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By: Dave Boice
Tags: Church, Jesus, Religion

The only time I ever stole something was when I was about 8 years old. Indiana Jones showed me how to do it.

Reenacting the opening scene from Raiders of the Lost Ark, I quietly tippy-toed into my brother’s room and looked eye-to-eye with his piggy bank that was perched atop his chested drawers. My forehead was dripping sweatbeads, my hands nervously shaking as I seized the ceramic swine and uncorked it’s rubber plog from the underside. I quietly shook out all the change from his 4-years-of-life-savings and made an illegal withdrawal of three quarters. With treasure in hand, I covered up my tracks and tipped my imaginary fedora before leaving. But something seemed terribly off. My conscience was booby-trapped, triggering a giant boulder of self-guilt that barreled down after me for my thievery.

I was like a little Bernie Madoff in Transformers underwear. The embezzled quarters were saved for my family’s Sunday morning ritual. Before church, we’d stop at the Donut Shop where I could choose any two donuts (my go-to’s were glazed cherry, chocolate, double chocolate, chocolate with sprinkles, or a plain old-fashioned). Once I was done eating calories, I’d head over to the lone arcade game:

Ms. Pac-Man.

Here I would deposit my Washington coins and drop ‘em in the slot. I’d pound the white Start button and wrap my little right hand around the bright red ball of a joystick. Suddenly, I’d be immersed in an 8-bit wonderland of flashing dots, bouncy fruit, and almighty power pellets. Unfortunately, after several minutes I would get cornered by the four colored ghosts, colliding into my yellow female chomper where she would explode in yellow fireworks. The music momentarily stopped, then played a depressing tune to signify she had been laid R.I.P. (Rest In Pixels). In the back of my mind, I knew Ms. Pac-Man’s death was because of me. She would have never suffered the way she did.

I was out of quarters. I’d run over to my dad and ask for just one more quarter, but it was time to go to church. I’d look back to the screen, taunting me with two words:

“Game Over”

As I privately mourned the loss of Ms. Pac-Man (and my role in it), our family would pile into the Chevy stationwagon and Oregon Trail-it to church. After service (when it wasn’t Packers season), dad would take us on a joy ride through the countryside. Between thinking “How am I gonna break the news to Mr. Pac-Man?”, I wondered about the different churches with different denominations that we drove by. Catholic, Assemblies of God, Baptist, Methodist. The denominations could have been called Blinky, Pinky, Inky, and Clyde for all I cared. They weren’t our church, so therefore they were “bad”.

When I first started this Wayfaring Stranger journey, I was turned off by the segregation of American religion divided into different regimes. I was a millennial who fell out of favor with my former church, and I lacked interest in finding a new church when it seemed like membership took precedence over my personal spiritual walk.

If we’re brothers and sisters in Christ, why are we divided by denominations?

Then something unexpected happened. I found out my hometown actually felt the same way.