I grew up in Bethlehem Baptist Church. I shared a nursery crib with the Harris twins, hunted for Easter eggs among the sandspurs, memorized Bible verses, and sang “Jesus loves Me, this I know.” Miss Leona made Rice Krispy treats, shared after our Sunday school lesson, the letters of Paul and trials of Abraham pale in excitement to that sticky, crunchy deliciousness. She made you extra on your birthday.
Bethlehem was established in 1834 by Noah Richardson, who served as the first pastor. When I was young, I thought it was the ark and flood Noah, but at seven, everyone over thirty seems to be aged of Biblical proportions.
The original church burned in 1977. Something malfunctioned in the furnace one Saturday night and those fat pine boards of the 1800’s cooked hot and fast. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
The word came around to our farm that the church had burned, and we went, just as we would have any other Sunday. The men stood around smoking cigarettes, transformed in one incident into fire marshals and crime scene investigators. The women fidgeted, sad in their skin, forsaken on their faces. My mama cried.
When I think about Bethlehem now, I envision the church that was resurrected after the fire, but when I smell grape Kool-Aid, I’m transported into that old structure’s basement where the coldest, purple beverage was served from a silver dipper during August Bible Schools. It was at the old church that I swung patten leather shoes from a wooden pew, snug between my parents or beside my Granny. Mostly I was thinking about fried chicken and hot biscuits that would be our lunch. Granny sometimes gave me half a stick of Double-Mint to quiet my feet.
Preaching started at 11:00 and usually lasted an hour, unless the man of the Lord sensed the impending return of our Savior and got wound up hearing himself ramble, or we had special music, or the Holy Spirit lingered, coaxing another verse of “Just As I Am, without one plea.”
“Oh, won’t you come,” said the sweaty minister. A restless wind blew in around 12:10 and it was time to release the sinners, the saving to be continued at Wednesday night prayer meeting.
I did it all. I walked the aisle. I got Baptized. I re-dedicated my life. I felt joy and guilt and shame and happiness. It’s entangled into who I am and some days it fits well and others it’s itchy and uncomfortable.
I tell people that I’m a recovering Baptist. I’m joking in a way that most of us kid around, with the truth being a sizeable percentage of the humor. I’m grateful for my Baptist upbringing, even with the hell and brimstone, it gave me a foundation for scripture and hymns, and I do love a good funeral.
I liken my religion now to windshield wipers. I’m sure glad to have them when life pours on me. Most of the time, I’m set to intermittent, washed clean at intervals, redeemed in the blood of the Lamb. One of the things I have come to know about myself is that spirituality, faith, religion and God are all part of my engine. The outward practice is random and the internal is without ceasing. My Maker and me, we are just fine.
I get nostalgic for Bethlehem in December. Like many small, country churches, there were scandals, conflicts, and splits. There was a fist fight on the steps and rumbles of adultery in the choir loft. People left to form other churches. It wasn’t perfect and preachers came and went, such is the way with the Baptists. But there was one thing that Bethlehem got right and that was Christmas.
Remembering the decorations alone make me smile. The communion table was wrapped in magnolia and holly from the yards of the congregation. There were strands of colored lights and a cardboard sleigh.
The Christmas pageant was performed by adults. Tobacco farmers and mill workers renovated themselves into Joseph, innkeepers, and wise men. If you were pregnant in the winter, you were going to be cast as Mary. If you delivered before the last Sunday in December, go ahead and swaddle that newborn because there’s nothing like a live baby Jesus to jazz up the grand finale of the nativity scene.
The play climaxed with the angel rising up from the baptismal pool, glowing in white with a gold tinsel halo. Oh, my heart. Along with the angel, we sang “Joy to the World” and a medley of Christmas carols that Miss Irene banged out on the piano, including Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. Sometimes Santa came in at the end and carooned along. It was pure magic.
As we left the play, the Hannon family gave every man, woman, and child a Christmas goody sack. It was a paper lunch bag, stuffed, folded, and stapled with care. Waiting inside was an orange and apple, a couple of pecans, a Hershey’s kiss, and a peppermint.
The Hannon family farm was a few miles from ours. Grown brothers and sisters lived together, continuing to care for one another until old age and death.
There were eleven children born to Charles Thomas and Louisa. Influenza passed through the community in March of 1925, killing the parents and four of the children in the span of ten days. After that intense loss and sadness, the remaining Hannons served one another and our little church in many ways. I will never forget those Christmas sacks, a reminder of a simple blessing through action and love.
This twisted tribute is about a place I call home, a place where Jesus and Santa were friends, where grown-ups sewed costumes, learned scripts, and carried hand hewn sticks for shepherd’s hooks, where an angel rose up from the depths of a baptistry, where ordinary people looked together toward a star shining in the east, and for a season, it was all about a place called Bethlehem.
Thanks Emily for taking me for another ride down “Memory Lane”. You capture the meaning of Christmas. Your writing is a gift, please keep sharing.
I miss the ice storms that always brought the whole family together at our house. But I especially miss Sunday dinners at Bingo and Miss Elizabeth’s house after a morning at Carthage First Presbyterian.
Chris Eldridge.
Awww, you’re bringing people together everywhere you go. Such great Christmas thoughts! Thanks for twisting everything into a positive glowing review!