My earliest memory of church is a rather traumatic one. My earliest memory is that of being attacked by a fox. That’s right, a fox! The year was 1950. We had just moved to Minneapolis where my father had become an associate pastor in a large, urban congregation. Of course, everyone was anxious to meet the new pastor and his family - at that time, two little boys.

This was a fashionable congregation, full of the 50s version of Yuppies. That year, the women of the church were all sporting boas, not a la Natassia Kinski, but the pelts of foxes, slung over their shoulders, like the trappers of old.

There they were, complete with head, eyes, and fangs bared wide. Everywhere I looked, there were foxes, and everywhere I went, their eyes followed me. When you’re only two years old, you’re not qu…