Church

Farmersville had a reputation, in the early 1950s, of having the most bars for a town its size in the State. 

And the most churches. 

As the Sixties approached, Hollywood movies, TV, and popular novels often portrayed churches and people of faith, especially if from the South or Midwest, as stiff, uncompromising, puritan, imbued with hypocrisy.  A special ire was reserved for the beliefs and practices of Evangelicals. They were ridiculed and mocked.  It was easy to imagine the arrogance of the persons popularizing such views, evincing a superior smile as they looked down on a group they deemed inferior.

Many of the churches in Farmersville were of the kind they targeted.

Religion, until recently, has been one of the pillars of strength undergirding the nation.  Unfortunately, It’s been undermined like so much else that made us strong and unique as a nation.   Both from without and within.   The pandemic and the government’s willingness and surprising ability to shut down churches “in an emergency” was the final blow.  Many doubt they will ever return to their former strength or influence on how we live our lives, how we restrain our baser impulses, how we treat and respect our fellow citizens. 

Church though, back then, played a large part of our lives, both directly and indirectly.

Denominations were mostly Baptists, Southern or Free Will, though a Methodist church was on the north side, a Catholic church on the East side.

And, indeed, there were a group of churches loosely called Holiness.  Many were evangelical. Tent revivals by itinerant preachers were a regular occurrence.  Some we called Holy Rollers.  And people did speak in tongues, and occasionally, if taken with the “Spirit,” dance and roll on the floors of the churches. 

Though my family did not attend a holiness church, I had relatives who did.   One relative was a pastor of such a church.  Consequently, I did visit some of those churches once or twice.  And I witnessed people transported by a sermon or group prayer to a state where they did speak in tongues. A young woman rocking back and forth in the pews holding a baby in her arms, the preacher interpreting the unintelligible words she was uttering.  As a young boy I found it curious.  But, beyond that, there was nothing particularly noteworthy about it. 

In all the churches, the music was loud and rhythmic.  A piano, never an organ. No one could afford that.  Mournful songs like “Bringing in the Sheaves,” inspiring songs like “The Old Rugged Cross,” joyful songs like “Just a Closer Walk with Thee,” and “Peace in the Valley.” It was old time gospel music.  Compelling.  One was drawn to sing out loud, to be touched by the togetherness of a congregation being lifted up in contemplation of heaven.

The preaching was vigorous, and Pastors could raise the spirit of a congregation.  From the pulpit these men were as articulate as any modern leader. Most could inspire a congregation. Under the right circumstances, some could even drive them to a frenzy.  The preachers created a vision and a promise of something better than the trials and tribulations of this life. There were memorable stories of Job, Isaiah, and Kind David.  And, yes, the preachers could create a picture of the fires of Hell if the members of the church fell short. 

It was my fortune to have a career where I faced and tried court cases against some of the best trial lawyers in the State.  They were very articulate men and women.  These preachers, in their element, could match any of them in their use of the English language. There were rhythms and cadences to their sermons, that echoed the unrivaled poetry of the King James Bible. It was no accident that the King James Bible was written around 1611, during the era, 1590 to 1613. some of the most beautiful prose and poetry in the history of the English language was written by Shakespeare and others. The preachers may not have read Shakespeare or Faulkner, Hemingway, or Keats, but daily, hourly, they were immersed in the study of the most poetic and beautiful use of the English language, the King James Bible.  They could quote it.  They could imitate its cadences and vocabulary.

The vigor with which a preacher delivered his sermon could also lead to occasional humorous results.

I remember a preacher who got so going and blowing he spit out his false teeth.  I remember staring at the teeth on the floor in the aisle next to me, as the preacher, without stopping his sermon, though now the words ending with an S came out with a whistle, walk over, pick up the teeth, put them back in his mouth, and continue on.

Every person who regularly does public speaking, knows there are times when one loses their concentration, their train of thought.  It’s happened to me, both in giving speeches, and even during arguments I was making to jury or judge. When, it happened, I remembered that preacher. I learned to just keep going and it would all reconnect.  The person to whom I was arguing might have a momentary confused look cross their brow, but I would have them again soon enough.

The Lesson?  If you lose your way (or your teeth), just keep going and you will get back on track.

Going to Church on Sundays played a large part of our lives.

There was a kindness about Sundays, a gentleness.  Many of those sitting in those roughhewn wood pews lived hard lives.  There were difficulties. Money, finding and keeping work, raising children, keeping them clean, getting them in school, living full lives without running water, without washing machines, without conveniences of any kind.  But on Sundays, there was a respite from all that.  A smile for a neighbor. A gentle word from the pastor. Holding the door for a little old lady, having her look up at you like she felt pride in you being a young gentleman.  The feel and warmth, the preciousness of holding a bible in your hand or sharing an open hymnal as you sing along with the congregation.  The contemplation of HIm, the most gentle of all. 

There was a cleanliness about Sunday mornings.  Though the people wore no designer labels, they were usually dressed in their finest.  The women in nice dresses, often with hats, the men, in white shirts and slacks, the hats they donned from a box taken down from the top of the closet, only rarely brought out. For dress up.  

As a very young boy, I have a memory of sitting in church between my Father and Mother.  While the pastor was delivering the sermon, or the choir was singing I sat looking at my father’s hands.  A construction worker, the skin of his hands was baked dark from labor in the hot sun, there were bruises, “skint” places.  His fingernails I remember, no matter how much he scrubbed them with that old Lava soap still had tiny bits of grease under the fingernails.  He worked in dangerous places with loud heavy machinery the superintendent refused to shut down even while being serviced, but here it was safe. His wife and children next to him, as clean and presentable as they could get; us boys with our hair combed, ribbons in my sister’s blonde hair. Here with our family it was safe. Sunday morning.  At church.  I felt safe.  All the world was ok. 

To dress in one’s Sunday’s finest, was a sign of respect.  Respect for each other, respect for the church and respect for one’s maker. 

I have in the last few years noted how some pastors dress down to their congregations. I’ve seen youth pastors speaking from the lectern in faded wrinkled blue jeans and a stretched out pull over. They talk of making a “connection” with the congregation.  It’s a mistake.  Them “connecting” is not the point.  Facilitating the connection of the congregant with the Almighty is the point.  And, in dressing like a bum, they disrespect the congregation and the church they represent.  You can’t reach anyone with an elevated thought if you look and dress like you were going out to mow the lawn after church.  Pastors and those who would lead a church should keep in mind what they represent. And Who. And present themselves accordingly.

There was a life in the church in those days.  Wednesday singings.  Baptisms.

And, many times, baptisms took place at the river.  A total immersion.  Maybe not the sanitized, homogenized tubs and glass enclosures of today’s church baptisms or the light sprinkling of baptismal water. Nothing wrong with that to be sure.  But it’s not the same.

Many in media and elsewhere still denigrate a Christian life and the kind of churches many of us attended. And, as with all things, there were some who committed abuses. Many strayed, and often, from living what was called a Christian life.  However, because of church, there was an effort to keep to the “straight and narrow.”  That you would stray was acknowledged by all. It was understood to be the nature of man.  But transgressions could also be forgiven.  Redemption was promised.  And just the effort to live a life of faith was a restraint that made society more civilized, kinder, gentler when it counted.  The essence of a Christian life, of religious practices in those little churches was kindness.  And there could be incredible kindnesses.

Many of our people lived lives of belief, faith and practiced charity and forgiveness.  Sincere people who hoped for a better life here and in the hereafter.

There are two kinds of charity. One from the rich man who gives to those in need.  Virtuous and praiseworthy for sure.  But how much more virtuous and praiseworthy is the charity given by a poor man to another?

There was lot of that.

Happy Easter.

Farmersville Tales is published Sundays

The photograph is of an uncle conducting a baptism in a river near Farmersville.

For more writings by Phil Cline, visit philcline.com