The first sin I remember committing was in church. I was barely old enough to walk, but I could certainly crawl. The fact that my first awareness of sin came about during a church service has always made me suspicious that the church itself was somewhat responsible for my seditious behavior. 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. So it has always made me wonder if religion itself is not responsible for sin; a thought that has been speculated on by many I am sure, and one I continue to entertain.
But getting back to my original sin. It occurred at a small, backwoods church by the name of Pleasant View Baptist, which to this day sits upon a hill overlooking rich Kentucky bottomland. My dad grew up on farm not far from that sacred spot that put me on the road to ruin. It was considered to be his family’s church, although he was certainly not a churchgoer by anyone’s account. His interests in spirituality were limited to spirits in liquid form. Nor was my mother a fan of churches. Her family had a small construction 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 deacon or a preacher any further than I could throw ‘em.”
I don’t know why my mother and my dad attended church on the day I officially became a sinner. I assume they were hoping a little religion would miraculously save their doomed marriage. She later informed me that they were separated at the time, and divorced not long afterwards. That knowledge often led me to believe, though I know it’s not true, that my ill conduct could well have been the catalyst that caused their demise. Because of my infant state, my mother always found it hard to believe that I could so vividly recall the event at all. But it is as clear to me today as it was that fateful night that I sat on the floor, beneath a wooden pew, near the back of Pleasant View 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 the preacher blasting out a sermon. This foreign world quickly became very boring, so I amused myself by exploring the surroundings.
There wasn’t much to see in my immediate vicinity, so I peered off into the distance, toward the front of the church. That’s when I saw my first object of lust: a brown fedora hat. It was sitting on the floor next to the feet of its owner. 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 filled with dangling legs hanging from under the pews, several purses, and a few sweaters and jackets strewn about. I waited and listened to the roar of the speaker and the echoing shouts from the congregation. When they grew to a volume I perceived to be their loudest, I glanced up at my mother to see if she was looking down at me. To my liking, her eyes were fixed straight ahead. I shot out from under the pew, crawling quickly, weaving and bobbing between people’s feet and purses and garments. It took me only a few seconds to reach my goal. Without the slightest bit of hesitation, I snatched the hat and made my way back.
I curled quietly once again beneath the pew, and snuggled safely behind my mother’s nylon covered legs. I held the hat before me, admiring it as if it was the only thing I’d ever need in this life. 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.
Without warning, my mother jerked the hat from my head. There was rustling of whispers. I leaned out and looked up. Everyone seated in the pew in front of us was turned, their faces staring down at me. I slowly sunk back beneath the seat, but my mother halted my retreat; she grabbed me up and sat me beside her.
I have no recollection of my dad's reaction at all; although, my mother always said he got quite the chuckle out of the entire event. When the church service finally ended, I vaguely recall my mother giving the hat back to the man to whom it belonged. He grinned at first, but than a snarl came across his face when he realized his hat was bent out of shape.
