See You At The Pole
It’s not easy to make friends when you’re strange. I’m mulling over this thought as I buckle into my seat in the minivan’s third row. Our family didn’t celebrate holidays. Our peers would say knowingly, “Oh, so you are Jehovah’s Witnesses then?” And I’d answer in the negative and watch as confusion fell across their faces like those heavy velvet curtains closing out a play in the theater. “So…what are you?” They’d ask. “Christian” is how I always responded. “Non-denominational Christian.” They’d say okay and promptly wrap up the conversation.
I can tell even from the third row in my mom’s minivan that something exciting is happening. The morning hosts of my mother’s favorite show “Focus on the Family” are speaking excitedly about an upcoming holiday that I’d never heard of before. Mom increases the volume as I settle into the backseat working rapidly to finish my current event assignment due first thing.
“Mark your calendars!” My mom shouts. “See you at the flag pole is next week!” Neither myself or my sister bothered to ask what “see you at the flag pole” meant, we would find out soon enough. And the fact that we learned about it while listening to the Christian radio station told us all we actually cared to know.
For the first couple years of my life we did celebrate Christmas, and we did go to a conventional church. You know the type. One pastor, dramatic sermons, an altar, stained glass, pews, a large choir, long medleys of songs that should have ended minutes ago, big hats in the first row, collection plates, subtle guilt trips, people who just have to bust a jig, people who need to speak in tongues through tears, and Sunday school. Christ the Temple Apostolic Church or Christ’s Temple for short was located in Oberlin, Ohio. I only remember a few things about this place. But something that has been seared on my memory forever is one particularly intense sermon where Pastor/Elder Nevels was at his pulpit, sing-speaking in the style of most pastors and great orators, a passage from Revelation. I was six or seven and couldn’t be trusted to sit near the aisle so my parents slid me toward the middle of the pew a few rows back from the altar on the right side of the church.
“BUT GOD!” Elder Nevels bellowed.
“BUT GOD” the church shouted back in automatic response.
“Will come for his children! Let the church say, ‘Amen’”
“AMEN” said the church.
“Let the church say ‘amen’ again!” Nevels shouted more enthusiastically.
“AMEN!!!” said the church, again.
“He’s coming through the doors RIGHT NOW!” On cue the drummer, who never left his seat during sermons, started quietly playing. Church bands don’t retire to the pews when the pastor takes the pulpit because they have to score the sermon, they could literally be awarded Oscars for some of those musical scores they are so effective.
The drummer initiated a low rumble…
Oh my goodness God is coming. I thought as I turned to look at the aforementioned door.
This thought wasn’t accompanied by childlike wonder or curiousity. I felt pure fear. I looked towards the back of the room where we entered the sanctuary from the lobby. The mostly glass-windowed walls shone an abysmal black as night drew on.
The drumming got louder and so did the congregation. The increasing noise level was causing the pews to vibrate and the windows to shake. I grew unbearably frightened.
God is coming.
I ducked into the pew under the guise that the bible and songbook having mysteriously been removed, needed to be recovered, and returned to their original places and it was there beneath the pew with ducked head I waited for the whole thing to be over.
God didn’t show.
I was both relieved and offended. Even though I didn’t want to see him, there were a bunch of “his children” there that did, that expected him to come through for them, but he didn’t. Now what kind of father is that?
I did ask why God didn’t come and my parents told me that he had, in spirit. That his presence was felt by every one in attendance that night.
Not everyone, I ruminated in the backseat.
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A week after hearing “see you at the pole” for the first time, we left our house in Oakdale Estates thirty minutes early. We arrived at Northwood Junior High school. Only one or two cars were in the parking lot, a quilt of fog hovered above the grass.
My mom flipped down the car’s visor to access the mirror and check her face. I lock eyes with her reflection and turn away. My stomach is in knots and my body is full of dread. “Let’s call on the Lord three times together!” she chirps cheerfully. We do. After the third, she unlocks the doors, exits the car, and heads for the flag pole. I try to close my sliding door quietly so as not to attract any attention and follow my mom to the flag pole. We gather at the pole met by a few more adults. We hold hands in a circle around the flag pole as each person prays aloud. I fidget, shifting my body weight from one foot to the other and back.
Fuck. I murmur under my breath, it was my turn to pray. Just as a school bus full of my peers pulled into the parking lot.
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