By David Andrew Dugle ~ O ctober. Halloween. It's time to visit the haunted house I used to live in. When I was five my dad was able to build a big modern house. Moving in before it was complete, my younger brother and I were sleeping in a large unfinished area directly under the living room. It should have been too new to be a haunted house, but now and then I would wake up in the tiny, dark hours and see the blurry image of a face, or at least what I took to be a face, glowing, faintly yellow, high up on the wall near the ceiling. I'm not kidding! Most nights it didn’t appear at all. But when it did show itself, at first I thought it was a ghost and it scared me like nothing else I’d ever seen. But the face never did anything; unmoving, it just stayed in that one spot. Turning on the lights would make it disappear, making my fears difficult to explain, so I never told anyone. My Sunday School teachers had always told me to be good because God was just behind m...

By David Andrew Dugle ~   S ettle down now children, here's the story from the Book of David called The Parable of the Bent Cross. In the land Southeast of Eden –  Eden, Minnesota that is – between two rivers called the Big Miami and the Little Miami, in the name of Saint Gertrude there was once built a church. Here next to it was also built a fine parochial school. The congregation thrived and after a multitude of years, a new, bigger church was erected, well made with clean straight lines and a high steeple topped with a tall, thin cross of gold. The faithful felt proud, but now very low was their money. Their Sunday offerings and school fees did not suffice. Anon, they decided to raise money in an unclean way. One fine summer day the faithful erected tents in the chariot lot between the two buildings. In the tents they set up all manner of games – ring toss, bingo, little mechanical racing horses and roulette wheels – then all who lived in the land between the two rive...

By David Andrew Dugle ~ I n an era long before televangelism and megachurches, before the Age of Muscular American Fundamentalism, my grandfather made sure that all of his grandchildren had a Christian upbringing. Every Sunday he drove us all the way across the county to his church, Seventh Presbyterian . Seventh was built of Ohio’s bedrock in 1849. Not as big as some, it was however equipped with a powerful pipe organ and magnificent stained-glass windows, especially the rose window, enormous and multi-hued, above the main entrance. Its grandeur was awesome, in the fullest sense of the word. The first time I went there I was only a few months old, being baptized. After adding a couple drops of water (Poof! Instant Presbyterian!) I was taken to Seventh’s stately services weekly. Stately? Our church didn’t try to be entertaining as such. In fact, our services were relentlessly bland – there were no snakes, no speaking in tongues, no miracle healings, not even an incense censure. Bu...