Dear Jimmy,
Well, it’s one of those nights when I can’t sleep so I figure I’ll write you a few lines maybe sort out some things that are all jumbled up in my mind. Your uncle and I have had a big disagreement — not quite as big as the one when without my knowin’ it he dumped Texas Pete in 47 quarts of my canned tomatoes before I sealed them, but close. That little incident created a run on Rolaids down at Walt’s Drug Store after I presented my special canned tomatoes to friends all over town. They all thought I’d set out to set fire to their insides on purpose and some of them still look suspicious like at anything that comes outta my kitchen.
Jim White
|
Well, anyway, I guess you could say our disagreements are becoming more serious because this most recent unpleasantness between us is theological in nature. It all started when Brother Bobby, our dear pastor at Bluebell Baptist, proposed to the deacons that Hank Hawkins be accepted as a member of our church.
I don’t know if you remember meeting Hank when you preached that revival for us back when you were still in the ministry, but years and years ago he married the young daughter of a pastor we used to have here before he died. Well, Beulah, that was her name, was a Baptist, of course, and Hank, he was a Methodist.
After some back and forth discussion on the matter, they finally decided to attend Bluebell Baptist but he wouldn’t join cause he said he didn’t see the need of getting’ baptized over again. He was perfectly satisfied with the little bit of water they used on him. Maybe that was the year of the great drought in these parts, I can’t remember.
Anyhow, Hank and Beulah were the most faithful couple you can imagine. If it was Sunday or Wednesday, they were in church. Finally, when the from here to heaven old men’s Sunday school class needed a teacher, they asked Hank. Uncle Orley wasn’t in that class in those days, but he is now.
Well, Hank did a mighty fine job of teachin’ and that class grew to a good size. All these years Hank’s been teachin’ at Bluebell Baptist, worshipin’ at Bluebell Baptist — why he’s been more regular that most of the deacons Brother Bobby was talkin’ to about it, but he’s gettin’ old and slowin’ down. Our preacher figured that the only thing that kept him from bein’ Baptist was gettin’ dunked, so he proposed that the deacons recommend that the church admit him as a member.
You’da thought he wanted to sell fertilizer durin’ the offertory. Orley was the first one to speak up. “Why, preacher,” he says, “the one thing every member of Bluebell Baptist has in common is that we have all been baptized by goin’ all the way under the water. Now, Hank, he’s a good man. I don’t expect gettin’ dipped would make him any better than he already is. But that’s what bein’ a Baptist is all about.” Several deacons started clappin’.
Another deacon added, “Besides, he could’a become a member any time he wanted to by just givin’ in to our way of doin’ things. He’s just stubborn, that’s all.”
Well, I just couldn’t sit there and not say somethin’. “Now wait just a minute,” I said. “You all know Hank. There’s not a thing about him that’s stubborn. He’s not tryin’ to be difficult. He’s not even askin’ us to let him in as a member. Far as I know, this is all Brother Bobby’s idea.” At this point, the pastor nodded. “It’s just that Hank believes his real baptism was when he got his head sprinkled on with water.”
Dooly Allred, who always has an opinion, said, “You know if Hank counts that as his real baptism, could it be that we’re the ones bein’ stubborn? Maybe, like some of you have said, we should hold the line and say, ‘No, this is how we’ve always done it.’ But we’ve all agreed that Hank is as good a Christian as there is in these parts. It seems to me that if he’s good enough for the Lord, he ought to be good enough for us.”
Well, back and forth it went. One would say, “Immersion is a symbol of the Lord’s death, burial and resurrection. It shows that when we got saved our old life was dead and buried and we have new life in Christ.” Then, another would say “But it’s faith in Jesus that makes us saved, not gettin’ dipped under the water.”
Then Orley said, “It just ain’t the Baptist way. Baptism by immersion has been the thing that makes us different.”
“That’s funny,” said I without giving enough thought to how I was sayin’ it, “I thought what made us different was respectin’ every person’s right to figure out what God wanted him to do without forcin’ our ways on him.”
At that point, Brother Bobby said, “Folks, it’s not right that we should let the question cause conflict between us.” Everybody there knew he was really sayin’, “between Orley and Ida.” I glanced over at Orley and he was starin’ at the floor — the same one I was wishin’ would just open up and swaller me.
“It’s clear to me that we’re not ready to make a recommendation of this kind without givin’ the matter some study, so I’m withdrawin’ my suggestion. I just thought that as Hank moves into the last days of his life this was somethin’ we could do to say, “We accept you, Hank, as one of us. Your faithfulness to this church has given you the right to membership and to vote on what we do as a church.”
Well, it was a quiet ride home from church tonight. I feel sorry ‘cause your poor uncle must be plumb riled that I spoke out like I did. I can see his point, of course, but I just wish he could see that some opinion besides his own might have some value. But I sure don’t want him to feel like I embarrassed him. Lands sakes, I sure didn’t mean to do that. Still, to me it’s a matter of makin’ Hank more important than our rules. To me, it seems like that’s what Jesus was always doin’.
But, livin’ with your uncle these many years has taught me to respect his opinion, too. I guess somewhere you have to hold the line. Brother Bobby was right. It’s somethin’ to study on.
Tomorrow at first light I’m gonna tell him I’m sorry if I embarrassed him. Then I’m gonna fix him a country breakfast and I’ll resist the temptation to load up his grits with Texas Pete. And, after that we can talk more about Hank.
Thanks for helpin’ me work through this, nephew. Come see us when you can. We’re not gettin’ any younger, you know.
Love, Aunt Ida