Church without age-appropriate programs through the eyes of a 3 year old

By Casey Parish

Is it church day already?  I hate getting up and having to endure the turmoil of everyone making themselves look extra nice.  The tension that this creates is unbearable.  I am pretty sure that we all still love each other... but it is hard to tell on these mornings.

Why do I have to be uncomfortable in order to look nice?  This shirt itches, and these pants restrict my freedom.  The shoes are shiny and nice, and I don’t appreciate being told what trouble I will be in if I scuff them up.  I am three years old; it is like asking the sun not to shine.  If they are so nice and valuable, why are they given to me?  I have yet to develop a true sense of self preservation... let alone a desire to protect my trivial shoes from a mild scuffing.

Well, they finally feel I am presentable enough to show my face in a sanctuary... Now I must wait for them to make themselves presentable.  It takes them three times as long to get ready... Why can’t they get ready first and let me play?  All I can do is meander about the house and try not to mess up my niceness.

This is torment... What has it been?  Two hours? Three? Sheesh, I guess I will just sit here and look at this small New Testament that I can’t read.  Why do they give me this?  Are people going to assume that I read it?  The only thing I know about it is that it has some stories about a fellow named Jesus... yes, the same one who lives in my heart.  I wonder what he is doing in my heart.  Is he pushing out on the sides? Is that what makes the beating noise?  Does he control all my bodily functions? Wow, I wish I could read this book so I could find out.  I wonder if anyone ever cut open their own heart to let him out... Maybe he comes out when I am asleep.  I bet he messes up my hair.  Oh! Finally! Time to go.

I can’t stand the music in the car that plays on Sunday mornings.  The common theme is “going home” and “talking to Jesus.”  I wish that we were going back home instead of to church.  I think that we could live without going.  Maybe I’ll suggest that to the parents when we get back home... Oh when we get back hooome, how glorious it will be.

Finally here and everybody looks much nicer than when I see them any other day.  I am sure that the nicer they look, the more uncomfortable they are.  Some church days, I am made to wear a tie... it is torture, but many people tell me how nice I look.

Oh boy! The pre-church meandering!  I guess the grownups could be playing a game... seeing how many hands they can shake and maybe how many backs they can slap.  Everyone seems to have a big smile on their faces, and I don’t understand why.  Don’t they know what will happen soon?  Don’t they know what they will be forced to sit through?  Don’t they know that, being mostly grownups, they could be somewhere else doing anything else, and nobody would get onto them or spank them?

Oh no! It is starting!  The grief always starts with a fellow going to the front and saying “good morning” into the mic.  I believe he says this ironically.  He then starts into telling everyone how nice they look and how good it is to see them and ends this with, “Let’s all stand and give thanks to the Lord.”  People stand, and he begins to talk aloud.

The man addresses his dad for some reason and asks a lot of him.  I suppose his dad is in the church somewhere.  I believe that such conversations may be more appropriate between the two of them.  The murmur created by everyone else would only make it more difficult for him to hear.  I’m going to look around and see if I can’t find the fellow who seems to be listening... I bet he is his dad.  Oh yeah I see the guy. He is nodding after everything the guy says.  That’s him.

That bit of awkwardness is always followed by the whole church saying “a men.”  Now, I am only three, but something doesn’t feel right when I say “a men.”  Should it not be “a man?”  ... and who are they talking about?

And now the singing.  Several people get up from their seats and gather in the choir.  I enjoy the music okay, but the words worry me.  They are all about blood and the washing properties of blood.  I skinned my knee once, and it got on my pants... the blood stains are still there. I really don’t get this.

As confusing as it is, it is the most tolerable part of the church experience.  When the people come down from the front, I know that sheer torment ensues.

A larger fellow walks to the front and begins talking.  At this moment, I am in bad shape because I know that this is the beginning of something that will last a very long time.  I try to think of things to occupy myself while the man talks.

It is no use paying attention to him.  I usually can’t follow what he says, and when I can... it tends to be quite frightening.  I heard him say that the devil enjoys it when bad things happen-- that he is watching us all the time and just waits for an opportunity to cause us to FALL.  I fall down all the time. Is the devil making me fall?  Did the devil make me fall in the bathtub?  Was it the fault of the devil when I skinned my knee and the blood came out?

Everything he said only created fear and confusion, so I’ve elected to make every attempt to block him out.  But what will I do with myself now?

I pass a bit of time observing the behaviors of grownups around me.  They nod occasionally and sometimes shout “a men” or “preechit.”  I tried this once, and it got me some odd looks and a few people laughed.  So I do it again and again.  Soon my mother clasps her hands over my mouth.  I sure don’t see anyone doing that to the grownups.

A long time has passed.  I notice there are little holes on the back of the pews... just next to the book holders.  I trace my finger around them.  I catch myself doing this and wonder why this has become so amusing to me.  Am I losing my mind?

The man continues to talk... I hear him say “paw” a few times and something about an “axe.”  I don’t even want to know what horrible thing he could be saying.  I stare at the floor and notice that if you look at it just right you can see faces in the carpet pattern.  This amuses me much longer than I would like to admit.

It becomes apparent that the church has started to take its toll on my mind.  I become desperate for a distraction from the fellow speaking.  I look around the church at others my age.  I can see that they are growing restless as well.  Beads of sweat run down their faces, and tears form under their wide eyes.

Knowing that I am not alone in this torment makes me feel a bit better.  Suddenly, one of them cracks and begins to cry.  Their mother picks them up and carries them out of the church.... out of the church.  Can this be my escape!?  If I begin to cry, will I be taken from this place??  It is worth a try.

I start with a sniffle and break out into a very dramatic sort of cry.  Mom turns to me and asks why I am crying.  I just continue to cry... I can’t break the rhythm to answer her.  She informs me that if I don’t stop, she will give me something to cry about.  I am pretty offended by this because I believe that I have more than sufficient reason to cry.

Quickly my mother picks me up and carries me towards the double doors.  As we pass through to exit, the poor fellow who cried earlier was being carried back in.  His eyes were red, and he was biting his bottom lip and whimpering.

What?! Why is he coming back? Oh no!  My mother takes me into the bathroom and spanks me... giving me ANOTHER reason to cry.

My world has become one of pain and misery.  My stinging butt and the madness provoked by the church has turned me into a whimpering mess.  I am carried back to the church seat.

The man continues to talk.  I can no longer amuse myself with things around me because my vision has become blurry with tears.   All I can do is occupy myself with my thoughts and do my best to block out the man’s voice.  Loud whimpering blocks out the voice for a time, but them my mother threatens to take me outside again, and I elect to be quiet.

The man continues to talk, and he uses the word “love” often.  I know love... I have experienced love... the majority of my life is filled with love.  The only deviation from love is this place.  In this place... love seems absent.  My life is peppered with visits to this loveless place.  I can only guess that the reason for coming here is to learn to appreciate what I have at home.  I can understand that if a boy is only exposed to love and bliss, he will begin to take it for granted.  Should I be thankful for these experiences?  Is it only because of these that I appreciate the love and joy that constitutes the rest of my life?  Could this be good for me?  No. No, that is ridiculous.  Such thinking is only the result of the madness the church has caused me today.  Of course, a madness given by any given thing would aim to make you appreciate it.  I have to fight this madness.  This is not a good place.  As soon as I am able to make decisions for myself, I will make sure that I will have no part of it.

Everyone in the church stands suddenly.  This is always promising. The man begins to talk to his father again as everyone looks at the floor.  My mood changes quickly because I know that I will be free from this place soon! Everyone is leaving now!  I look around and see the others that are my age smile with twinkly, half-teary eyes.  It is over!

A men!