In Shake Rag there were two churches when I was growing up: a Baptist and a Methodist church. Now Mama Bea and Daddy Freeman weren’t big church goers, but they knew it was important so occasionally they would send me down the road to attend church. Most of my family was Baptist, I think, but I’m not sure that denominational divisions were all that important in Shake Rag. You just went to church, period. What determined which church you attended on any particular Sunday was a mystery to me then and still is today. Boone’s Chapel Methodist Church was the closest one to us. It was also, you may recall, where everyone eventually took up residence for their eternal reward.
One particular Sunday when I was about ten years old I had made my way to the Methodist church in time for Sunday School. I suppose some cousin or aunt had picked me up and taken me. Now Boone’s Chapel wasn’t that big. In fact, as I recall, it had a small red brick sanctuary with a couple of side rooms and that was about it. Our little class of ten year olds had gathered off to the side of the sanctuary for the morning lesson. Our teacher was a nice lady who was rather young. I’m certain we were related and I want to say her name was Laura but I can’t be certain. At any rate, there were five of us gathered in a semi-circle sitting in folding steel chairs. I remember because I was wearing shorts and my legs kept sticking to the chair. Between the teacher and me there were three girls. All three were sitting very properly in their frilly white dresses. To my right was another student that I don’t remember much about at all so I’m guessing it must have been a boy.
Somewhere along the way I had learned a critical fact about attending Sunday School: when the teacher asked a question, never look her in the eye. Look down, look out the window, feign reading your Bible, cough a lot, anything but don’t look at the teacher as this assured your name being called upon to answer the question. This strategy had served me well the few times that I had attended but today the teacher had issued a full blown assault on the class. She was going in order around the semi-circle with a question that scared me, “When were you saved and how did it happen?” Quickly I counted, 1, 2, 3 … 4. I was fourth. There was time to figure out what the dickens she was talking about. What does she mean “saved”? I began to sweat. Her earlier comments seemed to indicate that it had something to do with being a Christian but it seemed silly to ask such a thing. Didn’t she know Mamma Bea and Daddy Freeman? They weren’t Russians or aliens or anything like that. They were my family, Baptists, Christians and I had come from that family. Didn’t she remember where she lived? America for Pete’s sake. Everybody is a Christian. How can I point to a time when I was “saved”? I’ve always been that way.
The teacher turned to Polly who sat next to her and said, “Polly, tell us about when you were saved.” Polly said rather snootily, “I was saved on October 23, 1965 when Brother Jim came and preached a revival for our church. I went down the aisle on the second stanza of “Just As I Am” and received Jesus Christ as my personal savior.” “Hmmmmph, teacher’s pet.” I thought. That had gone way too fast but it had given me some insight into this “saved” business. There had been a particular date. A decision had been made. Jesus was personal. That was all new to me. Maybe victim number two will shed more light. “Brenda, tell us about when you were saved,” said the teacher. “That’s not a fair question,” she responded. With those five words I felt like a bale of Daddy Freeman’s hay had been lifted from my shoulders. She was stalling. She didn’t have an answer either. I was set free. The teacher continued to prod her but to no avail. The buzzer rang indicating class was over and I pulled my sweaty legs free from the steel chair and bolted. It would be a long time before I would go back to Sunday School.
Although that experience was most uncomfortable for me, I count it as one of the pivotal times in my spiritual formation. It would be another seven years before I would become a Christian. The Spirit would use that Sunday School teacher, my grandfather, a few friends and a couple more occasions to nudge me along. I suspect most believers can reflect back and see such “Spirit proddings” in their faith development. Perhaps we would all do well to sit down with a pen and paper and remember those people and events that God has used in our lives.
What then is Apollos? What is Paul? Servants through whom you came to believe, as the Lord assigned to each. I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth. . . . .For we are God’s servants, working together; you are God’s field, God’s building. – I Corinthians 3
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