Any Given Sunday
The following is an account of how I spent every Sunday for fifteen years. It’s a long post, but I’m sure you will see characters here that you know or have encountered yourself. As always, feel free to share any similar experiences in the comments section or on your own blog.
Getting Ready
Grandpa, Grandma, Lisa and I attended a nearby Baptist church every Sunday morning. We would wake up three hours before we had to be there so that we could eat breakfast, take baths and get dressed. Then we would all sit around in the living room and look at each other. I couldn’t go play because I might mess up my dress. Finally Grandma would say, “Okay, young uns. Git in the car.”
Lisa and I raced to the car, standing behind the doors. I wanted to sit behind Grandma because that meant she couldn’t turn around and glare at me. Lisa wanted to sit behind her because I wanted to and she lived to torment me. As soon as Grandma walked down the steps Lisa would start bellowing, “BUT I WANTED TO SIT BEHIND MY GRAND MAW!”
Her face swelling up with pride over her little brat, Grandma would start reciting her own sermon, one that I heard at least twice a day. “Okay, now – someone has to give in. Jennifer, you’re older and should know better. Let her have her way just this once.”
“I would grit my jaw, as I still do now remembering that little speech, and sulk over to Grandpa’s side of the car. I loved Grandpa to death, but then that ol’ hag that he was married to and my spoiled sister got their way. I hated this little on-going war.
Gum, Anyone?
After we were all in the car, strapped in with our safety belts Grandma would crane her neck around to check us. Then she would plunk her purse down in front of her and pull of the trust gum. It was the same every Sunday morning from the age of three till the age of eighteen. One stick each of Wrigley’s Doublemint gum. It always lost it’s flavor about five minutes after you started chewing it. The only good thing about it was that Grandma almost dislocated her shoulder giving it to Lisa because she was sitting directly behind her. This was another reason I always wanted to sit there.
In The Beginning …
Church started off innocently enough. We all went in and grabbed our usual seats. Grandpa like to sit in the back right-hand corner seat and insisted that we had to arrive fifteen minutes early every week so that no one would “steal his seat”. After all of the farting that man did during service, not only would no one steal his seat, but no one would steal the seat in front of him, either.
People filtered in, the wealthier people sitting near the front, the poorer people near the back. Grandma scrunched her face up at everyone as they walked in, examining what they were wearing and if they had their Bible with them or not.
The Shakers
After a few people had wandered in and found their seats, the Shakers would start making their rounds. The Shakers were the people that would go through the entire church shaking hands with people with people and offering them false compliments. The one I usually heard was, “Well, yur just growin’ like a weed, ain’t ya?” Yep, doofus … I’ve grown a whole foot since LAST Sunday. How perceptive of you. *rolls eyes*
There were several subcategories under The Shakers. There were The Chatters. While making their rounds would stop to gab about their crops, the weather, nothing of real importance. They were just killing time and trying to be ‘nice’. There were the The Prayer Requesters, who would stop by, shake your hand and then start rolling do their list of “Pray fur me becaws …” There were The Hand Squeezers. They tried to squeeze all of the blood out of your hand to convince you that they were good Christians.
There were also a few individuals who didn’t fit into any of the groups. There was Billy, who would come around to shake and tell you how glad he was that you were there that particular day. Billy always had a big smile on his face and tried to seem happy, but he would burst into tears by the end of the sermon that day, only to leave smiling again. I’d bet you a stick of Doublemint gum on that.
The preacher’s wife made her rounds giving her infamous limp handshake. I think she was just keeping up appearances and trying to scout out for new clothes and shoes. They were the only thing she ever commented on.
Make a Somewhat Joyful Noise …
Fifteen till nine, the choir leader would take his place at the pulpit and all of the shaker would scuttle to their seats like roaches after the kitchen light has been turned on. We would all stand and “grab a hymnal and turn to page blah-blah-blah and sing” one of the fourteen songs that the preacher had deemed okay for us to sing. Some of the songs were evidently too peppy or strayed from the word of God, as translated by him, for us to do. Or perhaps the piano and organ players couldn’t pick them up. Who knows.
Let’s Go, Baptists, Let’s Go!
After our song, we all took our seats and I’m-Happy-Billy took the stand. He was there to give us our 15 minute pep talk, a prelude to Sunday school. Billy stuttered and it was hard to understand him sometimes, but it was clear to all that he was a coach outside of church. His mini-sermons were more like pre-game pep talks than anything. I was always amazed that he didn’t pop our bottoms afterwards when all of the kids ran to the back for Sunday School.
Don’t Question The Woman With The Offering Plate
Ahhhh, Sunday School. There Lisa and I were taught how to be good little racists, cause every good little Baptist girl and boy in that church knew that God hated black people. It made sense to me; after all, Grandpa hated them, too. There were no black families in our little utopia, only good ol’ God fearing white folks.
I made the mistake once of asking if Moses was delivering the Jews from Egypt, didn’t that mean there was a good chance that some of these Bible heroes were black? The teacher dropped the offering plate, sending quarters and pennies rolling all over the floor. I got sent back out with the adults for ‘sassing’ the teacher. I guess sassing meant asking questions that didn’t lead to a racist answer.
And Behold, The Voices of Angels …
After Sunday school, we all gathered back in the sanctuary and the choir came out. They butchered three or four songs, the first of which the entire congregation would help mutilate. After that massacre a good bit of the congregation would fall asleep. Until Shirley, the worst of the Prayer Requester Shakers, hit her high note. That woke them up, but only for a few seconds. They dozed back off and the choir had to compete with the snoring. This was not an easy task, despite the fact that they had microphones.
After the choir was through, they filtered back into their seats. It was now time for the “special singing“. Trust me when I say, there was nothing special about it. The honor rotated among five people in the church who felt “called by God” to sing a song to either the piano, the guitar or the karaoke tape that was supplied to them. They were really loud, I suppose so that God could hear them up there in all-white Heaven.
After this performance, no one was allowed to clap or cheer, neither out of appreciation or relief. The reasoning for this, I was told, was that they were supposed to do this to glorify God, not to get praise for themselves. I was shocked that they would choose to honor God in such a cruel fashion, but I took to heart the no applause rule.
We Accept Visa, Master Card, Your First Born …
Next, an offering was taken up. Since most of the congregation fought off sleep during the choir and the not-so-special singing, afterwards they felt so guilty that they would donate money like mad. Grandpa was always a cheapskate, though. He gave the same thing every week – two dollars. He would hand one to Lisa and one to me and let us toss it in the offering plate as they were passed around.
The guilt factor in this church was so good that the preacher lived in a big house that was redecorated every year. He bought a new car every two years, had no other job than preaching and dressed his two daughters, wife and himself in the best that our tithing money could buy. We paid for both of his daughters to go to four year universities and one of them had her house payment provided for by the good Baptists that supported her Dad.
Reaching During Preaching
After the offering was taken up, we could all look forward to a sermon from good ol’ Preacher Bud. In his arsenal of super talents he had the ability to make his face as red as a tomato and to spew forth Hell-Fire-and-Damnation, making it sound like a three syllable word. He could twist the words in the Bible more than my Grandma could twist a wet dish cloth. He read verses that dealt with God’s despising view of homosexuals, blacks, people who didn’t tithe, people who left a church because they didn’t like the preacher and the evils of Democrats.
The length of the sermon was supposed to be an hour according to the sign out front, but the Reverend Bud went over every Sunday unless there was a really good football game on. He would drag on and on and on, sometimes half an hour over his time. If it got really out of hand someone would slip out the back door. Then he would preach about “not hearing what God had to tell you, just like them Jews wondering around in the wilderness”. That would lead to bragging about how he could preach as long as he wanted to and that we would all have to listen.
Till The Saints Go Marching Out
Rev. Bud would end the sermon, then have “invitation” for any lost souls to make their way to the front of the church and to “throw themselves on the altar and the mercy of God”. (While you’re down there, feel free to shine Rev. Bud’s shoes, too.) I never really understood the point of the invitation. Everyone in the church had been there forever and professed to be “washed in the blood of the Lamb”. What was the point unless we had visitors that he hadn’t managed to scare off or put into a coma? The invitation would drag on up to ten minutes, while the entire congregation stood at the feet singing ‘Just As I Am’. He would then ask for one of the high tippers to say a final word of prayer, then announce, “Let’s all leave and see if we can beat the Methodists to the Apple House Cafeteria.” With that, we would all race out to our cars and go home.
Getting There in Half the Time
I know why NASCAR races are on Sundays … someone had witnessed that parking lot clearing out before. Everyone lived rather close to one another, so you have people jockeying for position going down the road, scared that they will get home five seconds after Bill and Bertha Baptist. It was funny to watch the first few years, but it got kind of old after that.
Me, First!
As soon as Grandpa cut the engine, Grandma leaped out of the car, ran up to the door and stood there waiting. I have never figured out why she did this. Grandpa had the house key. The only thing this did was piss him off. When he got to the door, he had to brush past her to unlock it. She wouldn’t move or get out his way. She stood her ground and the instant the door was unlocked she barged in and plopped in a chair. “I’m tarred.”
Oh, the times that I wish that had included being feathered, too. Grandma was always tarred, or tired for normally speaking people. She must have used all of her energy fooling Grandpa into marrying her.
Could You Pass The Gossip, Please?
Sunday lunch was always a salad. This was so that poor, tarred Grandma didn’t have to work on the Lord’s day. We would all sit and eat and then it would begin, the recap of the morning’s events.
Grandma would recount who’s kid sat with who, who was wearing a new dress or the same dress as the week before, who forgot their Bible, blah blah blah. She snarled through the entire report.
Grandpa’s account usually included things that he didn’t agree with Preacher Bud about and how he mad that things had went into overtime again. He would comment on how prissy Miss So-and-So was and how she thought her stuff didn’t stink. Then Grandma would glare at him and say, “Not in front of the kids, Claud.”
What, No After Dinner Mint?
After lunch, I sometimes got to watch TV. If so, I watched Ma & Pa Kettle movies if they were on. If not, I would try to catch Bob Ross on PBS doing a painting show. Of course, on the old black and white TV, Bob kind of lost his punch. I guess that’s why Andy, Lucy and The Kettles worked so well.
The rest of the day was spent napping, drawing or trying to learn next week’s memory verse. Everything seemed to pale in comparison after all of the entertainment from that morning, but this is how I spent every Sunday for fifteen years. Is it any wonder that about a third of nightmares take place in that church?
