Dear Jimmy,
I know you will find this almost as hard to believe as your Uncle Orley, but I am speechless. He says that despite his prayers he is confident that it is only a temporary affliction and that I am the only person he knows who can talk non-stop about bein’ speechless.
Be that as it may, I just don’t know what to say about our dear pastor, Bro. Bobby. I’ve always had such a high opinion of him, but I fear he’s gone and got some hair-brained notions from some conference he attended or maybe some book he picked up somewhere. Anyhow, he has it in his head that we need to get rid of the choir and have just a few singers up front with guitars and tambourines and drums and all such things as that. Why, he even said if we had somebody who could play the fiddle that would be good, too! He said that right in a big meetin’ we had last Wednesday night to talk about what has come into his head.
Jim White
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I can’t help but think our Palm Sunday blaze when we set Bro. Benny Bush’s hair on fire and nearly burnt down the church is the cause of all this, but the preacher says not.
And just what kind of music do you suppose they would be playin’? Country gospel, that’s what! And I’m not just talkin’ about the old time country gospel songs like Drop-kick me Jesus through the Goalposts of Life, either! He has it in his head that we should have in church the style of music people around here listen to when they’re not in church. Why, I asked him right out loud, I said, “What’s next? Are we goin’ to only read in church what people read when they’re not in church?” I said that just before my speechless condition set in.
He says if we don’t do somethin’ different to reach new people that we will find out maybe too late that the only people we’ve been baptizin’ for years are our own younguns and a lot of them kind of drift away from the church when they get on their own. He says we’ve got to think “beyond ourselves.” He says we’ve got to put the lost and their needs ahead of the way we want things to be like.
Well, that’s when Dooley Allred piped up and said, “Now, preacher, I’m all for savin’ the lost and all, but you got to remember we’re the ones who built these buildin’s and paid the bills around here. I don’t see as how it can be wrong for things to go on the way we like ‘em.” When he said that about half the people there started clappin’ and shoutin’, “Amen, Bro. Dooley.” That was about the last thing that happened before the meetin’ broke up, so I don’t have any more to say on the subject. But as soon as I get over bein’ speechless, I recon I’ll give you an earful. This wasn’t even what I had in mind to write you about when I put pen to paper, but it just kind of poured out.
What I wanted to tell you about was a visit Uncle Orley and I had with my cousin, Emma Lou and her husband, Eugene. We haven’t seen them in years, which is a doggone shame seein’ as how we were like sisters when we were growin’ up and all. I’d tell you all about their kids and grandkids but my hand would get tired of writin’ all that, so I’ll have to tell you all about it when you come see us. I still have hope that you will actually do that sometime soon.
No, what I really wanted to say was how sad we were about what has happened down at their church. The last time we visited Mt. Molehill Baptist with them the church was pret’ near full with families from all around the mountain. But, oh my goodness, you should see it now. Why, they’re down to next to nothin’ in Sunday school and worship ain’t much better, truth be told.
After church I asked Emma Lou what had happened and she said she didn’t rightly know. The church just kind of dwindled away over time. Now, I could understand this if folks were movin’ away from the mountain, but Orley and I saw dozens of new houses. It seems that a lot of folks from D.C. are drawn to Mt. Molehill in their retirement. Not only that, they’ve got a new McDonald’s. Now you know the golden arch folks are not goin’ to build a new McDonald’s in a place they figure is about to croak. And this one has a play area — and I’m not talkin’ checkers.
On the road home, I had Orley turn off his Charlie Daniels CD so we could talk about it. We just can’t figure how Mt. Molehill Baptist up and nearly died when all the while new folks are movin’ in. Your uncle is of the opinion that the pastor and deacons should have figured out what the new folks needed and liked and tried to minister to them. He says it seems to him that Mt. Molehill got so set in its ways that new folks didn’t find much to make them stick when they visited. What they were doin’ was all well and good for the folks who went there, but he guesses that the new folks must not have liked it much.
I’ve thought about that, and I think he may be on to somethin’. As the older folks died off and went to glory the church kept gettin’ smaller and smaller. Now it’s at the point where I wouldn’t even want to go there myself if we moved to Molehill. It’s just a dadburn shame they didn’t do somethin’ when they could. Now there’s just a handful of them left tryin’ to have church the same way they did years ago and I don’t think they could change if they wanted to — which I doubt they do.
Orley says if they had just been willin’ to change some, they wouldn’t have ended up in such a bad way. I recon it’s true. When I think about it, everything else has changed. Do you know that when I was a kid we used to buy our groceries at Pressler’s store and it had a sawdust floor. You probably never saw the old place ‘cause Pressler’s went out of business years ago.
Oh my gracious and heavens to Betsy. Why, I see now what that ol’ coot was doin’. Your uncle wasn’t talkin’ about Mt. Molehill. No, he was talkin’ all the time about our own Bluebell Baptist. He’s real sneaky like that. Well, I need to do a powerful lot of thinkin’ and prayin’, it seems. Maybe we could just change a little bit, or maybe make changes over time. Kind of like buildin’ up a dose of medicine a little at a time until it finally does a body good.
You know, when I think about it, I could take you to a dozen churches within easy drivin’ distance that wouldn’t change if a hand appeared on Sunday mornin’ and wrote it on the wall. And every blame one of them is about in the same situation as Mt. Molehill.
I recon I need to ask Bro. Bobby what he has in mind. I recon, too, I need to make reachin’ the lost more important than hangin’ on to the things I like — unless the things I like will reach the lost!
Well, God bless you, Nephew, and come see us when you can.
Love always, Aunt Ida
Jim White is editor of the Religious Herald.