Going to Sunday School

By Gary White
April 8, 1945 —Sunday Morning

Turning the corner by the post office I look down Main Street. There is not another soul in sight. On weekdays Main Street has a lot of activity, with people walking up and down, going in and out of stores. Knots of men on the corner talking and pairs of women standing in front of the stores, looking at the displays and talking with each other. Kids threading their way through the bustle, a smaller society that passes largely unnoticed below the adults, like a bunch of ants. We are ignored until we run into an adult or make too much noise. Now, on Sunday morning it’s all deserted, like a ghost town. It's eerie being alone on Main Street—unsettling, but somehow comfortable too. I could go anywhere on Main street and be unnoticed. I would have the whole town to myself.

Instead, I start up the hill toward the Methodist church, past the empty benches in front of city hall. No old men out this morning, leaning on their canes and talking quietly with each other. As I get nearer to the church I'm filled with uncertainty and walk slower and slower. What will it be like there? Dad says that all churches are good for is for people to squabble among themselves. Granddad says that he told the preacher he would only go to church if he would preach about man's duty to man rather than man's duty to God. And he says he never went. He said the preacher told him he would be run out of town if he ever preached that sermon. Granddad just laughed and laughed and slapped his knee when he said that. I didn't get the joke, but the message was clear enough.

Best be on my guard at the church until I get the lay of the land. I'll slip in and see what its like. Maybe nobody will notice me at all if I'm real quiet. As I get near the church I begin to see cars driving up and parking. Families all dressed up, getting out of their cars and heading into Sunday school. I see the kids are going downstairs, so I slip into the church basement, trying to be unnoticed. A few people say hello and tell me they are glad to see me there. I'm not sure why, or if they really mean it. It may be that it’s just the right thing to say on Sunday morning. The church basement with its cement floor painted with a shinny gray paint looks completely different from the times I was there before for some meeting or a banquet. No tables now—just rows of folding chairs all facing the front and lots of tan cloth curtains strung on wires overhead. I slip into the back and find myself a chair near the corner of the back row. Maybe I won't be noticed there.

After what seems like a long time the piano starts up—a jangling "honky-tonk" sounding piano, and we are asked to turn to page 3 . . . "Onward Christian soldiers, Marching as to war, With the cross of Jesus going on before. . ." Visions of American soldiers, in army uniforms, carrying guns, shooting at Germans and Japs (that most hated enemy) and all the while a white cross floating in the air above them. Is that what the war is like?

Women and kids singing and howling chorus after chorus, and the piano rattling away, and me feeling better, because one thing I love to do is sing, and some people say I'm good at it. This isn't so bad after all. They seem to get along with each other pretty well here. Now a prayer. Everyone with their heads bowed and eyes closed, and me peeking with one eye open a crack, to see what I ought to be doing, not really listening to the long-winded man using phrases like "we ask your blessing on", and "we ask that you to be with the poor and suffering". Finally, he closes with: "in Jesus' name, Amen. Now please go to your classes." Where is my class? How will I know where to go? Everyone else seems to know. Some motherly older woman seems to sense my uncertainty and shows me the place—a little cubicle at the back of the church basement, made entirely of cloth curtains.

A group of kids from my class in school are already there. They are staring at me like I don't belong at all, and a few say some things to me. Not friendly things. I just try to ignore them, and pretend to be real busy studying the flannel board at the front of the class. The teacher hands out "the lesson". It's a smallish piece of paper with a color picture of grown men wearing sheets and nearly barefoot on one side and a story on the other side. I've never seen a grownup dressed that way, and it’s a mystery to me. We read the story together and the teacher does something with paper cutouts of people and animals and rocks that she moves around on the flannel board. I don't understand most of what she is saying, but at least nobody is staring at me anymore.

Then its time to memorize the bible verse. We repeat it over and over and then each kid has to say it without looking at the lesson sheet. That's easy enough, but I don't like everyone's eyes on me when it’s my turn. Now its time to see how many verses we can say from previous weeks. I'm in trouble now, because there haven’t been any previous weeks for me; and I am thankful that I'm in the back row, and maybe I can make myself nearly invisible by sitting low in my chair and hiding behind the head of the kid in front of me. The tension builds something awful as the teacher works her way down each row starting at the front. Some of the girls seem to be able to say a lot of verses, which they are very proud of, and some of the boys don't seem to remember very much and their friends tease them by laughing and making faces.
Mercifully, the teacher passes right over me and I'm saved that terrible moment of embarrassment. I am really invisible now. It's like I'm not there, but that's better than being caught in the center of everyone's attention.

Now I become aware that I have to go to the bathroom really bad, and I wonder how long this will go on, and can I make it home. I wouldn't move from my chair if my bladder burst, and I concentrate on holding out till this is over. I wouldn't want to have to ask someone here to show me the bathroom. They probably would just laugh at me for having to go to the bathroom at church. The rest of the class is just a blur as my attention is riveted more and more on internal matters. When the class finally winds down I feel like I am going to make it, but no, . . . Sunday school isn't over yet. We all have to go back to the main room for "closing exercises". More hymns and people talking and the pressure building all the time. Finally the meeting breaks up and I hurry out as fast as I can while remaining invisible. If I really ran someone might notice me. All the way home I can't think of the empty main street or the cars from church driving by. Everything is concentrated on the safety of the bathroom at home. When I make it without an accident I'm really relieved.

Later Mom asks me how it was and I say "OK". "Will you go back again?" "Maybe". There are a lot of mysteries there. Jesus, and Christian soldiers, and cutouts of people dressed in sheets being moved around on a flannel board. Bible verses to be memorized, and people singing and praying. I can't put it all together, and no one explains it to me, but everyone there seems to understand, and they think it is serious business, judging from their reverent tones and dress-clothes. Sure I'll go back. I'll keep slipping in and being invisible till I can get it figured out. Then maybe, some day, I'll be a part of something, and I won't be always alone.