Sunday School

The longest stretch of Sunday school I had was probably when we lived in Binghamton, although now I think it may have lasted only a few weeks. I had friend named Brenda, and our friendship had progressed to the intimacy of staying overnight, and staying over on Saturday inevitably led to attending Sunday school with her the next morning. My parents were likely to sleep in on Sundays if at all possible, and did not object to me being dropped off afterwards.

Brenda was a pale, skinny girl, with a tendency to look a bit gray under the eyes. We were at that age around ten when the bones start lengthening, and the slender begin to look downright sticklike. She had pale brown hair, what we politely called ash blonde, that curled up on the ends in a fashion that in those days required elaborate preparations with rollers, making her head rather larger and her slenderness more apparent. This was the chief thing she was ridiculed for, the other children in our class being as unkind as any at that age. I had an assortment of such characteristics too, with braces, and having glasses and being "smart" were the marks of Cain that we shared. Our friendship was a refuge for both of us.

While I don't recall her house I recall the church vividly. The Sunday school was in the basement, a crowded room with white-wrapped heating pipes. I was greatly impressed with the way some of the children had learned to recite the books of the Bible (Ezra-Nehemiah-Esther-Job!) in an ongoing competition. (First and second Kings! first and second Chronicles!) You could see the list at the beginning of the book, and it seemed quite formidable to me. As it was a Presbyterian church we had history lessons from a book on the Adventures of John Knox, which were very exciting, set in Scotland, with many persecutions and narrow escapes. Being the kind of child I was, I always finished the assigned reading quickly and went on to read the earlier sections I had missed, about the corruption of the Catholic church, Martin Luther nailing his theses to the door, and ahead, to John Calvin.

Brenda's mother must have been rather appalled at the lack of any church whatsoever in my life, because soon I was going to choir practice with her too, on a weeknight. This did not last long. Easter was coming up, and at the point we were supposed to be getting choir robes, the choir director seemed to have noticed that I was not strictly speaking a member of the church, and neither were my parents. A terrible scene ensued, that simply consisted of me being pointed out as not belonging there, and all the other children staring at me. Then Brenda's mother arrived to pick us up, and words were quietly exchanged. Perhaps the lack of Christian charity in turning away a child who has come to church thus on her own was pointed out.

So I was not allowed to march down the aisle with the rest of the choir on Palm Sunday, as we had been practicing. I did get to watch the pageantry from the right-hand balcony -- it was one of those Colonial buildings with balconies on each side of the altar. Right balcony if you are standing at the door, left balcony if you are at the altar. It was something of a relief to me, actually, as I had felt ill-prepared for the performance. The songs were not at all familiar to me and Brenda was the only other kid I knew there.

But I do not recall attending the Easter service at that church. Brenda and her family were suddenly too busy.

Jesus loves the little children,
all the little children of the world.
Whether yellow, black or white,
we are precious in His sight.
Jesus loves the little children of the world.