The Time Capsule: Southern Baptists: good sermons and food

Of late I’ve been spending time with some Southern Baptists. The experience has been enjoyable, as has the food.   

While wintering in Texas, my wife and I visit different churches.  Some are more different than others. One we’ve grown fond of is nine miles from the nearest town. The small, white, wood-frame building is on a desolate piece of land—near enough the sea to be at risk, yet too far away to have a view. There is no bell-tower. Instead a bull-horn speaker on the roof emits, when it works, recorded chimes. Inside walls are paneled with something from the 1960s. Carpet is well-worn.  Near the entrance, next to a faded likeness of Christ, are several photographs of a nice stringer of speckled sea trout.  There are no robes, no Latin, no pretenses.

The minister has a handle-bar mustache and, on chilly days, likes to wear a red and black plaid flannel shirt.  He will, upon occasion, use a double-negative. On a well-rusted pickup parked near the door is a bumper sticker reading, in big letters “I DON’T BELIEVE.”  Below, in fine print, are the words: “the liberal media.” I’m told it’s the minister’s truck. I don’t know. I do know his sermons are as conservative as the Ten Commandments.  He thinks the Good Book means pretty much what it says, and doesn’t need a second opinion.  Don’t ask him about gay marriage.         

Rewarding as their services are, a couple of customs seem foreign. I’m not used to the level of audience participation. The congregation consists of perhaps 20 souls. They make their presence known. “Amen,” seems to be their favorite response when the preacher scores a point.  “Hallelujah,” gets a lot of use, as does “Glory be.” 

A fellow named Elwin likes to sit behind me. He tends to sound off at times that are not entirely appropriate. Last week the minister noted the lingering drought and Elwin responded: “Hallelujah, brother!” This drew the preacher’s eye. Because of Elwin’s proximity, I couldn’t be sure who the man at the pulpit was looking at. I wanted to smile and point, but such would not be in good taste.                     

Baptists, at least in this congregation, sing more than I care to. I prefer hymns either be practiced in moderation or performed by people who can actually carry a tune. This church has no choir.  Instead, as in pretty much every church I’ve attended, we non-singers are asked to move our lips, perhaps even making what the clergy, in the privacy of their homes, laughingly call a “joyful noise.”  These Baptists make “joyful noises,” practically non-stop, from 11-11:30 a.m.   

I also find it odd for the collection to be taken as the hymns are being concluded.  I’m not a member and finances are their business.  I’d be inclined, however, to a higher level of generosity if the plate was passed at a more inspiring point in the proceedings.  

Sermons have all been solid; well worth the wait. They are sometimes followed by a pot-luck dinner, an experience as diverse as attendees. Germans settled here in the mid-1800s. Their descendants bring wonderful sausage made with old family recipes. A couple of Hispanic ladies provide the finest carnitas and enchiladas I’ve had. One parishioner drags for shrimp in the summer, oysters in the winter.  His wife is a master at preparing both. Mine takes a green bean casserole we eat later in the week. 

We’ve found these Southern Baptists to be all-around fine folks.        

Roy Marshall is a local historian and columnist for the Red Oak Express. He can be contacted at news@redoakexpress.com.