As
a child, I was no theologian. I was a devout follower of Sunday school, but
rather indifferent to the inner workings of an invisible, transcendent, and omnipresent
God; I liked it when we played
duck-duck-goose. It was to such an extent that when my sister was baptized in
the large blue hot-tub one fine Sunday morning, I faked getting saved. Now, I
do not know if I was aware of my wickedness— I was five at the time—but I did
know that I wanted a chance at a holy dunking. I’d often thought about the
baptismal. My first church was funded from the pockets of multigenerational good Southern families. There were four buildings in all, two attached to the “new”
building (I say “new” because it was old by the time I got to it). The first
building was split into two parts, which included more than thirty rooms on the
first floor, and a well-developed nursery and children’s church on the top. I
never knew why they wanted so many rooms. The second housed our sanctuary and
bathrooms that had lounges with carpet in them. Then of course there were scads
more rooms that I didn’t care to count, since this was the adult building, and
there were no toys or pictures on the walls.
The old buildings were a thing of mystery. There was an old Sunday
school building with catacombs off abandoned rooms and an old sanctuary. The
sanctuary was truly old. It was a thing of history museums and backward
southern towns. It had a dome like the
Capitol building with a stained glass window inside of it. Most southern churches have stained glass windows,
which I have always loved. I’ve neglected many preachers’ sermons to stare at the windows. It was the characters and lights
that attracted me the most. But this
window, set up high above the nodding heads of the congregation, was a thing of
fear. I never dared to stare at that one.
It was an eye stretched open to observe
the congregation. And when the sun hit noon, the great eye glared and
burnt with holy wrath. I thought as a child that it might have indeed been the very
eye of God. Now, I knew that God wouldn’t show up like that, since that sort of
thing has been out of style since the Old Testament, but I also knew that he
watches us. And he never sleeps. This large unblinking orb affixed in the
decaying building could well be one of God’s spy cams; it could be watching for
me.
I would hide in the dusty classrooms and
peak out, ever so silently, at the dome window. When I could no longer stand
the gaze, I’d jump back into the room, heart racing at from how close I’d come
to being stricken down. If I were daring, I’d lay on my stomach and creep
army-style to the door and squint from the floor. I would behold in reverent
six-year-old wonder, God’s glass eye. And when I was full of sufficient
conviction, I’d scoot back and pray a quick apology. I spent my
childhood fantasizing about that building and its holy mysteries. I don't think the building is till there, thought I can't imagine they'd tear it down. I suppose I’ll never get the
chance to wander back into the hall and let God see what I’ve become over the
past fifteen years. Maybe it’s not such a bad thing.
