The Joy of Being A Fallen Angel - Afterwards

From the age of four I attended Sunday School.

The school was an ancient Sunday School, so ancient that my  mother and her many friends had spent most the wild times of their premarried life in the Sunday School, or in the church. The Church had been going since 1859.

Set in the now posh inner Sydney suburb of "W", the Sunday School was in a double story building attached to the manse of our church. On one side was a large hall where the Church held its plays and pantomines, on the other was an enclosed and locked playground with swings and roundabouts and all manner of fun things - to those brave enough to climb the fence.

It was locked to keep the poor people out. For in those days the suburb of "W' was (relatively speaking) a working class quagmire of small semi detached houses with pan toilets and back alleys.

The Sunday School room itself was reached by climbing a steep set of stairs. At the top of the stairs you found yourself in a hexagonal room. There was a window in each of five walls. The floor was composed of grey floorboards with a bright but tattered rug in the centre. If you looked from the window you could see into the backyards where the poor people hung their washing.

In the centre of the Sunday School room was a half circle of child sized straw chairs.

For Sunday School lessons, we sat on those chairs, all pointing to the one seat in the middle of the circle where the Sunday School teacher sat. Behind her was a piano - on which to play the Sunday School songs. Next to her was the Birthday chair where any lucky child whose birthday had occurred in the proceding week took pride of place.

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Flanking both teacher and birthday child were six foot high broom handles that stood on stands like senturies. Holes in the wood supported small flags. There were two types of flags - the English Union Jack, or the Australian Flag.

Once we had taken our places in front of our seats the teacher would pick out the birthday child. The birthday child would have the honour of sticking the flags into the broomstick handles. Then the teacher would go to the piano and start playing the first song. Her name was Caroline, and she had a fine voice.

My favourite song was "You need not fear the storm or the earthquake shock" because we all got to slap our hands together as we said 'shock'. We would clap them as hard as possible, clap them so the palms stung. It was fun. Especially when you were four years old.

Of course none of us realised that the song was a metaphor for the church. Neither were we interested. We didn't care if we were being indoctrinated. In fact, as an adult I think it was good for us.

Build on the Rock, the Rock that ever stands,

Oh, build on the Rock, and not upon the sands;

You need not fear the storm, or the earthquake shock,

You're safe for evermore if you build on the Rock.

Around the walls of the Sunday School were scattered pictures of scenes from Jesus' life. In one picture there he was with Lazaurus, in another he was with a crowd of barefoot smiling little blonde children. In the picture over the piano he was throwing the money lenders out of the temple. And finally, in the picture closest to the stair well, he was riding a donkey, surrounded by dust and adoring crowd. The crowds waved palm fronds at him in excitement.

Each picture was a beautiful water colour, the colours rich and vibrant, the tonal range muted - so that a feeling of peace and well being would decend on the viewer. The pictures were behind glass, and in little gold frames.

But the thing that none of us kids ever noticed was that Jesus was a white. It wouldn't have occurred to us to think that he would be anything else.

But not only was he white, he was tall, he was blonde, he had a prophet's blonde beard, he had beautiful hair that had been freshly shampooed, he had kind blue eyes, his face was kind and unwrinkled, his nose delicate and well mannered, his robes immaculate and freshly laundered.

Being of English, Irish and Scottish descent we were white kids with small cute noses, blue eyes, mainly blonde hair (all Australian children were blonde until the age of 13). We were perfect little Aryans. And, height, beard and hair aside, Jesus looked just like us.

How lucky was that?

It wasn't till later that I realised that it was all wrong. (see footnote).

But by then I'd left the church, gone my own way. Sadly I was the last Sunday School teacher. When I left in 1975 they closed the place down. The Church itself ceased being a Church in the 1980's. A fire set by an arsonist in 1989 left it nothing but a blackened shell.

So now you know.

These images for Illustration Friday illustrate the concept "Afterward". It's a nod to the blonde haired Norse looking Jesus I grew up with. In it you'll find Judas - with dark hair of course. There's also doubting Thomas, and the devil. And me.

The setting is the Garden of Gethsemane (what a beautiful name eh?). It's not meant to be figurative, but metaphorical. It represents the feelings and events of Gesthsmane, both past and present - and afterward.

Here's a quote about Gethsemane (from here)

Knowing of his coming betrayal by Judas, Christ went with his disciples to the Garden of Gethsemane. There he took the disciples Peter, James, and John aside and asked them to keep watch while he went apart and prayed. Twice Christ returned, found them sleeping and woke them. Upon returning the third time, he said: "Sleep on now, and take your rest: behold, the hour is at hand, and the Son of Man is betrayed into the hands of sinners

Thank you for being kind enough to look at this work.
PS: dthaase is setting up a whimsical wednesday. I think it's worth a visit.

Footnote: On Jesus' face. Modern research suggests us that Jesus probably had "abroad peasant's face, dark olive skin, short curly hair and a prominent nose. He was probably 5' 1" ( Alison Galloway, professor of anthropology at the University of California in Santa Cruz)