Which word of God?

Because the Catholic kids had catechism on Thursday, we Protestants got Release Time, also on Thursday, so teachers had an easy day.

I was all about Bible stories, less so about the mile walk from Campbell School to First Presbyterian and 1.8 miles home, in the winter near dark if I couldn’t get a ride. At least most of my route followed Main Street in Metuchen, New Jersey—not exactly the wild side—and there was a dime store with candy but still . . .

The other down side of the long walk was way too much time to ponder My Problem.

Which was this. Sunday school teachers and the minister went on and on about The Word of God, never considering literal-minded eight year olds.

For example, they insisted that just as all parents love all their children equally (hah!), the Heavenly Father loves us all exactly the same. If so, I reasoned, wouldn’t He love all words equally since (presumably) He created them all? What made one word so darn special?

And if there is ONE word, THE word, why does the Bible have so many, including all those weird names, Abiasaph, Eidad and Medad, Hammedatha?

Really, one single word was enough to sustain Moses in the desert, Jesus being flogged and Apostle Paul wandering all over creation?

And if there is one word, why are we even talking? We should just be all the time going, “Word, Word,” he said. Then “Word, word,” she answered and everybody’s happy and blessed.

I considered options: Jesus, faith, salvation. Then what about the Old Testament? No Jesus there.

I didn’t consider asking the minister, an austere individual who generally avoided children, and finally accosted a Sunday School teacher. That is, I ambushed her in front of a toilet stall in the ladies room as she shifted from foot to foot in a way I’d never associated with adults, therefore not suspecting that her bladder issue might be more urgent than my theological query.

So I persisted. “What is the Word of God?”

“It’s what we believe. It’s what we talk about all the time.” Her voice rose. Had I not been listening? Was I hiding a comic book in my collected stories of Protestant missionaries and martyrs?

I fumbled. “I mean which one is the Word of God? There’s so many.” There, I’d got it out.

“The Word of God,” she began, reaching out her hand. To bless me? No, to shove me aside from the toilet, her Mecca. “The Word of God . . . is love.”

I might have gotten an “oh” in before she clicked the latch from inside her stall.

“OK?” came her disembodied voice.

“OK,” I said. It was a cold day, I remember, and The Answer didn’t warm me that much all the way home.

About Pamela Schoenewaldt

Pamela Schoenewaldt, historical novels of immigration and the search for self in new worlds: WHEN WE WERE STRANGERS, SWIMMING IN THE MOON, and UNDER THE SAME BLUE SKY (all HarperCollins).