King's Corner: More Than Just Words

Easter is a time when we remember the most important words ever spoken… which makes it all the more interesting how easily we can get them wrong.

My dad, Robert “Mark” King—known as “Bobbie” when he was a boy—had learned how to follow instructions. At least, that’s what everyone hoped. By the time he was serving as an altar boy at St. Mary’s in Morristown, New Jersey, he knew the routine. He knew where to stand, when to move, what to carry. He had learned the rhythms, the patterns, the words.

Well… most of them.

The Latin Mass in those days followed a precise and ancient rhythm. Nothing was casual. Every movement had meaning, every word had its place. The altar boy wasn’t just helping—he was part of something carefully ordered, something that had been done the same way for generations. Bobbie had learned his role. He knew how to prepare the altar—lighting candles, placing the missal, arranging the cruets and chalice. He knew when to step forward and when to stand still.

But it didn’t quite feel like him.

This was the same boy who preferred being outdoors, climbing where he shouldn’t and exploring anything that moved. Now he stood inside, dressed in a black smock with a puffy white top he never quite got used to, trying very hard to do everything exactly right. His mother was pleased—which was not always the case. Somewhere in the congregation, she sat watching, hoping this would go well. Father Stone, standing at the altar, was cautiously optimistic. And Bobbie was determined.

Especially when it came to one phrase: Dominus vobiscum. “The Lord be with you.” It was spoken at key moments during the Mass, and each time Bobbie was to repeat it clearly, then allow the congregation to respond. Simple. And on Easter, of all days—the most important day in the Church—it mattered.

The church was full. The service moved forward with quiet precision. The responses echoed through the sanctuary, rising and falling in a rhythm that had been repeated for generations. For most, the words were familiar. For Bobbie, they were something to be remembered, repeated… and gotten right.

Each time Father Stone spoke the phrase, Bobbie responded—loud, clear, and confident. Exactly as he had been taught.

At least… that’s how it seemed.

The first time, Father Stone paused—just slightly—as if deciding whether he had heard correctly, then continued. The second time, he glanced sideways, almost imperceptibly. A few in the congregation shifted, not quite sure what they had heard—but the rhythm carried on, as it always did. By the third, his composure held—but only just, as if discipline and laughter were having a quiet argument. The Mass continued. The responses came. Everything stayed in place.

But something wasn’t quite right.

Afterward, Father Stone found Bobbie in a room just off the sanctuary. “What were you saying during the service?” he asked.

“I was just repeating what you said,” Bobbie replied. “At the same volume. Was I too loud?”

“What exactly were you saying? Can you say it again?”

Bobbie nodded without hesitation.

“Sure. You kept saying Dominoes and biscuits… and I repeated it.”

There was a pause.

Then Father Stone did what he had done before—he held the moment just long enough… and then laughed. “We’ll work on your Latin next week,” he said. “In the meantime, have a blessed Easter.”

There’s something wonderfully honest about that moment. Bobbie wasn’t being careless. He wasn’t trying to be funny. He was doing exactly what he thought he was supposed to do.

He just didn’t understand the words—not yet.

And if we’re honest, that’s not so far from where many of us find ourselves. There’s something almost childlike about it. Saying the words as best we can, hoping we’ve understood them, trusting that we’re close enough. We repeat what we’ve heard. We follow patterns we’ve been taught. We step into important moments—sometimes even sacred ones—without fully understanding what they mean.

And yet… God hears us anyway.

Not because we get the words right, but because He knows what we mean. He meets us where we are—sometimes in our confusion, sometimes in our confidence—and patiently begins to reveal meaning over time. Even when we’re saying “Dominoes and biscuits.”

That’s what Easter is about. Not just remembering an event, but beginning to understand what it means. That God loves us more than we understand. That He stepped into our world, took on our brokenness, and made a way for us to know Him. That what once sounded like words becomes something living and real.

That we don’t have to have everything figured out before we come to Him.

In fact, we probably won’t.

But like Bobbie at the altar, we’re invited to step in anyway. To listen. To repeat what we can. To grow into understanding. And to trust that even when we don’t fully get the words right, God is still with us—and inviting us to understand what He has been saying all along.

And that, as Bobbie meant to say…

is the message of Easter—
that the words we’ve heard all along are, in fact, true.

Jeff Headley is pastor of the Dayton Valley Community Church, and a storyteller who blends humor, honesty, and hope. His weekly column reflects on resilience, grace, and the surprising ways faith shows up in ordinary life.