Remembering.. Sunlight streamed through my window, rubbing at my sleepy eyes. The linoleum floor is cold under my feet , it would crack under the thunder of bare feet as my brother and I raced down the stairs—trampling over each other to get the last bit of marshmallows in the cereal. My cat, Hooper, would rub against our legs, meowing loudly for the last bit of milk in our bowls. Too bad Hopper didn’t have a taste for green beans! Just before the really good cartoon came on, Mom called us upstairs, time to get ready for church…time to get my unruly hair pulled into stick straight braids, time to iron creases into my brother’s slacks that were as straight as the road to holiness, time to wrestle and tease each other—until the very minute when my brother and I stepped through those massive doors, and silence and goodness was demanded of us while in service.
Mom danced through a cloud of Aqua Net hair spray, teasing her hair into bubble shaped curls. Her favorite disco records were stacked on her dresser next to her make up and low slung flats. She had a pair of flats in every color to match her outfits—even a pair of purple ones (my favorite color). Sunday was the one day of the week I was actually clean—not allowed to go tromping through the woods, where I rolled down red sandstone cliffs and dug for clam shells at the river’s edge. Socks were pulled up to the knee and held in place with rubber bands. My face was scrubbed clean (though I still wore a provocative grin). And I was reminded about what I did wrong in church last Sunday—and warned not to do it again. We didn’t have Sunday school or children’s church, and were expected to sit next to the adults, in silence, allowed only to speak when the priest instructed us to pray or sing.
What I remember most about church was the sense of holiness. You approached Sunday like no other day of the week—because when you walked through the doors of church, God would be on the other side. Not that God lived solely in the church, but its sturdy brick walls and protective Cross perched high on its eaves, offered a buffer from the world—a sanctuary you could be alone with God. My small eyes blinked into the golden candlelight, and with every shadow I imagined God was there—kneeling next to me on the pew or singing a favorite hymn, His sturdy arm was slung around my small shoulders, showing me where to find a verse. I searched for God’s face in the stained glass windows, and made funny faces at my own reflection… laughing that if I am made in God’s image then He must also have big, bug eyes, a crooked smile and a pig nose stuck in the middle of my forehead by one finger. Then Mom would squeeze my arm, reminding me to behave.
I looked forward to Mom’s lectures after church, where she would remind me of how good I have it, telling me stories of her own childhood pranks and the strict punishment of no-nonsense nuns and stern relatives. Mom didn’t know it but I loved those stories and craved tantalizing details of Mom as a rebellious child—I imagined we would share secrets and pinky swear not to tell. We would fold notes into origami squares and hide them in the rubber bands fastening our socks—our girlish dreams would be contained in those squares, we would pray over them and look for any sign God was answering… in those stories, Mom was like me. Then again I could have her be like “mom” too…which was usually when she was embarrassing me or getting on my nerves…a pinch this time, Lynn are you paying attention!?! Guess not, better sing louder to show I am really being good this time, put a little extra emphasis in my Amen!
I remember playing with my cousins after service, how our laughter mingled among church bells After church my family along with my aunts and cousins stopped at Ginny Mae Donuts. We kids let loose after being pent up for an hour, then were sugared up on sprinkle donuts, so that everything said about our rebellion was proven absolutely true as we laughed loudly and ran wild.
In such a short time, things have changed so much. It seems my memories are a relic from the past. My family moved from the small town I grew up in, to a big, noisy city. My life changed so much. There were skyscrapers that rimmed the clouds, where the tallest thing I had know was a church steeple. There were accents of all languages, strange foods I had never seen before…and different values to live by. The mosques and Buddhist temples were as foreign to me as these new, modern churches. I miss those Sunday services of my youth. I miss the sense of reverence…it seems that now days church has become a cool hang out place. Tradition is mocked, instead God is expected to fit our needs with modern music, coffee and donuts, and pastors who wear jeans and read the Bible in slang. Church bands play in bars, church groups meet in bars and drink alcohol “in moderation”. Churchgoers brag how cool it is that they fit in so well with unbelievers that you can’t tell the two apart. You don’t learn traditional hymns or memorize prayers. You don’t learn church history, or the sacrifices of those who lived and died for their faith. You dress up to go clubbing or to go to work but not for church. You hang out near the church doors, smoking and telling dirty jokes. You are reminded to turn off cell phones so you text during service. Carrying a Bible to church is optional. You have a list of things to do, and places to be after service, and rush out the door. The walls of protection that I knew are crumbling—people attend church then fall through gaping holes.
And I remember what it used to be like, the eager anticipation of waiting a whole week for Sunday because we truly believed God would be waiting for us. The Creator of the Universe, the One who Died for Our Sins, was stopping all time-putting aside all the important things He has to do—to spend time with us. The immensity of that was holiness, it was the reason why we took extra time to dress up for church, why we children worked extra hard to behave. It was the reason why our parents relented with donuts after service, and why spending time together as a family became so important. We didn’t learn holiness in the world, we learned in church—a place set aside for everyday people to worship and develop their faith in a place of safety and support. I remember, clearly, how small I felt as a child—and how immense God seemed to be. Standing in creation, a telescope from a distant galaxy would not see me—would not know who I am. But God knows, he fills in the gaps with His presence; and when God is among us, there is holiness. It is the absolute sense that your life has been changed to core levels, and the motivation for us to gravitate towards Him.
It is my sincere prayer that holiness and reverence in church will not be a thing of the past. Just as I remember the massive church doors opening, and eagerly awaited God behind it, I sincerely pray that this modern generation will open their lives, and open their church, to God.
Lynn Mari, © 2012.
