“He went to Nazareth, where he had been brought up, and on the Sabbath day he went into the synagogue, as was his custom….” (St. Luke 4:16)
Okay, okay, I admit, Sunday School wasn’t always my most favorite thing to do on the weekends. It was a proven fact that I was usually the last one out of the house every Sunday morning with the car all warmed up and my Dad’s one foot on the brake and one on the gas pedal—and—as soon as I opened the door of the car and started to plop myself down, he’d let off the brake and hit the gas. I had proof of this for many years because the outside front of all of my right shoes were worn down because my foot would drag a few feet before my mother would yell at my Dad, “Virgil! Let Jimmy get into the car before you drive off!” only to hear my Dad’s weekly, frustrated response, “Well!”
I have another theory about my lateness. My father was in charge of giving me what then was called “the Vitalis 60-second workout” (you younger folks will have to ask your parents if they remember this) and my Dad was literal with it. Vitalis would go into my hair, and then he would commence to massage my head, hair, and most of my neck muscles for one complete minute. This was supposed to invigorate the scalp and was really good for you. The problem could have been that by the time my dad finished rattling my brain that length of time, I was in a somewhat dazed state for the next 10-15 minutes. Maybe, just maybe, that was why I was always late. I was just trying to focus through my thick, bi-focaled glasses, which did take some time for me each morning!
You couldn’t fake sick on Sunday mornings. It wasn’t worth it because my parents had a rule that if you were too sick for church then you were too sick to play outside that afternoon. I didn’t want to risk missing a perfectly good Sunday afternoon playing football, or, whatever athletic season it might be. So, I thought, “Why risk it? Church is only a couple of hours anyway!”
We always met in the upstairs gathering place, with the little wooden altar in the corner, with our quarters and dimes tightly gripped in our hands so not to lose “the Lord’s money” on the way to church. By the time the offering plate came around my hand was so cramped from squeezing so tight I had a hard time letting go of it. Some other kids thought it was because I just didn’t want to part with it. (There was a Dairy Queen just down the street, so there as some definite temptations, I must admit.)
In the summer the little rooms were a bit warm and muggy; in the winter time they were a little humid, damp and cold. This was a rock church, a bit gothic in style, and was a cool place to play “hide-and seek” (although not during Sunday School. However, I kinda remember trying to do that once until Mrs. Leskoff caught me jumping out of the 2nd story Sunday School classroom window. She was “so disappointed in me” as she threatened to tell my mother and father, which I don’t think she ever did).
I love my time in Sunday School. I made good friends there. As I said last week, I remember all of my teachers’ names, which is more than I can say about any other teachers in life I ever had. So, that says something about how important they were to me in those days. Somewhere there was forged into my heart and mind the old bible stories that remain with me today. I am forever grateful to my Sunday School at memorial Evangelical Lutheran Church.
Mary Alice has said more than once when the topic of attendance at Sunday School comes around: “Do parents give their children the choice of whether they go to school on Monday? Then why are they given a choice of whether or not they go on Sundays?” Good point, my dear. Think about and come!
God loves you and so do I!
Pastor Jim Nipper