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Why you should go to church on Sunday … and why I think things are gonna be alright … and are as they oughta be.
Theodore Roosevelt (1858-1919), 26th US President suggested nine (9) good reasons why a man should go to church on Sunday. They were all very formal and profound thoughts. However, in this day and age of the Internet, I don’t think it will be necessary to reproduce and list them down here. You’ll find them quoted in William J. Bennett’s bestselling book “The Book of Virtues;” and I suppose in any biography of this great man.
I myself will propose only one reason why. It may sound theologically too shallow to be taken seriously but nevertheless I am convinced that it is also the main reason why you still do go to church on Sunday, if at all. It is this: when you were just a baby, too little to even walk, and too young to even remember, your mom and/or dad would take you to church. They continued to do this until you got to be old enough to do your own thing or go your own way. You had absolutely no idea why they kept bringing you there. You thought it was just another park, a crowded playground or a place where your parents could show you off to other parents. And so you played, ran around with the other kids and tried to attract as much attention, and once in a while you would even mimic or make fun of what the adults were doing in church.
You did not realize it then as you do now that it was a time of desperation for your parents. Any parent with three or four young tots is almost always in desperate need of divine intervention. “Lord, I have another sick infant I left at home. She has been running a fever and coughing badly for the last three days and nights. I have not been able to sleep nor work nor do much else. I’m not sure if it’s dengue. We don’t have enough money for the doctor and medicines. I’ll do anything, Lord. For now I’m lighting 3 candles in front of your image. If my child gets better, I’ll come back to light 30 more. Please, Lord, help us.”
“Lord, can you see these four little innocent kids I brought with me to church this morning? What am I supposed to do with them. This one-year old I have in my arms and the two-year old I am holding beside me have no idea that I have no idea where we will be getting our next meal. They have no idea that I have just been laid off. This three-year old that’s fighting with her elder brother is in a bad mood because she did not have enough to eat for breakfast this morning. That’s why we brought them all to church this morning, Lord. Just look at them. Lord, help us. Lord, help us feed them. Help us clothe them. Help us send them to school. Keep them healthy, Lord. Keep them in the palm of your hand. Help us raise them to be good and to take care of us when we get old.”
So, how could you possibly know what your parents were doing, going to church every Sunday and joining the other parents with kids your age? But they took you there. And as you got to be old enough to remember, slowly you began to realize what you are supposed to do on Sundays. It’s the day when everyone goes to church. It was simply the right thing to do.
Remember what you mom used to tell you? “When I cook it, you eat it! When I buy you something to wear, you use it. When I tell you to do something, you do it ... and don’t ask me why, becuz I’m the mom.”
Later on, however, as you got older, your parents didn’t seem to mind that you did not feel like going to church with them. Maybe they themselves were either too busy to go to church or too busy to care or to notice. But it didn’t seem to matter then because it also happened to be the time when there was no longer any problem about having enough food in the house. There was always enough food now. In fact, you mom and dad each had their own car and were out most of the time. You had everything you needed. In fact, you were secretly glad that your parents were now too busy to keep track of what you yourself were doing. Indeed, nobody seemed to care anymore about going to church every Sunday.
Until somebody suddenly got very sick. Or somebody died. Or your dad was not coming home for days or weeks at a time.
Then, before you even realized what was going on, you started getting interested in the opposite sex. Then, just as suddenly, you got into some serious relationship with a special girl. She insisted on taking you to church every Sunday. There she asked you to make her certain promises and to promise before all the saints in church that you would keep your promise.
Suddenly, you had one, two, three, four young kids of your own. You and your wife did not know what to do with them. And so you remembered. You had to take them to church, to have them blessed, to introduce them to the Lord and to make sure that the Lord remembered the names of each and every one of them, and not just on the birthday either.
So, now, you are back worshipping in church on Sundays. Praying fervently intently and desperately. Lighting candles before some sacred images. Just like so many other people. Just like your parents did. And their parents before them.
Do you remember what you mom or dad used to tell you whenever you were crying because you thought you were up against a big, big problem. “Don’t worry,” they would reassure you, “everything will be alright.” And as it turns out, they were always right. Things turned out alright.
So, at the end of every week of struggling along just to get by, I would go to church on Sunday and join all these hundreds and thousands of other people. Just like me, I see in their faces, I see their kids, I see young lovers and elderly couples all looking like they could use some formidable ally just to tide them over for another week. I see a community devoutly and fervently in prayer and asking God to help them in the daily struggles. And I begin to realize that things will be alright. Filipinos have not forgotten God. They cannot afford to. They may forget about Him once in a while. But always somehow they will remember. Just as their parents before them. On Sundays, especially. And something tells me that things are as they ought to be. JAMES L.
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