By Bob Hoyt / Chronicle contributor
The Kid and the Cub lolled in the grass above an expansive valley. The Kid nibbled at tender clover. The Cub stretched and rolled onto his back so his underside could catch the sunshine. It was a near perfect Sunday morning. A small white church with open doors was at the high end of the valley. Flowering magnolia trees ringed the nearby church cemetery.
“You know,” the Cub said, “if there is a heaven is must be something like Tennessee in June.”
The Kid stopped chewing for a moment. “Maybe,” he said. A piano in the church sent rousing chords and the words of an old-time hymn echoing through the valley. The Kid continued. “My mom says that so many things are changing that there may soon be no little white churches in the coves and on the hills. Mega-churches are absorbing them. Big churches have lots of services and groups for everything, and they have big appetites for money and expansion. She says they’re the Wall Street of religion. The preachers never get quite enough money and they keep thumping their tubs to draw new members to bring more money to keep them growing.”
“Maybe she’s right,” the Cub answered. “My dad says that the mega-churches can be giant social centers where the people come more to feel good than to worship.”
The Kid didn’t agree. “Worship is worship,” the Kid said. “What is piety for one believer may be superstition for another. That’s why there are so many churches and so many differences in beliefs.”
“That’s not what my dad says,” the Cub responded. “He says that too many preachers believe they have the only true way to live and work and behave. And they’ll do whatever it takes to gather in more lambs for their flocks. My dad says that too many preachers have become straw bosses for bigness and popularity. That’s not really a problem for us, is it?” the Cub asked. “I mean I’ve hunted in lots of green pastures on Sunday mornings and I’ve heard lots of sermons coming from them. But I’ve never heard a word about tigers in heaven. Do you think there’s a heaven for us? How about dogs and cats? Where do they go?”
“I don’t know,” the Kid answered. “All I know is that the more religious arguments I hear the more I’m glad to be a goat, heaven or not. But my mom sees it differently. She says that every time she hears a hymn or a sermon rolling through this peaceful valley she hopes it rolls on forever and ever.” A buzzard circled above. A warm breeze stirred. A cow called her calf.
“Me, too,” the Cub said. “But look at newspapers, radio stations, schools and hay barns. Some things grow, some fade away and other things change. Change is not always for the better. Newspapers are struggling. Radio stations are run from satellites. Hay barns are falling down because farmers roll their hay up like cinnamon rolls. Community schools have been replaced by buses and education complexes in town. Home phones are giving in to cell phones so people can talk constant silliness. Little white churches may be the next to go." “Maybe,” the Kid said. “But I’ll bet some people will miss the smell of linseed oil on the floors, the peace of their own cemetery outside, and sunshine streaming in on the rows of gray heads and brand new overalls.”
