Sunday night service
By Jacob Hatcher
As time goes on, things are bound to change. Bob Dylan warned us about it long before I was even born. Long gone are the days of kids riding in the back of trucks and with the proliferation of air conditioning, no one sits on the porch anymore. I myself have resorted to drinking artificially sweetened tea. I know: I’m as shocked as you are.
In all of this change, life has gotten mostly better, but there’s one thing I think the world is worse for not having, and that’s Sunday night services at church.
When I was growing up, after my Nana’s roast and changing into more comfortable clothes, the best part of Sunday was the gathering together of the saints as the sun went down. In churches all across this country, folks young and old would gather to have business meetings, sing some hymns, and listen to Brother So-and-So give a sermon on some obscure Old Testament passage before taking over the nearest Cracker Barrel.
I think my favorite part of Sunday night service was seeing all the elders in the church in what they considered dressed down clothes. Seeing some of those old timers in poloa and pleated khakis instead of their suit and tie was like seeing them in flip flops and a tank top t-shirt.
It was sort of like running into your 3rd grade teacher at the grocery store: it felt a little unnatural, but it also kind of humanized them.
There’s a picture I think of from time to time of when our son Hank was learning to crawl. It was a Sunday evening service.There he laid, surrounded by his church family, cheering him on.
A couple of those pictured have gone on to glory, and we’ve been away from that church for years, but every time I stumble across that picture it’s a cool Sunday night in Louisville, KY. And then out of the blue, I get an inexplicable hankering for cornbread and fried catfish.
Somebody save me a seat. And order me an unsweetened tea.