Junction City Churches

Junction City Stories II

I: The Lawns of Vanity

And it came to pass in the town of Junction, that the churches gathered up the green places and claimed them for their own.
And lo, they fenced them with sprinklers, and they baptized the sod with excess water, yea, even in the drought.
And the sprinklers turned without ceasing, hissing day and night.
They drenched the grass, yea, even when rain had fallen.
And the water fled into gutters, wasted as incense to vanity.
The Lord thundered: Woe unto them that baptize the earth for show and yet give not a cup unto the thirsty.
And the children looked upon the lawns and were sorely displeased, for no game of tag nor ball nor picnic was permitted therein.
And the Lord spoke, saying: Thou shalt not hoard the grass, for it was made for the trampling of feet, and for the gladness of all creatures.

St. Helen’s is a church of unquestionable taste – if your taste involves too much white paint, deviously symmetrical flowerbeds, and a topiary angel suspiciously resembling the mayor. Its lawn is the sort of lawn that could host a soccer tournament, a summer festival, or even an impromptu parade of elephants if anyone dared. Yet, like a perfectly curated Instagram post, it exists for admiration rather than use. The sprinklers rotate with ceremonial precision, almost as if practicing a ritual dance, while the volunteers patrol with eyes narrowed and clipboards clutched to their chests, monitoring for sins as minor as a fallen leaf.

Little Tommy Henderson once dared to kick a soccer ball across its edge. Mrs. Henderson, fearing divine repercussion, admonished him with a tone that suggested not merely parental disappointment, but catastrophic spiritual consequences. Tommy’s ball, as if aware of its transgression, rolled slowly to the edge of the grass, stopping just short of sacrilege. Yet the sprinkler system, sensing disturbance, hissed and whirred in mechanical outrage, drenching not only the ball but the nearby hedge, which quivered as though shivering in moral shock. The lawn itself seemed to sigh in relief when Tommy retreated, whispering in its chlorophyll tongue, “We exist to be admired, not trodden.”

Weekends are the worst. The entire congregation seems to conspire to ensure that no human being – not volunteer, visitor, nor passing pigeon – interferes with the sanctity of the turf. Lawn chairs are carefully avoided. No one reads on the grass. The only permitted human activity is walking around it to reach the doors. Even the birds seem to respect the invisible boundaries, hopping politely along the edges as if attending some invisible communion.

Inside, the priest delivers sermons about stewardship, humility, and community service, but the sermons seem oddly absent in the management of the community itself. Outside, the lawn becomes a symbol of contradiction: meticulously maintained, yet untouched; alive, yet inert; a shrine to both God and obsessive perfectionism.

At St. Helen’s, gossip ripened faster than fruit flies on a bruised pear. The weekly potluck was less a communal meal than a tribunal in disguise. Sister Mildred’s casserole, over-salted and suspiciously watery, was deemed not just a culinary failure but a spiritual one. “The Lord withdraweth flavor where He findeth pride,” murmured one parishioner, spooning a third helping just to confirm Mildred’s damnation. By dessert, whispers had tied her soggy noodles to a failing marriage, a delinquent son, and – by some contorted theological acrobatics – a coming drought.

The casserole’s true crime was not its taste but its symbolism: evidence that someone, somewhere, had failed to toe the invisible line of moral orthodoxy. And once the dish had been judged, so too was its maker.

II: A Market of Folly

And the people of the churches cried out for coin, though their coffers were not empty.
And each church raised coin for its own tower, that none might share.
And they spake not unto one another, save in rivalry and suspicion.
And they held sales of rummage, and they brought forth broken lamps, and dented toasters, and books of outdated counsel.
And they lifted up pies both burnt and soggy, and they declared them holy.
But the Lord laughed from on high, saying: Better is a feast shared freely than ten thousand stale muffins sold for gain.
Their rummage multiplied, yet the town’s park was barren.
The Lord sighed: Ye have built Babel out of bake sales, and none of it reacheth heaven.

First Baptist preferred its gossip outdoors, where the air was thin and the ears plentiful. The lawn served as a theater for whispered rumors, with parishioners pretending to admire marigolds while dissecting the lives of their neighbors. ‘Auntie’ Margaret’s absence from Bible study? “She’s seeing a chiropractor,” one voice said. “A male chiropractor,” another added darkly.

A man who purchased a second-hand Subaru was rumored to be laundering money for Californians. A teen spotted at the skate park was suspected of “dabbling in Satanism,” which in Junction City was defined broadly as skateboarding without a helmet. Even the begonias seemed complicit, nodding their heads solemnly as secrets spread through the hedges.

First Baptist is famed for its annual bake sale, where the sale of slightly dented toasters is considered an act of God. Parishioners take their assignments with the zeal of generals preparing for battle. The church parking lot becomes a tableau of chaos: folding tables groaning under pies, cakes, and tins of questionable cookies, while volunteers, armed with plastic badges and judgment, manage lines with a devotion that borders on militaristic.

Jonathan Fisk, the ex–choir director, watches with quiet bemusement. His tenure ended in scandal when he questioned the ethics of auctioning toasters that had been subtly “enhanced” to fetch higher bids. Today, he reclines in a folding chair, secretly delighted that a group of local townsfolk has quietly purchased all the baked goods at face value, then set up an impromptu picnic on the church lawn.

Children dart between hedge sculptures, snatching cookies and creating impromptu chalk murals on the otherwise immaculate paths. Adults sip lemonade, read newspapers, and whisper sardonic commentary about the absurdity of turning kitchen appliances into instruments of salvation. Volunteers hover, flustered and outraged, issuing polite warnings, which are gently ignored by an army of picnic blankets and sun hats.

Meanwhile, the church bell system, designed to summon the faithful, blares hymns that clash in four distinct keys. Jonathan remarks, half to himself, half to no one in particular, that it is “an unholy symphony fit for the end times.” Indeed, the collision of sacred music with unsanctioned play creates an auditory tableau that is simultaneously divine, chaotic, and entirely human – a reminder that life, unlike the church lawn, will not be trimmed into perfection.

III: Traffic, Hymns, and the Religious Reich

And upon the Sabbath the streets were filled with minivans, and the sound of horns was as a trumpet blast unto heaven.
And the choirs sang in four directions at once, yea, even unto the shaking of windowpanes and the scattering of pigeons.
And the people groaned, saying: Can there be no peace in this hour?
But the Lord answered: Blessed is he who walketh on foot, for he alone shall find rest.

Sunday mornings transform Junction City into a slow–motion traffic jam orchestrated by divine intent. SUVs, minivans, and sedans converge upon Juniper, Sixth, and Main streets with a devotion rivaling that of medieval pilgrims. Engines idle in meditative unison, honking occasionally when a driver fails to recognize that God has chosen the precise moment for sacred arrival.

Four churches broadcast hymns simultaneously, producing a cacophony that could only be described as audibly holy chaos. Cars vibrate in sympathy, creating minor earthquakes that rattle windows and spines alike. Pedestrians dodge donation boxes, hymn–book–wielding volunteers, and the occasional distracted cyclist. The streets themselves bend to ecclesiastical priorities: crosswalks, stoplights, and traffic cones seem to align with the optimal propagation of sacred sound rather than human convenience.

Mr. Horace Bleeker, retired mail carrier and caustic observer, patrols his morning route, muttering commentary about tree geometry, traffic patterns, and the audacity of church acoustics. He navigates between idling vehicles, strollers, and impromptu prayer circles forming on crosswalks. “It’s a miracle anyone makes it to work on time,” he remarks, noting the irony that a town so obsessed with divine order produces such spectacular disorder.

IV: Faith in the Bearing of False Witness

And the people gathered not in prayer, but in whispers.
And they spake of their neighbors’ lawns, and of pies too runny, and of children who tarried past curfew.
Their tongues wagged as sparrows, swift and many, and their words were sweet in the mouth but bitter in the belly.
And they judged the absent with righteous certainty, yea, even as their own deeds lay unexamined.
But the Lord said: Chatter not of thine own kin as though they were strangers, nor of thy strangers as though they were wicked.
For every tongue that waggeth idly is as a bell without a clapper, making sound but not sense.
And lo, the pigeons upon the steeple cooed louder than the gossips, and their cooing was nearer unto holiness.

If First Baptist whispered, Faith Lutheran sang. Their choir rehearsals were less about hymns than harmonizing rumors. Sopranos speculated about the pastor’s suspiciously shiny new shoes. Altos murmured that Janet’s “business trip” to Eugene was, in fact, a dalliance with a man in plaid. The basses, always starved for lines, took to inventing conspiracies about zoning laws, insisting that the county’s potholes were a plot hatched by Methodists.

By Sunday service, the congregation could barely distinguish between lyrics and libel. A hymn praising divine mercy bled seamlessly into accusations of tax fraud. Even angels, had they been present, would have taken earplugs.

The churches’ influence in Junction City was never most visible in the pews but in the council chambers. Policy proposals were less often debated than assassinated in absentia. When one citizen suggested turning an unused church lawn into a public park, whispers spread that he was a “known anarchist” who let his dog bark past nine. Another resident who supported bike lanes found herself accused of witchcraft, the evidence being a Halloween decoration she’d left on her porch into November.

Thus did gossip serve as Junction’s true constitution: a body of unwritten, unverified slanders that governed more effectively than law.

The youth, quick to see folly where their elders saw piety, began to seed the gossip deliberately. They invented tales of a forbidden trampoline hidden in a barn, accessible only to those who knew the secret knock. They whispered of a man selling “heretical pickles” at the farmer’s market, each cucumber steeped in pagan brine. They claimed that the high school janitor was a former rock star in witness protection.

Within weeks, these fabrications metastasized into sermons, where pastors warned congregants against the trampoline of temptation, the brine of Babylon, and the snares of rock-and-roll custodianship. The youth listened from the back pews, choking on their laughter.

And then one day, as though on cue, the youth stopped. No false rumors, no breadcrumbs of absurdity. The gossip-starved congregants, deprived of their weekly sustenance, began to panic. By Wednesday they were inventing scandals about one another with such reckless abandon that the fabric of their fellowships frayed.

The silence, ironically, spoke louder than any fabrication. For without new tales to spread, the whisperers turned their sharpened tongues inward and discovered they were not immune to the very venom they so happily dispensed.

V: Gather All the Little Ones

And the children crept upon the holy lawns with chalk and frisbee.
And the keepers of sod did chase them, with waving arms and wrathful rebukes.
But the little ones laughed, and their joy was as thunder in the ears of the elders.
And the Lord declared: Suffer My conceptions to play upon the grass, and forbid them not, for of such is the true dominion.
And the old men and women, weary of silence, set up benches in the midst of forbidden ground.
And they sat, and they read newspapers, and they fed sparrows with crumbs.
And the keepers were confounded, for no law could remove them.
And the Lord proclaimed: Blessed are they that rest in rebellion, for their hips are girded with wisdom.

Mrs. Eliza Grunwald has elevated suburban insurgency to an art form. Armed with frisbees, juice boxes, and an unshakable sense of moral righteousness, she stages covert playdates along the edges of church property. Her toddlers, small and unexpectedly cunning, are taught the sacred arts of ambush recreation: running across forbidden lawns just long enough to play, retreating before adult intervention becomes overwhelming.

Chalk drawings appear along sidewalks, depicting heroic squirrels, improbable rainbows, and cryptic pleas for justice. Volunteers attempt removals, issuing warnings about sanctity and morality, yet the toddlers respond with laughter, resilience, and, occasionally, the subtle strategic use of a mud puddle.

The children, unknowingly, teach the town a vital lesson: that grass, like human joy, belongs to those who step on it. Each day’s playful rebellion chips away at the illusion of ecclesiastical invincibility.

The citizens of Junction City are no longer content with passive observation. They begin installing benches at strategic points along church lawns. Each bench carries a modest plaque: “For public enjoyment.” The volunteers are flummoxed. These are ordinary benches, unremarkable in construction, entirely legal, yet their very presence implies defiance.

Ethel and Gerald, a retired couple with a penchant for quiet mischief, take particular pride in their placements. One bench sits beneath a sprinkler that has long symbolized control; another aligns perfectly with a hedge shaped like a cherub mid–lecture. Residents use the benches to read, converse, and occasionally stage small, impromptu performances. One afternoon, a traveling accordionist sets up on a bench, playing hymns with a sardonic twist, and the children gather to dance. The volunteers, flustered, consult the bylaws, consult their consciences, and eventually leave, muttering about the audacity of ordinary life.

VI. St. Helen's Hymnal Hypocrisy

And in His house they lifted their voices, but every choir sang in its own key.
And the sound was as the gnashing of teeth, and even the angels did cover their ears.
Then came the youths with guitars and saxophones, and they played in wild defiance.
And the Lord said: This noise pleaseth me more than thy order, for at least it is honest.

St. Helen’s prides itself on musical innovation. Its hymnals are organized with military precision, each edition selected not for melody or piety, but for maximum complexity and potential to confuse. Four different choirs rehearse simultaneously, each believing they are the sole bearers of God’s musical will.

On a typical Sunday, the church’s amplification system blasts organ notes, trumpet fanfares, and the occasional tambourine crash across Sixth. Birds scatter, windows rattle, and pedestrians instinctively cover their ears. Yet, inside the pews, parishioners sing with faces of rapture. Or is it mild panic? Outside, the children of Mrs. Grunwald employ countermelodies, clanging pots and pans in protest, creating what Jonathan Fisk, with sardonic glee, calls “the symphony of chaos and reclamation.”

This week, however, the disruption escalates. A rogue group of teenagers, emboldened by years of Sunday suppression, erect a makeshift stage on the edge of the lawn and play improvised jazz over the organ’s booming chords. The choir falters, the organist sweats, and the congregation, never accustomed to being heard outside the walls, stares in horror as the lawn becomes a contested battlefield of sound.

VII. Silent Auctions versus Generosity

And lo, they auctioned trinkets: chipped vases, rusted kettles, microwave ovens of doubtful repute.
And they bid as though eternity depended on porcelain.
But the people carried the spoils into the commons, and herbs and flowers sprouted therein.
The Lord declared: Better parsley in cracked clay than vanity upon a shelf.

Faith Lutheran hosts its notorious Silent Auction. Items range from slightly chipped vases to mildly outdated microwaves. Each is auctioned with solemn ceremony and hyperbolic language suggesting miraculous provenance: “A teapot blessed by Cynthia, who once caught a bird mid–flight.”

This year, the non-churchgoing townsfolk intervene. With quiet cunning, they bid on items en masse, then redistribute them for the public good: the teapot becomes the centerpiece of a community kitchen, microwaves are donated to the local senior center, and the chipped vases house a cooperative herb garden. Their contribution to the community-at-large through this simple action was far more than the church had ever done for the community, themselves, as any funds raised would go straight to the church coffers. It gets expensive when the pastors of Junction City (and their congregations) live a life that is anything but humble and pious.

Meanwhile, the church lawn is slowly colonized. Picnic blankets appear in formerly forbidden zones, frisbees arc gracefully through the air, and small signs reading “Community Space” sprout like defiant weeds. The grass, long accustomed to isolation, now feels the weight of tiny shoes, laughter, and human presence. The first signs of its liberation.

VIII. The Garden of Liberation

And the people dug the earth by the church wall, and planted tomatoes where once were statues, and lettuce where once were hedges.
And the pastors thundered against them, but the carrots knew no fear.
And the sunflowers grew tall, yea, taller than the steeple itself.
And the Lord blessed the harvest, saying: Better one basil leaf shared in laughter than a thousand sermons heard in silence.

The rebellion now takes a tangible form. The townsfolk, emboldened by small victories, decide to establish a community garden on a patch of land adjacent to Faith Lutheran. Armed with trowels, seeds, and a blasphemous sense of purpose, they break ground.

Parishioners whisper curses in the aisles, the pastor issues sermons about stewardship that no longer apply to anyone but himself. The garden flourishes despite these obstacles. Tomatoes climb stakes once intended for decorative statues, lettuce spreads over meticulously raked soil, and sunflowers tower like triumphant banners.

Jonathan Fisk observes, muttering, “Perhaps the Almighty is amused,” as a child harvests a carrot the size of a church hymnal. The grass, watered and clipped for decades without a single picnic, now hosts life in all its messy, joyful imperfection.

IX. The Grand Reclamation

And it came to pass that the people gathered in multitude, with blankets, and tambourines, and the noise of gladness.
And they sat upon every lawn, and they ate, and they drank, and they played games without end.
And the volunteers wailed, and the sprinklers hissed, but the people rejoiced all the more.
And the Lord spoke with finality: This land is not thine, O hoarders of turf. It is given unto all who dwell here.
And the multitude lifted up their voices, crying: Amen, and amen.

The culmination arrives one bright Saturday, as the entire town orchestrates what could only be described as a coordinated occupation of church lawns. Picnic blankets blanket First Baptist and St. Helens; frisbees sail over Faith Lutheran; acoustic guitars accompany laughter, children’s chants, and the occasional impromptu drum circle.

Even the musical chaos of St. Helen’s is co–opted. Children’s countermelodies merge with improvised jazz and accordion solos, creating a layered cacophony that no volunteer, pastor, or sprinkler system can control. Cars park in orderly disorder, engines idle less reverently, and pedestrians stroll freely without fear of spiritual reprisal.

The churches, now forced to reckon with the undeniable fact that life refuses to conform to perfection, respond with polite protest, veiled threats of divine judgment, and muttered complaints about civic decency. The townsfolk, however, persist.

And in this act of collective defiance, the rallying cry emerges – not from pulpits, but from ordinary voices united in delight:

The grass belongs to everyone. The streets belong to everyone. The community belongs to everyone.

Junction City, once a town dominated by the ceremonial display of piety, now thrums with the sound of laughter, play, music, and reclamation. Lawns, once pristine and forbidding, are alive. Streets, once choked by idling SUVs, flow with human presence. The churches, magnificent in architecture yet fallible in practice, witness the limits of dominion.

The moral, sardonically divine, is clear: no ritual, no fundraiser, no hedge–trimmed perfection can substitute for participation, for messy, inconvenient, and delightful life. Humans, collectively, insist upon inhabiting the spaces they share. And so the town, in its everyday absurdity, teaches the ultimate lesson: perfection is lonely, but joy is contagious.