Church
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Dad had mentioned there had been some deliberation, early on in the marriage, about which in church in town they should go to -- it hadn't been a slam-dunk decision and after the fact he was still second-guessing it a bit. I can see how it might have been an issue, both for them and for Dad's parents who were alive and living close by in the early '50s. They were stern Calvinists, but Mom was not particularly religious – the few things she said on the subject sounded barely Christian. The churches in town tended to be theologically liberal, befitting a free-wheeling beach resort that liked to party a lot on summer weekends and was even a gay haven back when that was still a scandal all over southwestern Michigan. I'm guessing that our family wasn't quite posh for the Episcopalians, and that the Congregationalists were a bit too liberal for Dad. The Catholics and Christian Science were out totally. That Methodists sometimes had liberal-minded ministers, but a more traditionally-minded Sunday School. It was as Methodists that we kids were raised and confirmed, although some of the books and magazines in the house, following Dad's preoccupations, tilted towards Fundamentalist and "end-times" literature. (For a while, as I remember, he was even listening to Herbert W. Armstrong's radio program and taking it seriously.)
Dad's mother, who eventually moved in next door to us, remained a staunch Baptist, read her Bible daily, and rode a carpool to a church in Holland every Sunday. If she ever came to our church with us, or we to hers, I don't remember it. Later, when I was in high school after her death, I attended a service at her Baptist church at the invitation of an old friend of hers, and was a bit mind-blown by the acoustic shock of combined organ, extemporized piano chords and the uncommonly robust singing of a large congregation. It didn't make a Baptist out of me, but it was hard to forget.
Our Methodist church included the families of both my best friends mentioned earlier. Johnny's mother had some classical voice training and sometimes sang duets in church with her Native American husband. Johnny's aunt played the organ there. Both mother and aunt taught Sunday School for as long as I was growing up and beyond. My parents were sort of on-again, off-again in their attendance, though Dad served a term or two on the board. Church services per se I treated as optional and they didn't attract me that much beyond a season or two in the choir which was almost my only musical involvement there. Yet as long as I wasn't out of town or sick I didn't miss Sunday School in twelve years, and the idea of staying away basically didn't cross my mind.
What memories I have of it now feel fairly indifferent, not particularly hot or cold, so I'm not sure why I was so loyal. I didn't skip school either, though heading off alone to the dunes in nice weather (as Kathy did a number of times) might have been just as good a way to kill time as some classes we endured.
There is one amusing Sunday School memory to tell. Johnny and I were sitting in the front row of a service, all grades singing hymns together before splitting into classes, his mother leading and his aunt at the piano, and I got it into my head to see how high I could sing the familiar songs. This was before our voices changed, and as it turned out we both could "whistle-tone" in the top couple of piano-octaves singing "Make Me a Blessing", although we altered the lyrics to "I Am a Blessing", etc. Mad Magazine had wrought its corruption, and (to Johnny's mother's consternation) it was glorious.
Those were the days, such as they were.
Speaking of Baptists, Grandma's brother Frank Burrell was a lifelong bachelor devoted to church, bible scholarship (not merely study) and evangelism. He lived in an SRO hotel on Fort St. in Detroit. His yearly visits were always special occasions. We were delighted by his cheerful and affectionate demeanor and mischievousness sense of humor. Since our own Dad wasn't given to "Dad jokes" the honor fell to him, and he embraced it gleefully. We were also a bit in awe of his status as a kind of holy man.
Uncle Frank once demonstrated his total memorization of the King James Bible by asking us, sitting in Grandma's living room, each in turn, to open the Good Book at random, pick a verse out and recite it for him. He would immediately and rapid-fire recite the next verses. I can't now vouch for his accuracy, but I haven't met anyone else before or since with that ability. On this occasion I was last in line to pick my verse, so while Frank was occupied with the others I furtively flipped to the very last page and memorized the final verse quickly (Revelation 22:21 is short, fortunately), so I could say it while holding the Bible open somewhere in the middle as a feint.
To my astonishment, he kept going! Maybe he was reciting a new book beyond Revelation, perhaps a divine prophecy deposited spontaneously and unawares for our edification. If only Dad's tape recorder had been running!
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Dad had mentioned there had been some deliberation, early on in the marriage, about which in church in town they should go to -- it hadn't been a slam-dunk decision and after the fact he was still second-guessing it a bit. I can see how it might have been an issue, both for them and for Dad's parents who were alive and living close by in the early '50s. They were stern Calvinists, but Mom was not particularly religious – the few things she said on the subject sounded barely Christian. The churches in town tended to be theologically liberal, befitting a free-wheeling beach resort that liked to party a lot on summer weekends and was even a gay haven back when that was still a scandal all over southwestern Michigan. I'm guessing that our family wasn't quite posh for the Episcopalians, and that the Congregationalists were a bit too liberal for Dad. The Catholics and Christian Science were out totally. That Methodists sometimes had liberal-minded ministers, but a more traditionally-minded Sunday School. It was as Methodists that we kids were raised and confirmed, although some of the books and magazines in the house, following Dad's preoccupations, tilted towards Fundamentalist and "end-times" literature. (For a while, as I remember, he was even listening to Herbert W. Armstrong's radio program and taking it seriously.)
Dad's mother, who eventually moved in next door to us, remained a staunch Baptist, read her Bible daily, and rode a carpool to a church in Holland every Sunday. If she ever came to our church with us, or we to hers, I don't remember it. Later, when I was in high school after her death, I attended a service at her Baptist church at the invitation of an old friend of hers, and was a bit mind-blown by the acoustic shock of combined organ, extemporized piano chords and the uncommonly robust singing of a large congregation. It didn't make a Baptist out of me, but it was hard to forget.
Our Methodist church included the families of both my best friends mentioned earlier. Johnny's mother had some classical voice training and sometimes sang duets in church with her Native American husband. Johnny's aunt played the organ there. Both mother and aunt taught Sunday School for as long as I was growing up and beyond. My parents were sort of on-again, off-again in their attendance, though Dad served a term or two on the board. Church services per se I treated as optional and they didn't attract me that much beyond a season or two in the choir which was almost my only musical involvement there. Yet as long as I wasn't out of town or sick I didn't miss Sunday School in twelve years, and the idea of staying away basically didn't cross my mind.
What memories I have of it now feel fairly indifferent, not particularly hot or cold, so I'm not sure why I was so loyal. I didn't skip school either, though heading off alone to the dunes in nice weather (as Kathy did a number of times) might have been just as good a way to kill time as some classes we endured.
There is one amusing Sunday School memory to tell. Johnny and I were sitting in the front row of a service, all grades singing hymns together before splitting into classes, his mother leading and his aunt at the piano, and I got it into my head to see how high I could sing the familiar songs. This was before our voices changed, and as it turned out we both could "whistle-tone" in the top couple of piano-octaves singing "Make Me a Blessing", although we altered the lyrics to "I Am a Blessing", etc. Mad Magazine had wrought its corruption, and (to Johnny's mother's consternation) it was glorious.
Those were the days, such as they were.
Speaking of Baptists, Grandma's brother Frank Burrell was a lifelong bachelor devoted to church, bible scholarship (not merely study) and evangelism. He lived in an SRO hotel on Fort St. in Detroit. His yearly visits were always special occasions. We were delighted by his cheerful and affectionate demeanor and mischievousness sense of humor. Since our own Dad wasn't given to "Dad jokes" the honor fell to him, and he embraced it gleefully. We were also a bit in awe of his status as a kind of holy man.
Uncle Frank once demonstrated his total memorization of the King James Bible by asking us, sitting in Grandma's living room, each in turn, to open the Good Book at random, pick a verse out and recite it for him. He would immediately and rapid-fire recite the next verses. I can't now vouch for his accuracy, but I haven't met anyone else before or since with that ability. On this occasion I was last in line to pick my verse, so while Frank was occupied with the others I furtively flipped to the very last page and memorized the final verse quickly (Revelation 22:21 is short, fortunately), so I could say it while holding the Bible open somewhere in the middle as a feint.
To my astonishment, he kept going! Maybe he was reciting a new book beyond Revelation, perhaps a divine prophecy deposited spontaneously and unawares for our edification. If only Dad's tape recorder had been running!
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