FELLOWSHIP
My earliest memory of religion involves a small Baptist church in a rural county of southern Arkansas. The congregation met in a small white building, but not every Sunday. Preachers were scarce so the roving evangelist only appeared on certain weeks. The seats were hard, and the sermons were long the old folks always said. They also said the Klu Klux Klan would make an appearance if the teenaged boys became obstreperous. (There weren't enough African Americans around to keep them busy, so they reverted to maintainers of discipline.)
My great-grandfather had once preached at that church when called. He was a charter member, a veteran of the Confederate Army, a father of eight, and a part-time minister. My Sainted Mother never knew him so his life remains obscure. His obituary only stated that "he never participated in any of the neighborhood brawls."
Good for him.
My memories of the religious activity of that church limit themselves to a rather pleasant experience as I recall. They involved "All day singing with dinner on the ground." Dinner, of course meant the midday meal at that place in those times.
People from near and far would come to sing from the Baptist Hymnal. Women would spread some of the finest meals on the planet. Kids would play, often with others they had never met. The air throbbed with love and harmony. It must have been a grand experience in order to implant its memory on a toddler's brain.
I took my sister and a great-nephew (who was graduating from medical school) there recently. The old building is gone except for the slab, a slab that looks pitifully small. A larger white building houses the congregation now. Looking at the grounds, I felt pleasant memories, despite having attended there the funerals of loved ones. For a second or two, I heard voices singing, friends greeting friends, and children shouting with the joy of playing games.
I think America could benefit from a return to the days when religion sometimes made people happy.
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