REMEMBER THE SABBATH DAY

In my hometown, the mores of keeping Sunday a special day of rest were observed in my childhood of
the late 1920s and 1930s and in some measure into the 1940s. Keeping the Sabbath Day holy was not easy for children. Inasmuch as it was considered not only a day of rest but for deepening spiritual understanding, the traditional pattern in my father's family, and followed by us, was Sunday school and church, morning and evening. In addition, the swings were tied up, bikes put away, no games allowed; not even the funny papers were read. 

For as long as my Grandmother Morrison lived, together with other family members, we went to her house for mid-day dinner after Sunday moming services. Everything had been cooked the day before, so that it only required heating up. This was both to prevent work on the sabbath and to allow domestic workers, all of whom were black people, a complete day off and time to attend their own services,The children, depending upon age, were asked to repeat the minister's text and the inital dinner table conversation centered on the meaning and interpretation of the sermon. 

After dinner, while the grown-ups talked, we children entertained ourselves making up stories, reading or taking walks. Sometimes our creative Aunt Bern, my father's sister, composed quizzes on the Bible. These she conducted with the excitement of a contest, making it such fun that before we realized it, it was time to go home.  

One Sunday as we were leaving, my grandmother stopped my father with, "Malcolm, I hear you're spending quite a lot of time with atheists and agnostics." My father turned to answer this petite, straight-backed lady, whom he treated with great respect and tenderness. I had no idea what atheists and agnostics were, but inasmuch as I'd never heard anything that sounded mildly reproachful from Baba, this was an electrifying moment. So] stood there and listened attentively.

“Let's see, Mother," Daddy slowly replied. “If you mean the men I talk with down at the Meetin' Place (a bench under an oak tree in the center of the main street), you're speaking of the McLeod boys, whom I've known most of my life. They may not go to church much anymore, but I suspect they did some praying during the War. And, Mr. Berman, he's new in town. I really don't know what his religious beliefs are. I do know he is a fine, publicspirited man. As for Mr. Vaughn, who runs the Florida House, he may call himself an agnostic, but a better man you will not find anywhere. Do you know that when he finds out that someone honestly cannot pay for room and board in these hard times, he doesn't charge them? That's very charitable, wouldn't you say? Yes, ma'am, I think they're likely as good ‘Christians’ as many who are in church every single Sunday."

I cannot recall any response from my grandmother. Perhaps she needed time to think about this, or regretted questioning her son. She certainly knew that he was not in the least bothered by any word-of-mouth criticism from townspeople about his views or companions. At any rate, Daddy went back up the stairs, kissed her cheerfully on the cheek and said, “Good-bye, Mother. Thank you for the good dinner. I'll see you tomorrow.”

Both my parents offered living examples of their belief in a loving God. My mother was totally non-judgmental and loving towards everyone.

My father, a good and just man, assumed the expected role of that time in establishing rules and enforcing them for my sister and me. The Ten Commandments were basic and learned early. One major infringement and “fall” I recall was the unhappy time I slipped and said "Gosh." That was the current slang, but to my dad that was too close to "taking the name of the Lord in vain."

Sometime after my Grandmother Morrison's death, Mamma and Daddy decided it was all right to read the Sunday paper. Pretty soon we were allowed playtime. No raucous "kick the can" or bike riding, but we chmb trees or have quiet games. For a while, I suffered mixed feelings of joy and guilt.

The next time I felt really "doomed to the bottomless pit" for breaking the Sabbath was when, without parental approval and while away at college, I attended a Sunday movie. In my hometown the movie theater was closed on Sunday so the temptation was not present.

One might think according to today's psychological probings that these early childhood restrictions and the continuing pattern through high school of twice-a-day church, as well as mid-week prayer service, would cause rebellion. Since I never resented these practices, nor were they demanded in a harsh way, I simply accepted. I also came to look forward to the evening service. My sister and I usually attended this service at our mother's Methodist Church, where she was the organist. We loved to hear Mamma play. The hymns were sung with more feeling, the people warmer in their attentions to one another, than in the Presbyterian Church of my father’s family.

A few of the older folk in the Methodist Church addressed one another as “Sister” and “Brother”. This practice was in contrast to ou Presbyterian kin, some of whom were not even on speaking terms with one another, having "fallen out" over some slight, real or perceived. Yet they were faithfully in their regular pews on Sunday mornings.

Occasionally, a “hell fire and damnation” revival preacher would speak at one of the churches. His threats and exhortations were taken in stride by my parents, and by us young people considered more as entertainment than scary. Both my parents were college educated, both were well read, both were leading good lives according to their best interpretation of the Scriptures, so I suppose they felt no need to publicly confess any sins. I think had my father been forced to choose between a public exhibition of confession or “hell fire," he would have chosen the latter. Scotsmen are not know for publicly spilling their feelings or succumbing to coercion.

I remember the time a leading evangelist of the '30s came to town for week-long meetings. This was not one of the small pentecostal “holy roller" meetings held on the outskirts of town. This was a major event in which the support of all the churches was sought, except perhaps the small Catholic Church, which only held services once a month. A huge tent was set up on a vacant lot in the center of town, bleachers were erected, a piano on rollers placed near the stage/pulpit. As a child or perhaps eight or nine, it was the first time I had ever seen so many cars or people gathered in De Funiak Springs.

As we approached this scene, I knew Daddy was only attending because of my mother's promise that our family would be there. During the service he became more and more restless. I was fascinated at the fervor of the preacher and the response of the people, who were usually very sedate. However, there were lots of people I did not recognize. Daddy mumbled a bit the first time the collection plate was passed, and for a few minutes I was afraid he wouldn't put in anything. When a second appeal was made for money, my father stood up to leave. That meant we would follow. I recall some embarrassment as we brought attention clumping down the wooden bleachers and out the tent. My mother, sister and I couldn’t keep up with Daddy's swift pace. He was unmistakably not in sympathy with the tactics of the preacher.

Outside he waited for us. I hated to leave this interesting experience. The singing was with an enthusiasm I had not previously heard, people even clapped in approval. Outside the tent I looked back a minute and listened. I heard the evangelist praying loudly with piano accompaniment as he began an appeal for "sinners to come forward." At that, Daddy walked away faster, now in unconcealed disapproval.

My mother, concerned about appearances, likely had some moments of worry about our sudden departure, but no words between them were exchanged. Just silence as we drove towards home. When Daddy stopped the car at our house, suddenly he changed the whole mood of the family by suggesting happily, "Why don't we see if Mr. Flow’s store out on Freeport Road is open. I don't think he closed up to go get his soul saved. Anybody want a Nehi orange or grape soda?”

“Yes, yes," my sister and I chorused and began to sing the song we'd learned at the revival. "Give me that old time religion. Give that that old religion. Give me that old time religion, it's good enough for me." On the second verse Daddy joined in, "It was good for Paul and Silas. It was good for Paul and Silas. It was good for Paul and Silas, it's good enough for ME Mamma smiled and began to sing with us, "Makes you love everybody.

Makes you love everybody. Makes you love everybody." ‘Well, almost everybody," Daddy called out. In unison we finished with, "It's good enough for me."