Harvest

I committed my first sin in a church. But in my defense, I must proclaim that had I not been exposed to such a rigid environment that demanded unnatural conformity from a toddler, the said event might well have never happened. And the fact that the awareness of transgression awoke in me during a worship service makes me highly suspicious the self righteous were at least in part responsible for my illicit behavior. So this leads me to the conclusion that author of sin is in fact religion itself.

I’m not sure if I was old enough to walk when I entered into the world of ill repute, but without a doubt, I had mastered the art of crawling. My initiation into the immoral occurred at Cedar Hill Baptist Church, a white wood-framed house of worship that to this day still stands atop a hill overlooking rolling fields of rich Kentucky bottomland. My dad grew not far from that sacred spot that put me on the road to ruin. He was certainly not a churchgoer by anyone’s account. His interests in spirituality were limited to spirits of the liquid form, preferably whiskey. Nor was my mother a fan of churches. Her family had a small business, and she was left unimpressed by the fact that the faithful often tried to renegotiate their bill after the work was done. One of her favorite sayings was, “I wouldn’t trust a preacher or a deacon any further than I could throw ‘em.”

So I don’t know for sure why they attended church on the day I officially became a sinner. But judging from all the stories my mother used tell about my father’s drinking and carousing, I assume she was praying a little religion might settle him down a bit. My mother always found it hard to believe that I could even remember the event at all, seeing as how I was not much more than an infant at the time. But it is as clear to me today as it was that fateful night I sat on the floor beneath a wooden pew near the back of Cedar Hill Baptist Church. I nestled in, as children do, and hid directly under the seat, my mother’s feet in front of me, making a cave of sorts to protect me from the strange surroundings. The constant chatter of conversation gave way to the roar of what I now know was a preacher blasting out a sermon. This foreign world quickly became very boring, so I explored my new surroundings.

There wasn’t much to see in my immediate vicinity, so I peered off into the distance. That’s when I saw my first object of lust: a man’s brown fedora hat. It was lying on the floor next to the feet of its owner, who was sitting in a pew in front of the church. I don’t know why, but I had to have that hat. There was nothing special about it at all, especially in that day and age. It was typical attire for men in the late 1950s. But once I set my eyes upon it, I could think of nothing else.

Between my objective and me was a jagged path of dangling legs hanging from under the pews like bowling pins, several purses and sweaters and jackets were strewn about. I waited and listened to the roar of the speaker, and the echoing shouts of the congregation. When they grew to an ear screeching volume, I glanced up at my mother. Much to my liking, her eyes were fixed straight ahead. I shot out on all fours from under the pew; I weaved and bobbed between people’s feet and purses and garments. In no more than five seconds flat, I descended upon my destination. Without the slightest bit of hesitation, I snatched that hat and made my way back through the appendage jungle.

I curled quietly once again beneath the pew, safely behind my mother’s nylon covered legs. I held the hat before me, admiring its soft luster. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I put it on my head; it fell over my eyes. Its velvet like material felt warm and closed off the world around me. Everything became quiet, dark, still and serene. I could’ve stayed there forever, comforted in the bosom of my sin. But sin is only fun for a season, and then the harvest comes.

Without warning, my mother jerked the hat from my head. A hushed rustle of whispers filled the room. I leaned out and looked up. Everyone seated in front of us had swiveled around in the pew and starred down at me. The preacher’s shouts were oblivious to them now; I was the center of attention. And I did the same thing Adam did after he tasted the forbidden fruit and God came looking for him: I snuck back beneath my mother’s legs and hid under that pew. But with one quick swipe of the hand, my father grabbed me up and threw me over his shoulder.

My mother used to love to tell the story of how I stretched forth my arms toward the congregation and screamed, “Help.” My plea was answered with roars of laughter as my father carried me out the front door to execute judgment on a poor sinner such as I. 

                                        Copyright © 2001 Bernard Mitchell Plumlee, Jr.