There comes a time when a preacher’s kid does not want to go to church. For me, it was middle school when my religion became baseball. (As far as religions, one could do a lot worse!) My younger children are now ahead of the curve. Perhaps it is because both their dad and mom serve the same congregation.
At seven- and five-years-old, they put up a stink on Sunday mornings: refuse to eat, drag their feet upstairs to get dressed, throw themselves on the floor and howl in protest. I often think of writer Anne Lamott’s line: my kids will go to church because I outweigh them.
But their uproar, as well as my heavy lifting, is weighing on me.
When they finally arrive at church, my kids enjoy their friends and teachers. They get to make art and play basketball. They bask in the attention of doting elders. And they get liberal helpings from the office candy jar that is refilled with them in mind.
There is little use in pointing any of this out ahead of time or trying to reason with them. I realize their protest is a power struggle with their parents and part of the necessary and healthy process of self-differentiation. I am not worried about their faith. My children will come to their beliefs as they come into themselves.
But come Sunday morning, so help me God, I need them to get out the door!
When the seven-year-old laid down a bargaining chip — he would get dressed if he could play his choice of music — I relented. He picked up the tablet as I gathered my papers into my briefcase.
Then the air filled with the unmistakable opening guitar riff of Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit.”
With the screaming vocals of the troubled, beautiful, genius Kurt Cobain, God rest his soul, I was transported back to my own days as the preacher’s son and how, even in the near-constant angst of worrying about what others thought of me, there were moments when I could give myself over to this song. I actually think that transcendent feeling is what many people hope for in worship — a kind of nirvana, although probably not to Nirvana.
I didn’t want to be late for church, but the kids and I had to make time for some holy head-banging.
Andrew Taylor-Troutman is the author of “Little Big Moments,” a collection of mini-essays about parenting, and “Tigers, Mice & Strawberries: Poems.” Both titles are available most anywhere books are sold online. Taylor-Troutman lives in Chapel Hill where he serves as pastor of Chapel in the Pines Presbyterian Church and occasionally stumbles upon the wondrous while in search of his next cup of coffee.
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