Distractions

This is the church we attended as we grew up, in New York. To us it was just "The Auburn Church." But to everyone else, it was Willard Chapel. I think it used to be part of a theological seminary at one point. It is the only full Tiffany chapel in the United States, and I just happened to be privileged enough to attend it for several years.

We thought it was pretty ugly--all the chunks of greenish glass embedded in the podium and those huge lights of odd colors hanging throughout the sanctuary. We didn't know we were sitting in a national treasure. You can see the organ pipes in this picture. The woman who played it for years was Shirley Chisholm--a short, stout woman who reminded me of my grandmother. She taught me piano for about three months until I lost interest. She died shortly thereafter and I like to think the two events were not linked in any way. In any event, the next woman who took over the organ was hardly an organist at all, and my father had a fit every time we sat through her musical forays. Daddy used to say that she would hold a chord with her hands while her feet scrambled across the pedals, trying to find the right note. But we did think that the organ and the pipes were beautiful.

Back here, in front of this carving that you see across the back wall, was where all the retarded adults sat during church. I know--that is a jarring thing to read, isn't it? There were several people in this church who took in wards of the state. These people came to church every week and sat in the back so they could step down the hall to use the bathroom easily and without disturbing the entire congregation.

Once we invited a man to come and be our new pastor. So he came out and filled the pulpit to see what he thought of us and vice versa. While he was preaching, Pearl in the back row, suddenly stood to her feet and fired off a salute his way. Being far away from her, he was unable to detect that she was retarded. Bewildered, he saluted back. After all, he thought, it is close to July 4. After two more salutes, the poor man's return salute looked more like someone smoothing their forehead. And little wonder: everyone in the church was grinning broadly. Pearl saluted at everyone.

One of the most remarkable things about this wonderful church was the high ceiling and beautiful acoustics there. Apparently though, congregants were not the only ones who enjoyed the high ceiling. Flies lived up there in the rafters. When the lights flashed on in the morning, it stunned them. After about thirty minutes, they began zooming straight down into the pews like kamikazis. You can imagine the wild slapping and head shaking that this prompted, as a startled man or woman tried to sweep it off their lap or off the front of their clothes. But what reduced us to stifled guffaws was when a fly would shoot downward into a woman's beehive hairdoo. This was during the years of the bouffant styles. So their hair would have been teased, swept upward into a heap on top of their heads, and sprayed to within an inch of its life. So when the fly got entangled in those hairdoos, not only did the fly register its distress by buzzing loudly, but the owner couldn't remove the fly with a simple swat. A well placed, panicked karate chop often shifted the style from an every-hair-in-place look to an asymmetrical do with bobby pins hanging off the ends.

Many a week my siblings and I would laugh ourselves silly, watching people dodge these bothersome flies.

Some people would say that these flies, the struggling organist, and the retarded people in the back of the church were all negative factors in our spiritual lives. But it is actually the imperfections that we remember fondly and that often give character to our beloved memories.

And so it is. As I think back on that lovely, historic church of my childhood, many funny and delightful memories crowd into my mind. Everyone should have such good memories of their church home.