People have often noted a certain odd nature to my sense of humor. I can safely say I owe much of this oddness to Sundays of my youth, which included hours of Jesus and Walter Cronkite.
Between the ages of about six and ten I would get up on a Sunday morning, put on my best clothes, which included blazers, ties, always a white shirt, black pants and dress shoes. Off I would go to the United Church which was about three hundred feet from my home. I would attend Sunday school and then a church service.
I didn’t mind Sunday school which seemed to take into account your age and limited attention span and restless nature. However Church on the other hand was laborious filled with King James language, interpretations which I couldn’t begin to understand. All this and an organist who seemed to suggest a direction for the melody, and hold on until she eventually would end up musically pleading with the instrument, as the dirge went by. The choir did its best but after a while it felt like the bus to the Catatonia institute would be taking them all home any time now.
Approximately two and a half hours of this exquisite strangeness would finally allow me to go home. There waiting for me was a wonderful thing, our black and white television. On Sunday afternoons a program which was hosted by Walter Cronkite and sponsored by Prudential Insurance would come on. This program would deal with the American telling of the history of the Second World War. So for an hour it would be bullets and bombs, low flyovers, tanks roaring through France and ships sinking and blowing up. I believe you will agree this was just the thing for a developing mind involved in spiritual pursuit.
Eventually I would be allowed to go outside and play with my friends. My friends went to a Pentecostal Church which just happened to be at the other end of the street from the United. I remember my friends suggesting that I could come with them to their evening service. I remember being a little timid thinking I would find myself among strangers and bored to tears. However I decided to go and asked my parents for permission. My parents couldn’t be happier, after all I was asking permission to go to church albeit not our own.
It was wondrous. The sanctuary was huge in comparison with a grand piano on the left and an organ on the right. I still couldn’t make heads or tails about what was being said, they seemed to talk a lot about sin and being saved whatever that was.
Whatever was being said I sure heard the music. The piano was a percussion instrument and the organ was the melody. The musicians did not suggest a direction they demanded it. The energetic and loud choir was located in a balcony behind the congregation, facing the pulpit. People seemed happier and slightly crazier. This appealed to me from the start.
It wasn’t too long before I was attending the United church, watching the Americans win the war and then off to the Pentecostal Church. At the United church very little changed but at the Pentecostal things seemed new all the time.
I saw the first harmonica rack used by the first person I ever saw play a guitar in church. I saw someone play a saw with a bow while people sang “How great thou art”. This was magic. I saw a man fill a huge balloon and then play Amazing Grace on it. Imagine if you will, a man standing there with a balloon which when filled touched the floor with him holding the end at waste level and pulling it this way and that and out came the melody. It all seemed a little flatulent but everyone cheered at the end.
One time I heard that this service would be a very special one. Indeed there was a huge turnout to hear the special speakers scheduled. A little music and then these rather enthusiastic, demonstrative speakers throwing their hands about, choking the microphones and running, dancing and leaping in a manner that would make Mick Jagger envious, took over.
Suddenly there was a man in the row in front of me who seemed to be having a stroke. I rather loudly brought this to the attention of some adults nearby who were quick to communicate that I should be quiet. Apparently that is what speaking in tongues looks like.
Then it happened. A man had been repeating “do you want to be saved, do you want to be saved”? I never thought I needed saving but it seemed the prudent thing to be, so I paid attention. If I wanted to be saved I had to leave by the door stage right. Ok I did.
The stairs led to the basement where there had been row after row of chairs you were to kneel in front of and pray.
I couldn’t believe what I saw. People weeping and flailing about, arms raised shouting and screaming. An adult told me I should kneel down and pray. I asked what am I praying for and she said it should be for forgiveness and it should be in earnest.
Let me tell you people my prayer was deeply in earnest not to be forgiven but to be set free from this craziness as soon as possible. Finally an adult who knew me a little touched my shoulder and showed me out and back to the service. I must say I felt that God had heard my prayer and allowed me to escape what I could not understand.
The habit of two church services and Walter in the middle went on for about two years before we moved. So if you see me “being Ted” I would ask a little patience as I come by my craziness honestly.
