organist in our ward. The main organist played the congregational hymns, and my job was to play the prelude and postlude and substitute for the main organist if she couldn’t be at church. Before I go on, though, let me briefly explain how an organ works. An organ produces many different sounds. These are called Stops. The organist chooses a combination of Stops until he or she gets the desired sound. There are also Presets on an organ. These are Stop combinations already programmed into the organ. One preset might be intended for quiet prelude while another for a triumphant hymn. This makes life simpler for an organist like me who knows how to pretend she can play the organ but is by no means an expert. I can push one button rather than sit and experiment with all the sounds until I find what I want. That said, let’s move on to our story.

This particular Sunday I found out last minute as I was playing the prelude that I would be subbing for the main organist. No big deal, I thought. I can sight read just fine. The problem was I hadn’t subbed for her in a while and was used to the Stops and Presets I used for the prelude and postlude. I stopped playing the prelude when the the First Counselor stood to start the meeting and began my preparations for the first congregational hymn. This organ I was playing was rather high tech. It had an electronic key pad you would pull out when you needed it. This is where you’d find the Presets. For some reason when I looked at the key pad and all the options on it I panicked a little. You know those moments when for some reason you can’t remember how to do the simplest thing? Like spell the word “house” (is it o-u or o-w?)? That’s what happened to me. I couldn’t for the life of me remember what buttons to push to find the Presets. My memory is a little hazy, but I guess I played eenie-meenie-mienee-mo (speaking of words you don’t know how to spell) with myself and pushed a button.

Remember how I said this organ was high tech? Well, one of the nifty things you could do was record yourself playing a song. Are you starting to catch on? There was a fabulous pianist and organist in our stake, and I have him to thank for what happened next because the button I pushed was PLAY.

Now imagine in your mind the hymn “The Spirit of God” being played on the Mormon Tabernacle organ in the most triumphant, exultant, jubilant, rejoicing and LOUD way you’d ever heard. You hear it? That is what started booming from the organ I sat at!

The first thing I remember was the First Counselor turning around faster than I’d ever seen anyone turn before and staring at me with huge eyes and a terrified expression. I think I almost gave him a heart attack! He later told me something to the effect that he thought the judgment of God had come upon us all. The Bishop and Second Counselor (who were seated right next to the organ) also turned around quick as lightening with similar expressions.

What did I do? My hands flew up and I frantically said over and over something like, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! It’s not me!” Bishop Lay tried calming me down by stroking my arm while I continued my hysterics. My mom was also seated up there with me because she was going to be the chorister. Her reaction was, “What did you do?!” She and I tried to turn it off but couldn’t figure it out. She finally saved the day by unplugging the stupid organ.

It’s no surprise that the congregation was roaring with laughter through all of this. They all got woken up from their end of church daze, that’s for sure! It took awhile for everyone, especially me, to settle down so we could continue on with the meeting. I have no doubt the Lord forgave my irreverence. After all, it definitely was not done on purpose. In fact, I am pretty sure He had a good chuckle too. I remember a man in the ward, Brother Earl, told me not to be sorry as that was the best meeting he’d ever been to. Because I sat on the stand the rest of the meeting I didn’t see this, but my friend told me that all through the rest of the meeting Bishop Lay would get a smile on his face and his shoulders would move up and down as he silently chuckled. I understand because I was doing the exact same thing.

I wonder about who spoke that day and feel a little sorry I rained on their parade. I have no idea what they spoke about as this was the only thing on my mind, and I imagine the same was true for a lot of people in that congregation. Maybe that’s what we all needed that day- a good laugh. That’s certainly what we got!

My future husband was a member of that congregation too. Years later he told me how impressed he was with me. Although I was freaking out, I wasn’t crying like a baby and wanting to run away and hide (well, yes I was), but I was laughing right along with everyone else. I guess it’s good to be able to laugh at yourself in moments like that. It certainly lessened the humiliation or at least made it somewhat enjoyable.

Now, 13 years later, I have full confidence that no organ mistake I ever make will compare with The Great Riverton 19th Ward Organ Calamity of 2000.

I sure hope I don’t eat my words someday.