BLACKJACK IN THE CHURCH ATTIC

By Randy Haglund

“Wanna skip church?”

Jim grinned at me, revealing the gap between his incisors. I hesitated, never having dared to do such a thing before. What if we get caught? I didn’t say it out loud, but Jim must’ve sensed my reluctance.

“Don’t worry. I have a plan. Follow me.”

Junior High Sunday School had just ended and the worship service was about to begin. Jim led me and two other friends —both named Rick— to the back pew of the sanctuary. I sat behind Mr. Groves who could’ve been an interior lineman for the Detroit Lions. I couldn’t see the front from there, but he made an ideal shield from grown-ups who wanted to keep an eye on us.

A few months earlier we had been in the back row of our Sunday School room, kidding around and not paying attention. Ron, our teacher, reprimanded us, and then addressed the others. “Don’t be like the Goon Squad back there. Always looking for trouble.”

Everyone laughed at us. We laughed, too.

If the Goon Squad moniker was meant to be a deterrent, it backfired. We wore it like a badge of honor. Don’t mess with us. We’re the Goon Squad. As the youngest goon, I strove to fit in, and being involved in an escapade with the rest of the squad gave me a thrill.

So here we were in the back row again at Hillyard Baptist Church, up to no good. When the congregation stood to sing “Blessed Assurance,” we slipped out the back one at a time. Jim met us at the top of the stairs to the balcony where we came to a locked door to the church attic. Being the pastor’s son, Jim had pilfered a key. We closed the door behind us and tip-toed up the narrow wooden staircase to a musty and rather creepy attic. But when you’re an adolescent boy, creepy is cool. We pulled a string, bringing a single bare bulb to life, but ambient light streamed in through windows as well.

From here we could hear the service through the speakers placed in the auditorium ceiling. Which is why Jim wanted to come here. He knew if his dad didn’t see him in the sanctuary he would first ask him where he was seated and might quiz him on the content of the sermon.

This was not Jim’s first trip to the belfry.

We sat lotus style in a circle on the floor, and out came a deck of cards and a box of matches. I raised my eyebrows but Jim soon explained what the matches were for.

“Ready for Blackjack?”

I suppose we could have played Hearts or Crazy Eights, but what was the fun in that? We were breaking boundaries. This was not like some Catholic Church where they have Bingo fund raisers and Casino Nights. In a Baptist church gambling is TABOO!

In fact, my grandmother once lectured me about the evils of playing any games with standard playing cards. She believed there were satanic symbols in the cards. But the usual objection to card-playing was that it might lead to gambling. Ironically, if gambling hadn’t been forbidden, we wouldn’t be doing it! This held true even when I was older attending a Bible school where cards were banned. So my roommate and I figured out a way to play poker with Bible quiz cards.

Maybe I’ll never outgrow my streak of rebellion.

Ditching the worship service, hiding out behind locked doors, gambling on church property—if my grandmother knew what I was up to, she would have had a conniption. I never knew exactly what a conniption was, but my grandma suggested more than once that she would have one if I was ever involved in something scandalous.

Not that we were actually gambling. We had no money to gamble with. That’s what the matches were for. Dividing them evenly, we used them in lieu of poker chips.

We tried to play quietly, but we couldn’t help giggling from time to time for the sheer joy of knowing we were breaking every church rule we could think of. I think one of my friends may have even uttered a mild oath for no other reason than to compound our mirth.

What a great hiding spot. No one suspected we were up—

Then we heard the door at the bottom of the stairs click.

One of the Ricks whispered, “Mr. Birge!”

An intimidating figure, Mr. Birge seldom smiled, and whenever he spoke to us, it was almost always a word of admonishment or correction. He moved slowly and spoke even slower, with a low, soft, authoritative voice. We avoided him whenever possible.

 And he was Hillyard Baptist Church’s self-appointed truant officer.

I don’t remember which one of us bolted last, but it wasn’t me. We threw down the cards and matchsticks and took flight down a catwalk running the length over the church sanctuary. The narrow wood platform was punctuated by eight large support beams spaced every sixteen feet. We had to hurdle over each one to reach our escape route at the far end of the church building.

Imagine being in the sanctuary and hearing a thunk-ata-thunk-ata-thunk-ata whomp! Multiply that by eight Junior High feet and eight beams to clear. One person told me later it sounded like a stampeding herd of water buffalo passing overhead.

When we reached the far end, a small opening awaited us, with a four foot drop into a large storage room. We leapt into the room without glancing back to see if we’d been spotted. The tumble to the floor resulted in four more loud concussions coming from the baptistry.

I heard later that Pastor Collins somehow maintained his composure through it all, glancing across the congregation in search of his beloved son. Clearing his throat, he managed to continue with his final point on the full armor of God from the sixth chapter of Ephesians.

Meanwhile, we caught our breath in the storage room and looked to Jim for guidance. He peeked out the door and motioned for us to follow him. Still moving quickly, we tried now to be stealthier, not wanting to draw any more attention than we already had. We snuck past Mr. Collingwood in the sound room and down the back stairs to a hallway right beside the church platform. Through a closed door we could hear the Pastor making his concluding remarks.

We didn’t hesitate. Continuing down another set of stairs to the basement we passed by a classroom where toddlers were attending Children’s Church, and then progressed unnoticed through the fellowship hall. From there we went up the main stairs to the foyer right when the congregation stood to sing “Just as I Am.”

It provided the perfect opportunity to slip back into our empty spots in the last pew. Opening the hymnal to #435 we sang like innocent choir boys.

Mr. Birge entered shortly after and scooted in next to me. Daring not to make eye contact, my sixth sense felt his icy gaze penetrate into the depths of my corrupt soul. I hoped he wouldn’t notice the beads of sweat forming at my temples. The perspiration didn’t come from all my running up and down several flights of stairs. I tugged at my collar as we sang the third verse, knowing full well what caused my anxiety.

                Just as I am and waiting not

                To rid my soul of one dark blot

                To thee whose blood can cleanse each spot

                O Lamb of God I come, I come.

One thing I’ve learned over the years is that guilt is something Baptists excel at.

Which is why I’m now a Methodist.

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Read about when Jim and I skipped school one time.http://randyhaglund.com/archives/the-day-my-teacher-shot-me/

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