Chapter 2: The Sin Diary

Now before the congregation, two young women stood in submissive silence. One of them was pregnant

Early Days. The Denlinger family poses for a photo at the local Sears store. This photo was taken in 1976 when Steven was about thirteen years old. Marcia had left the family home to work as a Christian school teacher in Seymour, Missouri. (L-R: Marjorie, Magdalena, Timothy, Heidi, Steven, Richard, Dave, Earl, Rose. Not pictured: Marcia). Photo taken by Olan Mills Studio

When I recall the church services of my childhood, I hear the sound of four-part congregational singing, a cappella hymns, rich and varied as the loamy black soil of my mother’s garden. I hear simple harmonies floating high and light, women’s voices cutting through the deep male rumble. I hear the middle voices filling in the spaces like water soaking into fresh-plowed earth.

The harmonies were enriched by the blend of close bloodlines, the lyrics flowing from what my tribe remembered as a bloodbath of persecution, beginning with the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.

Oh, now I see the crimson wave,

The fountain deep and wide. 

Jesus my Lord, mighty to save,

Points to his wounded side.

They say those who leave find it impossible to reignite that childhood worship experience.  They say those who leave never manage to reclaim the towering feeling of beauty and intimacy with the Almighty.  They say those who leave never manage to recapture the emotions of a flaming faith kindled by the burning coals of the Holy Ghost. 

Those who say such things speak the truth.

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Our Sunday morning service always followed a standard ritual.  Three congregational hymns brought us to our worship.  With two sermons and Sunday School classes, church lasted more than two hours.  But twice a year, the service did two things:  it doubled in length and postponed lunch, which made me very hungry.

One Communion morning in particular clutches my memory. I was nine years old. Old enough to be interested in what happened around me. 

I remember singing song after song about Jesus’ love and blood. I remember watching the adults around me drinking grape juice from the same white coffee cup. I remember the fresh homemade bread that made my stomach growl.

Before me, I saw women disappear into another room, only to reappear minutes later with relieved smiles. At the front benches, men squatted awkwardly at each other’s feet, towels draped over their laps, washing each other’s feet in clanking, galvanized buckets, then wiping them dry. Men young and old shook hands, brushed lips in a Holy Kiss and muttered, “God bless you.”

That Communion Sunday remains splotchy, a fuzzy home movie imperfectly