It was the longest hour of the week. The vents of the stained glass windows were opened as far as they would swing in, which made an air hole about the size of a fourth of a sheet of newspaper. There were eight such holes in the whole sanctuary. That was the only outside air that God could use to bring a little relief to the faithful who were visiting God’s house. It was obvious we had not given God enough to work with.
There were no air conditioners or electric fans, since that would take away from the full effect of church being a moist experience and clothes becoming increasingly ringing wet. Women wore hats and, in many cases, gloves. Men wore dark suits with short-sleeved shirts underneath. Some young men wore poplin or seersucker suits, (which was a mistake, since both choices of fabric wicked moisture showing growing rings of sweat under their arms, across their backs, and down their legs). Children wore the same clothes as the adults, only smaller. The preacher wore a heavy velvet robe. The choir members wore satin robes. Everyone was similarly dressed in order to collectively ignore the myth that it was 95 degrees outside, (and quickly rising), and that the humidity was at total saturation
Men wiped their brow with a bandana. Women dotted their cheeks with a “kerchief.” Children slept with their hot heads on their mamas' laps.
Hand-powered fans were stuck in the hymnal racks for the unprepared, men and children. These bent-eared and floppy cardboard on a tongue depressor fans had wonderful scenes of Jesus with the children, or Moses holding up the tablets, or David playing a harp with the sheep, or Vogler’s Funeral Home. The regular women had their “whip it out” fans in their purses with scenes of Niagara Falls and Rock City on the outspread sides. The rhythmically-moving fans were the only signs of life in the church, since any movement meant the burning of calories, which resulted in increased thermal units that would add degrees to the smothering and humid experience of worship. I remember wondering if this was what it must be like to have malaria.
We never had enough hymnals. We had to share, which brought us closer together during hymn time and reading time, (such times were always preceded by the sound of the backs of little girls’ legs barking squelches as they scooted to the edge of the lacquered pews to stand with the adults.)
The only congregants who never seemed to mind the weather were the boys and girls who sat in the balcony, with minds on other things than worship, side by side, almost touching, writing notes to each other in the margins of the bulletin, while carving their names in the pews.
Any wisp of air that found its way into the rectangular portals of the stained glass windows fell on the faithful like the cool springs of Gihon, the stormy winds of the Sea of Geneserat, or the snow capped peak of Mount Herman.
We were the lost Children of Israel in the purposeful but makeshift temple in the parched wilderness of Sinai. We were the wandering Bedouin Arameans traveling with their goats, sheep, and families to where the grass was green. We were Ishmael lying on the hot sand with a searing stone for a pillow, dreaming of a cool place where he could be joined to a family. We were Jonah sitting on the hillside above Nineveh waiting for the broom tree to grow some shade. We knew what it was like to be a deer panting for water. We knew what it was to thirst for righteousness sake, and we hoped this "righteousness" was cool and refreshing.
I do not remember what the preacher ever talked about, but I remember the back of the pew in front of our pew and every grain in the wood, nail hole in the offering envelope holder, page number in the Cokesbury Hymnal, pattern in the linoleum tile under my feet, and the joy I received at coloring in, with the provided little red putt-putt pencil, all the closed loops in the “Os,” “Ps,” “Ds,” “Bs,” “Rs,” “Qs,” and “As” in the bulletin.
And when I was done checking out all the nuances of the pew in front of us and coloring in the loops, I would sit there with my hymnal opened to the last hymn, ready, willing, and able to get on with it as soon as the preacher gave the organist a chance to play it.
This was called “church," and the activity was “worship,” and it was the longest hour of the week. No one ever complained. No one ever stayed home because of the weather. The sanctuary was always full. No one was ever embarrassed by the wet rings on their clothes, and it seemed like the wind always blew cool when we were past the preacher and out the door, with our coats off and hanging over our shoulder, talking with our worship family outside in the grass and parking lot.
This was just the way it was, and it was worth it, for it is always worth it when God’s family comes together to worship. It is the way a child is supposed to be raised – the way a community comes together. It is the way a family is made. It is how God knows we care. All of the most important things should also be the longest things.
Rev. Dan Martin is pastor of First UMC, Hendersonville. He can be reached at moose1953@hotmail.com
