Sunday’s Fool
It wasn’t every Sunday but it felt that way. When the torture began or when it stopped, I do not recall. Whatever that length of time our family attended church, I have condensed into three memories.
My father taught a Sunday school class and his voice droned on at the head of the table. Other kids enthusiastically looked his way but I did not. When the lesson concluded, we joined the adults in the unadorned central hall.
The First Baptist church was constructed by those who knew that every single congregant was a sinner. Attending church was not a time of rejoicing in the Lord’s word, no, it was an opportunity to repent for the wickedness of the past week. Purging of the soul included hearing the Lord’s words while physically suffering. Receiving the Lord’s blessing required lower back pain and a numb buttock. Any attempted adjustment from the mandatory — aching ass until loss of bowel control — was met with a disapproving look.
For me, leaving the church was a religious experience. One and a half hours of olfactory Old Spice overload well prepared me for the kingdom of heaven beyond the church doors. Although the moment was brief, stepping out-of-doors delivered me to fresh air, dappled clouds against the mid-morning blue and a heart longing for joy.
