CHURCH MATTERS
If God has a sense of humor (and He
must have, since He created us the
way we are), He must kind of grin
and shake His head when He watches
us. Sort of like watching your
five-year-old insisting that she
choose her clothes and dress herself
for the first time on the day she
starts to feel kind of salty and
experienced about getting ready for
another day at kindergarten. Then
she shows up with different colored
socks, shoes on the wrong feet, a
frilly pinafore over a pair of
raggedy blue jeans, and she just
loves the way she looks. I bet He
views us like that. Especially when
it comes to church matters. I'll
give you an example, and you put
yourself in His place and think
about it.
I was born and reared a Southern
Baptist. The first preacher I
remember was a dapper, short,
dynamic, get-things-done type of
fellow named Brother Miller. He wore
dark blue pinstripe Brooks
Brothers-looking suits, always
freshly pressed; an unblemished gray
Homburg hat; spotless, heavily
starched white dress shirts with
cuff links; a natty tie; and drove
the biggest Cadillac I'd ever seen.
When he was around, folks felt a
presence.
There had evidently been a pretty
intensive search for a new pastor
before he arrived, because there was
a good bit of excitement in the
Baptist community the first Sunday
he was to preach in our church. I
don't remember the sermon, but I do
remember his standing up there in
the pulpit and saying something like
the church needed new carpet and new
paint and new this, that, or the
other, and that he would appreciate
it if the congregation would search
their hearts and come up with enough
of a sacrifice to put the Lord's
house in better shape. The appeal
must have been fairly powerful,
because the richest man in the
church stood up and said, "I'll give
a thousand dollars!" An audible gasp
rippled through the church, because
we're talking about the 1940s here,
and a thousand dollars was a passel
of money. Then another stood up and
said, "I'll give five hundred," and
so on. A lot of people were making
pledges, and the numbers pledged
were getting lower and lower as the
not so fortunate made their
intentions known. I had a dime, and
I thought about pledging it until I
remembered that I was almost out of
BBs, and that dime had to last me
for a week. I figured even the Lord
wouldn't want my Red Ryder BB gun to
be empty for a whole week.
Even without my dime, the church got
spiffed up and the smell of new
paint and the look and feel of new
carpet and new, shiny floor tiles
and clean walls and new pew cushions
made everybody feel better about the
church and about us all. Folks
entered with a new sense of pride
(which I always thought wenteth
before a fall) and carefully moved
about so as not to scar a wall or
muss up a pew cushion. New hymnbooks
started taking over the old raggedy
ones and the pages had to be looked
up now rather than be turned to
where the dog-eared ones had been
marked. The choir showed up one
Sunday morning in blue robes with
those big circle-looking white
collars, and sang two special hymns
instead of one, and the rest of us
were impressed. I wondered if they
sounded better to God when they were
all dressed up in those robes rather
than in just their Sunday clothes,
but I figured that Brother Miller
had a more direct pipeline than I
did, and if he was behind all of
this, it must be right. I sure as
Ned didn't want to be the one to
post a dumb question like that to
him.
He did everything right. The women
loved him, the men sought his
counsel, and the children just
absolutely quivered when they were
proffered a smile or a touch. I mean
there was some kind of fierce
competition between the children to
see who could memorize more Bible
verses in Sunday School or win at
the sword drill (looking up the
books in the Bible in a hurry), or
name the books in order by heart.
Ribbons were awarded by Brother
Miller in the church services to
those who were lucky enough to excel
at those pursuits. Girls won almost
all of the time. They minced up the
pulpit steps to receive the ribbons,
modestly looked down, but secretly
glanced sideways from under those
lowered eyelids and smiled shadowy
smiles which said, "I'm glad I'm not
dumb like you, Jimmy Ritchie." Long
hair, big bows of ribbons, frilly
dumb dresses, broomstick legs with
bruises on the shins, and folded
down lacy socks wrinkling into white
patent leather shoes covering their
big feet.
Once in a while a sissy won or
somebody burdened with an oversized
brain did. I didn't fit either one
of those categories, and to mybest
recollection, I never won one of
those dumb ribbons. (Truth be known,
I would secretly have killed for
one, but would have also died of
mortification if I'd won one.) My
favorite verse was "Jesus wept,"
since it was the easy to remember,
being the shortest one in the Bible,
and it was about the only one I ever
used when called upon to recite. It
started to wear pretty thin with the
Sunday School teacher, but we didn't
get report cards, and nobody I ever
knew ever failed Sunday School,
making the leverage the teacher had
pretty weak. So the teacher endured
the Jesus wepts, and as long as
infractions in the class were kept
as minor as untying the big sashes
on dumb frilly dresses and making
awful stretching faces and giggling,
I and my hooligan friends in the
class were allowed to simply attend
while the teacher undoubtedly viewed
us as her earthly crosses to bear
and hoped for a more civilized bunch
next year.
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There was a short
break of fifteen minutes or so
between Sunday School and church
services, so the boys scattered at
the bell and headed for the
churchyard to chase and holler. The
upshot of this activity was a great
many grass stains on the behinds and
knees of Sunday britches as
championship football games, using a
big paper cup for a football, or
King of the Mountain (the Mountain
being a slight mound where a stump
had been removed) were played with
the fervor of a bunch of Samsons
killing folks with the jawbone of an
ass. (I remembered hearing that
story, but somehow we all knew that
we had better not use that word or
the teacher would probably draw the
line and tell parents and the
live-and-let-live atmosphere would
be shattered.)
Brother Miller didn't take much
notice of me, since I never won any
ribbons, nor did I ever really
create enough of a problem in his
presence to get him truly interested
in my case.
Until my baptism.
Now, even those of you who are not
Baptists probably know that when a
Baptist is baptized, total and
complete submersion is performed.
I'm talking about all the way under
so that you have to hold your
breath, and don't wear a wig.
(Friend of mine who is a Baptist
preacher has a tale about a lady
member who didn't get the word about
wigs and had to retrieve hers in an
unceremonious grabbing and splashing
contest with the preacher to see who
could lay hands on it first after it
floated free when she was raised
with Christ. But that's another
story.)
Baptism is done in the name of the
Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.
For some reason, I have always
figured that something that
important, done in recognition of
those names, ought to be done in
three dips. In the name of the
Father (dip), the Son (dip) and the
Holy Ghost (dip). I bet it was done
like that in the beginning. I reckon
one reason why I feel so strongly
about that is, I definitely went
under three times when I was
baptized. Two of them were
unofficial, but I'll get to that in
a minute. The other reason why if it
was up to me I'd dip three times, is
with all the sins hopefully being
washed away from some folks I've
seen being baptized, I ain't sure
that one little dip could really do
it. Three might. But then again,
practically speaking, if all of them
were washed away, it might possible
stain the water. And that might
dampen the enthusiasm of the people
waiting to be baptized next. More I
think about it, judgement would have
to be passed on who would dirty up
the water more and put them at the
back of the line, and judgement is
frowned upon lest ye be judged. So I
guess it's all been thought out
pretty clearly or perfected by trial
and error throughout the ages.
Besides, it ain't up to me and I
don't know how I got off of theology
anyway. So let's get back to the
painful memories surrounding my
baptism.
It all started one Sunday morning
when I was about nine years old. One
of my hooligan friends (name of
Ralph) and I were sitting in the
balcony of the church during
preaching services. Most of the
young'uns preferred to sit in the
balcony so they wouldn't be under
the constant scrutiny of parents and
could fidget at least a little bit.
Ralph and I were fidgeting a little
more than generally acceptable and
some pretty loud snickering and more
than usual elbow-in-the-side
punching activity was going on. He
and I had already received a couple
of dark looks from each of our
mothers down below in the
congregation, and there was no doubt
in either of our minds that we were
in for it after the service was
over. Our only consolation at the
time was that neither of our fathers
had looked up there yet. We both
knew that if we got a look from
either of them, Christian attitudes
took on a whole new meaning.
Well, Brother Miller was expounding
on what must have been an important
point about everybody scurrying
around doing worldly things without
stopping once in a while to listen
to what God was trying to tell us
all, because he fairly hollered,
"HUSH, AND BE STILL," and was
looking up right at me and Ralph. Me
and Ralph hushed and got still. And
noticed that both of our fathers
were looking up at us. And frowning.
That's when I got saved.
Ralph, too.
When the end of the sermon was
reached and the invitation was
issued to surrender all and join the
church and the invitational hymn was
being sung, I got up and made my way
down to the front of the church to
make my intentions known. I didn't
know Ralph was right behind me until
I was halfway down the balcony
steps. I looked around and saw his
pale face and eyes that said to me
without his having to verbalize,
"You ain't leaving me up there
alone. Besides, it's a better idea
than anything I got."
We marched right up to Brother
Miller, who smiled and shook our
hands, and had us stand by him after
the hymn so that the congregation
could come by and greet us as new
converts and members. Everybody was
smiling and gracious and we got hugs
and handshakes and special,
misty-eyed hugs from our parents.
Now before you get all righteous and
start mouthing things like
"hypocritical" and "opportunistic"
and other unlovely adjectives, you
need to remember that He works in
strange and mysterious ways. I'm
sure that's what my mother was
thinking and probably hoping.
Anyway, a very positive atmosphere
displaced a potentially very
negative one and it worked out
pretty well. My hooligan attitude
was displaced by one of a more
serene nature for a couple of days
and my behind was immeasurably
better off.
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Baptism services in our church were
performed once each month at a
Sunday night service. The baptistry
was an aquarium-like apparatus
located behind the pulpit up above
the choir loft. The front of the
baptistry was a pane of glass which
allowed you to see a foot or so of
the water where the baptizing was
taking place. Steps usually led down
into the baptistry on one end and up
out of it at the other end. It was
about four and a half feet deep. Our
baptistry was getting its share of
the renovation work going on at the
church, and the steps had been
temporarily removed. A semi-gradual
slope consisting of a corrugated
metal walkway had been installed at
each end to substitute for steps
until they could be put in. And the
walkways were a little slippery.
The lights in the church were dimmed
except for the ones in the baptistry,
which lent additional drama to the
event.
In the late afternoon of my
baptismal Sunday, Mama summoned me
in from the woods to get ready. She
explained that I would change out of
my clothes at the church and don a
white robe for the baptism. After
the service, I would dry off with
the towel she provided for me, and
change back into my brand new Sunday
clothes. Since this was winter time,
the Sunday britches were made out of
a hard, heavy, scratchy wool
material. I distinctly remember
that.
We got to the church a little early
like we were instructed to do. I
took the towel, separated from my
family, and headed for the room
where we were supposed to change
into our white robes. Ralph was
already there. And he was worried.
"You can't see through these robes
when they're dry," he said, "but
when they get wet, I ain't too sure
about how much they cover up."
"Ralph, nobody can see from your
chest down anyway when you get in
the water, and nobody but you and me
can see you when you get out," I
said.
"Brother Miller can."
I hadn't thought about that. Or the
possibility that somebody might be
assigned to assist us when we
returned from the holy event.
"Well, I'm fixing to wear my drawers
under that robe," I said.
"They'll get wet," he cautioned. I
was getting a little frayed with
him. "Who cares? How many times at
the swimming hole have your drawers
got wet or muddy and you just wore
your britches home with no drawers
underneath? A bunch to times, I bet,
and this won't be any different.
Nobody but you and me will know we
don't have no drawers on."
"God will know."
"He won't care."
So we left our drawers on under the
robes and proceeded to the walkway
leading down into the baptistry to
await our cue to be baptized.
Brother Miller was already in the
baptistry, giving a short message to
the congregation. I was to go first,
so I had a good look at him from my
vantage point slightly above him.
And a mystery cleared up for me. I
had never understood how he managed
to get out of that baptistry after a
service and get back to the pulpit
in such a hurry without being the
slightest bit damp and with his
Brooks Brothers suit and starched
white shirt still impeccable. Now I
did! He was wearing chest waders
like you duck hunt in under his
robe! And I also noticed that since
he was pretty short, the water was
only about a couple of inches below
the top of the waders and that he
was standing sort of tippy-toed to
keep it at that level, making his
balance not too steady.
The plan was, when Brother Miller
finished his remarks and was ready
for me to come down, he was to look
up at us, nod, and outstretch one
arm toward us. I was not paying too
much attention to what he was
saying, since I was surveying the
congregation through a little crack
between the wall and a small curtain
behind which I stood, trying to pick
out my parents in the darkened area.
Brother Miller looked up at us,
nodded, and stretched out his
beckoning arm. I was still looking
through the crack. Things got quiet.
Ralph said, "Jimmy, G'WONE!" (Rhymes
with "bone" - little boy Southern
for "go on"). I said, "What?"
"G'WONE!!!!"
I snapped a look at Brother Miller
and realized that the whole world
was waiting for my next move. I
reckon that pressure was the reason
my first step was too long. My heel
slipped on that walkway and I went
slap under. I managed to grab
something structural an stand up,
but when I did, I was halfway
between the usual starting point
where the congregation could first
glimpse the entering, and Brother
Miller. So the first sight they had
of me was not the usual dignified
entering, but rather my rising from
the water like a drowned rat. With a
little splashing and coughing.
Brother Miller didn't look too
happy, but there was no turning back
now. He washed my sins away with a
practiced smooth dip, and turned me
loose. I waded the couple of steps
to the other incline and started
out. But I reckon the Lord figured I
wasn't quite sinless yet, 'cause I
almost got to the top of the incline
and slipped down again. This time I
reached above my head in a futile
attempt to grab onto anything. The
motion caused me to straighten my
whole body and turn into a wet,
sinless, nine-year-old, underwater
projectile. I shot back down that
incline following the contour of the
bottom, robe flaring over my head,
with straight legs locked at the
knees.
Both feet caught Brother Miller on
the side of his left leg somewhere
about knee level. Just right.
Unfortunately. He disappeared from
the congregation's sight as his legs
were knocked sideways like a bowling
pin and under he went.
Things got confusing for me. I was
under water with that damn robe over
my head, and there was a lot of
thrashing around me that I didn't
cause. On purpose. Brother Miller
was having the same problem, I
reckon, but I ain't sure his robe
was creating problems for him like
mine was for me. I'm sure his waders
were full, though. After he
disappeared, the congregation
couldn't see anything but the
baptistry water sloshing up against
the glass pane and maybe
occasionally a hand or a foot or a
boot. Ralph was the only one who saw
the whole thing. He made a mental
note to watch out on the slippery
inclines when his turn came.
I finally figured out which way was
up and got the hell out of there,
half crawling up the incline and
choking and coughing and not looking
back. I had finished drying off and
was half dressed when Ralph came in,
dripping, newly sinless, and
grinning.
"Did you get baptized?", I asked,
nonchalantly.
"Yep. But not as much as you did. He
held me under a lot longer than I
thought he needed to, though. And he
dang sure didn't look too happy."
Well, I'm going to shorten the rest
of this, now. I don't need to tell
you how hard, scratchy wool britches
feel without drawers, how I made
sure that Ralph was between me and
Brother Miller when we lined up in
the church to accept the
congratulatory handshakes and hugs
from the congregation, or how I
wondered if Brother Miller had
brought an extra pair of drawers,
since he still looked pretty damp.
I've thought about this event a lot
in the ensuing years, sometimes with
embarrassment and sometimes with
hesitantly humorous feelings. But
what I think ain't too important, I
guess. I just wonder what God
thought. Or thinks. What do you
think?
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