OBSERVATIONS FROM A DAY IN CHURCH.

They’re called forth every Sunday morning. The massive oak doors are thrown open with the melodious playing of an ancient pipe organ. Single file, the parishioners, with shoes shuffling, clicking and squeaking against the smudge-proof wooden floor, humbly ease by the minister of affairs. These parishioners appear almost zombie-like as they take their accustomed seats in the segregated pews. It simply wouldn’t do to have the “Barbies and Kens”—those wonders of rural fashion—sit by that surly group, the “Pretenders”, who must maintain their image of aloofness. The “Soothsayers” like to hide behind these pretentious souls and jolt them out of their lethargy with loud declarations of “hallelujahs” and “amens.”

The “Barbies and Kens” fill up the front pews, looking picture perfect, not a hair out of place. They smile and nod at the less fortunate ones—those not of their stratosphere—with a syrupy condemnation. The “Kens” are decked out in facsimiles of Brooks Brothers suits. The “Barbies” have copied the latest dress designs from a J.C. Penney catalog. These people do not sweat but sanguinely perspire. Recently manicured hands pull out monogrammed handkerchiefs and reverently dab at brows and lips. Swallowed by rays of amber light, they will sit like poised mannequins through the entire service as dust motes swirl around their heads.

Seated in the middle pews are the “Pretenders.” The façade of experience and order shows in their dignified countenances. They’re quick to give advice to all newcomers and declare for all to hear, “Get off the cross, lady, ‘cause someone else can use the wood.” Their gait is for show in an obviously regal attempt to prove that they’re the only ones who have access to the Dead Sea Scrolls. They pretend at tithing and keep their wallets and purses securely latched to hips and hands. A bet could be made or a wager cast as to the contents encased in those old, musty money holders of alligator hides or cow leather. “Pretenders” sit with spines erect, heads held high, with eyes like those of dead fish, firmly focused on the pulpit. With the dexterity of magicians, they quickly deliver the collection plate to their neighbors seated on the back pews.

The “Soothsayers” are a nondescript group of parishioners—the only image they wish to cultivate. During the sermon they fidget, clear parched throats and eagerly await the summons to stand and sing so their numbed extremities can regain circulation. They greet other members of their group with barely audible snickers. A fear has been passed down through the generations that some great catastrophe will befall them if a Sunday service is missed. They would rather doze in church than take a chance on a week of misery, or horror of horrors, a visit by the church ladies. The minister doesn’t know the “Soothsayers.” They’re long gone by the time he makes his way to their door. The still warm pews are the only remaining evidence that those seats were once occupied.

Sunday service offers humanity the opportunity to see how the other half survives. These people bear witness to the unique and diverse styles that maintain the complex ritual of religion. Who knows, maybe one day my pastor will see more of me than my fleeing backside!