Children's Church

By David W. Edgerly, Ph.D.

The paper felt so familiar to Barbara. The weight, the print, even the size never seemed to change. Her fingers automatically responded, even after all these years, beginning to fold the bulletin into an Origami turtle. Dr. Gail Evans, the therapist she saw when she was Little Barbie, taught her to do Origami to entertain herself in church. She remembered Dr. Gail fondly. Most of the time what they had talked about wasn't specifically about her "problems", but she always felt better, and in retrospect suspected only those visits kept her sane.

As Barbara had anticipated her mind was already oscillating back and forth between the past and the present. She wasn't sure if that oscillation was what she feared, or hoped, would happen this Sunday morning. She left the church over 10 years ago and hadn't been back. Recently, Barbara felt a growing desire to attend again just to see the inside of a church, to hear the deep rich chords of an organ, to feel the rhythm of a service. She wasn't sure if this desire was curiosity, a newly emerging spiritual quest, or simply old habits of self-abuse.

When Barbara arrived the usher greeted her with a warm smile and a friendly hello. He was a nice looking man with big blue eyes and strong hands. A good start for this trip down memory lane. She did wonder if women were allowed to be ushers now. This led her mind to review all the inequities she sensed as a little girl in the church. There was much talk about the value of women, and she enjoyed the feeling of specialness. In the back of her mind, though, she kept wondering how one could be free or equal if she knew she could never hold a position of equal power in the organization. "Big questions for such a little girl" she was often told. Her questions seemed to perturb some church leaders and embarrassed her parents. Faith, inevitably, was always the answer. Sort of a Catch-22.

The usher wanted to seat Barbara toward the front of the church but she persisted in requesting a seat only three rows from the back. Somehow the idea of the congregation in front of her, where she could see them, felt better than having them behind her. She knew the hopeful curiosity visitors represented as the members gazed at the potential new blood. People filled in around her, most with a Bible tucked under one arm. As she dressed for church this morning she considered rummaging through her boxes in the basement to extricate her old copy of the holy book. To be seen in church without one was considered suspect. Even though the minister always read the verses, people dutifully followed along as though they couldn't hear for themselves. As a child she often gazed around the sanctuary spotting the people who supposedly read the Bible often but seemed to struggle to even locate the book and chapter where the verse were found. As these people tried to hide how lost they were she giggled silently over the show these people represented. Today she would watch again.

Church represented the start of a boring day for the little girl. When she got home, the Lord's Day meant rest, so little else would happen. There was the Sunday dinner with abundant, rich food, and quiet hymns on the radio. Barbara never understood how playing with her friends or riding her bicycle offended God. Those activities never offended her. She finally decided that God must be very insecure because He was so easily offended. The wrong word; the wrong thought; a fleeting feeling; all were potentially offensive to this mystery man who lived in the middle of nowhere.

One time in Sunday school Barbie had used one of "those words", the same one her father often used when no one from church was around. The Sunday school teacher washed her mouth out with soap. Her best recollection was it was Ivory and the lesson had been effective. She learned in only one episode, not to eat soap. She wondered now if that was what she was supposed to have learned.

Barbara's mind began to drift back to the Sunday school teacher when her reverie was interrupted by the sound of the minister's voice, echoing down from the pulpit. Getting ready for church this morning Barbara toyed with wearing her favorite T-shirt--the one that said "The higher the hair, the closer to God". Wisdom won out, but Barbara was deeply relieved to see the minister was distinctly balding. Slipping back into childlike thoughts she wondered if she could see herself in the reflection off the back of his head. The familiar rhythm of church service began. This was a beat she experienced three times a week, every week of her childhood. Only a few years ago, when she entered her thirties, had Barbara come to appreciate the powerful conditioning this repetitive exposure represented. From birth to 18 she was required to attend church every Wednesday evening, Sunday morning and Sunday evening. Having missed only three Sundays due to illness she counted 2805 services, not counting picnics, weddings, choir practice, and all the other myriad activities. Even on vacation her parents would find a church to attend.

As an adult Barbara came to understand how hypnotic the church service was. Each person went into his or her own unique trance. Some where captured in the rapt, focused attention, hanging on every word the minister said. Others sat with glazed eyes while their minds wandered to a thousand other places and things. The number of times she heard sermons against hypnosis amused her, since those services themselves were delivered to a congregation full of unknowing hypnotic subjects. As her fingers resumed folding the turtle Barbara appreciated Dr. Gail's subtle wisdom. Origami required some concentration and consequently she never entered the trance state while her fingers focused on the paper. Through the years Barbara loved spotting all the subtle but powerful little things Dr. Gail had done.

Barbara watched as the church members, one by one, fell under the spell cast by the reverberation that occurred between dull familiar structure and emotionally intense appeal. Back and forth, back and forth. Within a few minutes all but the least suggestible were gone, and most of those few holdouts would acquiesce before the end of the service.

Today Barbara wouldn't go into trance. She kept her fingers busy and her eyes searching around the sanctuary, soaking in the dramatic religious symbols. She wondered why the very same people who protested violence on television told children about nails in hands, spears in one's side or crowns of thorns. She wondered why she was allowed to read the Song of Solomon but not Catcher in the Rye. As her mind wandered she remembered the teacher again. He had liked her a great deal and told her that often. At first she liked being liked, not knowing at the time the price of specialness. Her parents always stayed a long time after church, having coffee with friends, which gave plenty of time for the private lessons. She hated the lessons, but the Sunday school teacher and his Elder friend told her God wanted her to learn these things. They told her that learning to please men pleased God. Her reverie was broken by the familiar feelings of nausea and for once Barbara was thankful for the disruption of that set of memories.

The private lessons had, at least indirectly, led Barbie to see Dr. Gail. After many lessons Barbie told her parents about the special training. They didn't believe her and punished her for making up stories about godly men. For many months the punishment silenced her but eventually she told a friend. That friend's parents talked to Barbie's folks about how Barbie must be psychologically disturbed to have such horrible fantasies as such a little girl. The investigation didn't turn up anything. Barbara remembered knowing that Dr. Gail believed her, and knew what was really true. She wondered if Dr. Gail went to church as a little girl.

The service droned on as Barbara glanced at her watch, hoping the hour was almost up. Eventually, in a service which felt all too long, the organ began the final hymn and Barbara slipped out the back door before the rest of the congregation would follow. She knew all too well the endless "hello's", inane conversations, and subtle evangelizing she would have to endure if she stayed. The usher tried to speak to her as she slipped out the church doors but she just muttered "thanks" and kept her eyes focused on her car in the parking lot.

Driving down the street towards home Barbara was thankful for her life. She thought she might drop Dr. Gail a note, letting her know that after all these years Barbara still thought of her. The note would tell Gail about her career, her friends and her recent election to the city council. She smiled realizing she could govern a city but not a church. As that thought crossed her mind she recognized today hadn't been curiosity, or even a spiritual search. It was simply self-abuse.

Archives of previous articles:

Upgrading How You Relate by David W. Edgerly, Ph.D.

Friend, Stranger or Enemy by David W. Edgerly, Ph.D.

Protecting Soul and Psyche by David W. Edgerly, Ph.D.

The Answer is Mutual Respect by David W. Edgerly, Ph.D.

Certainty as the Cure for Anger II by David W. Edgerly, Ph.D.

Trust by David W. Edgerly, Ph.D.

Physical Therapy for the Soul by Chelona Edgerly, Ph.D.

Three Faces of Fear by David W. Edgerly, Ph.D. and Chelona Edgerly, Ph.D.

Hate Crimes Against Women by David W. Edgerly, Ph.D.

Do The Hard Things by Connie Pruss

Strong Is Sexy by Chelona Edgerly, Ph.D.