nobody’s pet notion seems to agree with anybody else’s. Grandawma, for instance, says He’s “just a defunct social reformer.” Then there’s Papa, who once said He’s God’s Son all right, and that He survived the crucifixion just fine, but that the two-thousand-year-old funeral service His cockeyed followers call Christianity probably made Him sorry He did. Meanwhile there’s Freddy, who’s six now, and who told me she saw Christ hiding under her bed one night, but that all He’d say to her was
“Pssst! Shhh! Pharisees!”
And Bet, who spent a whole day making a Christmas card for Uncle Marv and Aunt Mary Jane last year, then got so proud of the card that she refused to mail it to anybody but herself. “That’s the Christmas spirit!” Everett told her. Then we looked to see what she was so proud of, and it turned out to be this whole army of crayon angels, in these gold sort of football helmets, charging into Bethlehem while in the sky above them huge red and green letters copied from a Christmas carol book Bet couldn’t yet read proclaimed:
JOY TO THE WORDL!
THE SAVIOR RESIGNS!
Personally I’m not sure just who or what Christ is. I still pray to Him in a pinch, but I talk to myself in a pinch too—and I’m getting less and less sure there’s a difference. I used to wish somebody would just
tell
me what to think about Him. Then along came Elder Babcock, telling and telling, acting like Christ was running for President of the World, and he was His campaign manager, and whoever didn’t get out and vote for the Lord at the polls we call churches by casting the votes we call tithes and offerings into the ballot boxes we call offering plates was a wretched turd of a sinner voting for Satan by default. Mama tries to clear up all the confusion by saying that Christ is exactly what the Bible says He is. But what
does
the Bible say He is? On one page He’s a Word, on the next a bridegroom, then He’s a boy, then a scapegoat, then a thief in the night; read on and He’s the messiah, then oops, He’s a rabbi, and then a fraction—a third of a Trinity—then a fisherman, then a broken loaf of bread. I guess even God, when He’s human, has trouble deciding just what He is.
T he class has split into study groups now. This is the part that makes The Corner truly worth being in. In Sister Durrel’s group they’ve started reading about the furnace Shadrach and his brothers got thrown into, but at least they’ve got Sister Durrel to stare at. Over in Brother Beal’s group they’re listening to a story out of
Pathfinder Magazine
called “Why Bobby Degan Told Satan No,” and all there is to look at is Beal himself and a clump of dead milkweed growing in a concrete window well behind him. In Brother Benke’s group, just behind me, this weird religious kid named Stanley Stubenfelker is telling how he wrote a special prayer for his grandparents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary that made his whole dang family cry, so can he please recite it to the group? Brother Benke says,“Why, certainly, Stanley.” But on about word three of the prayer my best friend, Augie Mosk, starts crying his eyes out, and Irwin laughs so hard that Benke gets mad and sends Augie to the other Corner, where he’s resting now, like God and me. Way over in Sister Harg’s circle, which is all girls, they’re also trying to study the Fiery Furnace, but they’ve got the giggles. I thought they were giggling at Augie at first, but now I see that the problem is their stage props. They’ve got a big feltboard leaning on a chair, with a felt oven on it, and a felt Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego cooking in the oven. Jocie Best covered the brothers with red felt flames, and that was fine. Then Zulie Dawson added three big blond-haired Guardian Angels to protect them, and that worked too. But when Dollie Edgerton tried to stick the golden halos on the Angels the felt on the halo-backs was so worn out that they kept falling on the floor,
“Pssst! Shhh! Pharisees!”
And Bet, who spent a whole day making a Christmas card for Uncle Marv and Aunt Mary Jane last year, then got so proud of the card that she refused to mail it to anybody but herself. “That’s the Christmas spirit!” Everett told her. Then we looked to see what she was so proud of, and it turned out to be this whole army of crayon angels, in these gold sort of football helmets, charging into Bethlehem while in the sky above them huge red and green letters copied from a Christmas carol book Bet couldn’t yet read proclaimed:
JOY TO THE WORDL!
THE SAVIOR RESIGNS!
Personally I’m not sure just who or what Christ is. I still pray to Him in a pinch, but I talk to myself in a pinch too—and I’m getting less and less sure there’s a difference. I used to wish somebody would just
tell
me what to think about Him. Then along came Elder Babcock, telling and telling, acting like Christ was running for President of the World, and he was His campaign manager, and whoever didn’t get out and vote for the Lord at the polls we call churches by casting the votes we call tithes and offerings into the ballot boxes we call offering plates was a wretched turd of a sinner voting for Satan by default. Mama tries to clear up all the confusion by saying that Christ is exactly what the Bible says He is. But what
does
the Bible say He is? On one page He’s a Word, on the next a bridegroom, then He’s a boy, then a scapegoat, then a thief in the night; read on and He’s the messiah, then oops, He’s a rabbi, and then a fraction—a third of a Trinity—then a fisherman, then a broken loaf of bread. I guess even God, when He’s human, has trouble deciding just what He is.
T he class has split into study groups now. This is the part that makes The Corner truly worth being in. In Sister Durrel’s group they’ve started reading about the furnace Shadrach and his brothers got thrown into, but at least they’ve got Sister Durrel to stare at. Over in Brother Beal’s group they’re listening to a story out of
Pathfinder Magazine
called “Why Bobby Degan Told Satan No,” and all there is to look at is Beal himself and a clump of dead milkweed growing in a concrete window well behind him. In Brother Benke’s group, just behind me, this weird religious kid named Stanley Stubenfelker is telling how he wrote a special prayer for his grandparents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary that made his whole dang family cry, so can he please recite it to the group? Brother Benke says,“Why, certainly, Stanley.” But on about word three of the prayer my best friend, Augie Mosk, starts crying his eyes out, and Irwin laughs so hard that Benke gets mad and sends Augie to the other Corner, where he’s resting now, like God and me. Way over in Sister Harg’s circle, which is all girls, they’re also trying to study the Fiery Furnace, but they’ve got the giggles. I thought they were giggling at Augie at first, but now I see that the problem is their stage props. They’ve got a big feltboard leaning on a chair, with a felt oven on it, and a felt Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego cooking in the oven. Jocie Best covered the brothers with red felt flames, and that was fine. Then Zulie Dawson added three big blond-haired Guardian Angels to protect them, and that worked too. But when Dollie Edgerton tried to stick the golden halos on the Angels the felt on the halo-backs was so worn out that they kept falling on the floor,
Similar Books
