Don't Wake Me Up

Dear Boo and Bubble,

I grew up a Baptist, the Protestant denomination that places strong emphasis on these tenets –

• the freedom of the individual led by God’s spirit,
• the freedom of the local church,
• the larger body of Christ made up of local churches around the world,
• the servant role of leadership within the church,
• theological education,
• proclamation of the Good News, and
• a free church in a free state.

Were you to ask me what all this means, I’d have to say that there’s a lot of freedom floating around in those words, but they are anchored by the responsibilities  of becoming educated and committing oneself to service within the church.  I’ve fallen far short of these noble goals, especially in my later years where life’s arch forced gravitation more in the direction of disorganized religion.  But, your great, great granddaddy Schaefer took these instructions to heart and became a pillar of our church – First Baptist of Greenville.  He perennially served as a Deacon, taught Sunday School, and lead in every effort to raise money on the church’s behalf.  (I’m sure Mamaw Mary would have assumed the same stature had she been allowed at the time, but that’s another blog subject for a later day.)

 Officially organized in 1831, First Baptist was the second of Greenville’s five original “downtown” churches (along with Christ Church Episcopal, Buncombe Street United Methodist, First Presbyterian, and St. Mary’s Roman Catholic) and the first of the five to be deeded land by Vardry McBee, who owned over 11,000 acres of what is now Greenville.  The sanctuary where my family worshipped was originally built in 1858 on this land and, until the 1970’s, First Baptist called McBee Street in the heart of town its home.

I loved that old sanctuary with the organ pipes behind the baptismal serving as a stately backdrop for the choir.  Two aisles separated the pews into three sections on the main floor.  A U-shaped balcony caressed the whole scene like a frame around a classic picture.  Stained glass windows muted the light filtering through which softened the atmosphere, giving an appropriate reverence to the setting.

For my entire formative years, the sanctuary stayed structurally the same.  The leadership of the church, however, authorized tweaks here and there as new technology evolved to enhance the worship experience.  One such adaptation was a sound system with a microphone at the pulpit connected to a series of speakers strategically placed around the perimeter. 

In the early to mid-60’s, the minister at First Baptist was a gentleman named Jim Stertz.  He had the misfortune of following L.D. Johnson, a cerebral giant who masterfully connected that intellect with an effectual oratory, creating many invigorating sermons that both piqued the challenge and the joy of faith.  Dr. Stertz’s delivery was more pedestrian, but his messages remained solid. 

About this time, the speakers in the sanctuary developed an annoying crackle.  The congregation ignored it as best possible, but over several months’ duration, we began to feel like we were worshipping in the middle of a popcorn popper.

Dr. Stertz brought the situation up at a Wednesday night deacons’ meeting where your great, great granddaddy was in attendance.

“I would like to address the problem we have with our speaker system,” he said.  “I can’t hear it from the pulpit, but several members commented this last Sunday that it has gotten to a bad point.”

After a few comments came, granddaddy raised his hand to be recognized. 

“Yes, Jim, I definitely think the money would be well-spent to fix the system.  It’s starting to wake me up in the middle of your sermon.”