My Dad's father was quite conservative even for my parents' circles. He and some of my dad's siblings actually broke away from my church when they merged with another group in opposition to what they saw as a move in a "liberal" direction. One of my uncles told my dad that he would pray for his soul if he went with the merger.
Another uncle once didn't let my sisters sing special music because one of them had cut her bangs, and hair cutting was not allowed because of 1 Corinthians 11. When my father first bought a black and white TV, my grandfather didn't come visit us for a long time in protest. That was one of his shaming techniques to show his disapproval. He would give you "a good letting alone."
I don't actually think too badly of him. I think you can be so convinced that someone is wrong that you don't feel threatened by them. Of course I mean people who are not in a position to hurt you politically or physically. I have lived a good deal of my teaching life with deep concern for people who disagree with me who might try to sabotage my livelihood.
It wasn't our way to hold these things against them. In fact, we dressed to standard when we visited. Even though my family remained rather conservative, I didn't experience these "standards" as a major concern for our nuclear family in particular.
As I was saying, one song in particular at camp meeting used to bring me inner turmoil. It went through the days of the weeks and you were supposed to stand when it came to the day of the week when you were "saved." "It was on a Sunday, somebody touched me..." You repeated it three times and then ended the stanza with "... must have been the hand of the Lord." Then it moved on to Monday. When the song came to the day you were saved, you were supposed to stand.
To be "saved" meant to have an experience of conversion. You went from being on your way to hell to being on your way to heaven, if you remained faithful. The experience was preached as a somewhat dramatic moment you would definitely know and remember. The picture was one of high emotion, with probable weeping or shouting or some significant sign of emotion. Sure, sure, somewhere someone said that it didn't have to necessarily be dramatic, but that was the image that seemed most given.
There would be multiple verses of a song as part of an "altar call." The altar was a long series of benches stretching across the front of the "tabernacle," as the camp meeting building for services was called, after the holy sanctuary of the Old Testament. In that sense, the altar at the front I suppose was meant to resemble the Holy of Holies where God's presence was, although I don't remember anyone ever saying that.
Everyone knew the ritual. After each verse of a song like "Just as I Am," the song evangelist would implore all of those to come forward who needed to 1) get saved, 2) get sanctified, or 3) something else relating to the sermon (very unusual though for it to be something other than getting saved or sanctified). There would often be, "This is the last verse." Sometimes it was; sometimes it wasn't.
Sometimes the preaching evangelist would get up between verses and tell a story about someone who didn't come to the altar and then died on their way home from the meeting, only to go into the eternity of hell. You could have written up the liturgy of the altar call the same as any Roman Catholic communion. It was followed every night, every year, ever camp meeting.
As I mentioned, I dreaded the "It was on a Sunday song." At first, it was because I did not have a clear moment to say was the real one when I was saved. Mind you, I asked God to forgive my sins repeatedly. I wanted to stand--who wanted to look like they had never been saved. I didn't know what day it was. I was so glad when they added a final verse, "I don't know what day it was but somebody touched me..."
But then there was guilt about not going forward to the altar. I was quite shy and the thought of walking down the length of the sanctuary to pray was terrifying. I would go outside and pray after the service. Once I went and sat on the bench on the front row after the service. Then I felt guilty for not being totally committed to God. If I was really serious about serving God I would have made myself walk down that long aisle to the front.
And at the front, people would pray for you. They would surround you, maybe lay hands on you. They would raise their voices in prayer for you. One or two would be on the other side of the altar, asking you what you were there for, how you wanted them to pray. It was all horribly terrifying to me.
And some people were altar recidivists. I remember a fellow in my home church--I think he might have later turned out to be gay--who was at the altar it seemed almost every week for a while. He never seemed to be able to find peace. I sympathized with him because I never seemed to have those dramatic emotional moments we were led to expect.
Then there was one Sunday morning, I think it was. My sisters were home to visit, maybe from "Brainerd Indian School" in South Dakota. It must have been in the late 70s. Going up that stairway on the outside of our house I felt a peace. Not a big emotion, but it was enough for me to stand up when the camp meeting song came up.
So much of this scene now seems wrong to me...
No comments:
Post a Comment