The Old Ways As a child, I loved the brush arbors. It wasn't hard to find someone in the church willing to have the services on their land. They picked a fairly level spot close enough to run an electrical cord from their house. 4 x 4's were used for the corner poles or small trees were stripped and trimmed. The top was criss-crossed with pine branches--a delightful smell.
Bare light bulbs, safely out of the kids' reach, lit the area. Cotton bolls or sawdust was the floor. My twin and I used to have fun "leveling up" the metal chairs until service started.
Service started at 7 PM: it was highly unusual for it to break up before 11:00. Sometimes there was a piano, but most of the time we had guitars, fiddles, and tambourines with the occasional accordion. There were no amplifiers or microphones. The only place to find "canned" music was in the local funeral homes.
People came from all across the county to those old brush arbors or tent revivals. Each service always started with prayer and congregational singing: "I'll Fly Away, He Set Me Free, When We All Get to Heaven, I Would Not Be Denied, Everybody Will Be Happy," just to name a few. The song service was not limited--it was not considered out of order for folks to call out the name of a favorite. It would be sung, too. Then came the "specials"; those with talent (and a few without) had the opportunity to sing. May the Lord bless them for their efforts, some gave a whole new meaning to "make a joyful noise".
After the song service came the testimonies. It was like watching popcorn pop: no one had to be begged to stand and tell what the Lord had done for him or her. Dale and I would giggle when several stood at once, but that's how anxious folks were to share their testimonies.
It was not at all unusual for the preaching to begin around 9:00 p.m. Mama might get Daddy there in a suit and tie, but it wasn't long before he would chuck the coat and tie. He always wore long-sleeved white shirts (I know, I had to starch and iron them, thank you), which were soon wet with sweat.
Daddy never wore a wristwatch--he had a pocket watch and wasn't prone to check it. There was always an altar call given, no matter how late it was. It was Daddy's nature to go to anyone he felt was under conviction; he had a way about him that was neither invasive nor embarrassing. Few people could resist his persuasion to "make things right with God".
Sometimes Dale and I had to be awakened to make the trip home--we would quickly ask the time. We were always thrilled to get out early enough to make it by the Dairy Queen before it closed. We went home via Highland Avenue to Campbell Street. Dale and I would hold our breath to see if Daddy was going to turn onto Forrest. If he did, Dairy Queen! Oh, those little 12¢ hamburgers, steaming hot. Once in a while, treat of treats! Dale and got to split a milkshake.
Within a few years, tents replaced brush arbors. From chilly April through sweltering September, there was a tent revival somewhere in driving distance. Some were small affairs: a man with his family, traveling over the country to spread the Good News of Jesus Christ. Volunteers would raise the tent. Others were huge: the big trucks parked nearby that carried the huge canvases, hundreds of chairs, awnings, poles and ropes, stage setup, musical instruments, sound systems, lighting equipment and personnel.
Those behemoths were set up in a vacant field, close enough to town to beckon the city folk, but not impede the traffic. The field would be bush-hogged--I learned to not wear sandals.
Most of the folks left their cars and came inside, but there was always a population of the curious and inquiring who didn't. Still, the beckoning of the Holy Spirit would draw them; we could tell the ones who came from their cars--they weren't "dressed for the occasion". No one was turned away: many a new life started in an old-fashioned tent revival. For them it was, "I went there to fight, but oh my that night, something got a hold of me!"
Then there were the foot-washings ever so often at The Gospel Lighthouse, the name of the church Daddy pastored. You mention such a thing to folks today and they give you a look of horror. Yet, there is nothing more humbling than to wash another's feet. The men and ladies would move to respective sides of the church. The ladies would wear "footies" for the occasion--no sticking stockinged feet into the wash basin. The men would roll up their pants legs and remove their socks. By the end of the ceremony, both extremes of the anatomy had been washed--the eyes with tears of humility and service to others, the feet by fellow worshippers. By the time I got old enough to participate, foot washings had become only a memory.
Jericho marches were jubilant times of worship. They were not disorderly: people were on their feet--no comfort zones there--marching around the auditorium, singing "Joy Unspeakable, Victory Ahead, Oh Lord Send the Power Just Now, Old Time Religion, God Is God".
There wasn't a choice of sitting or standing when the worship service began--we didn't go to church to relax and rest. We were there to make a joyful noise and have a great time in the Lord. And money? A "collection plate" was never passed. A plain round ceramic pie-plate was placed on the altar and folks were expected to drop in their tithes and offerings on their way out of Sunday School class or before the service started on Sunday or Wednesday night. I've heard Daddy preach on tithes a number of times, but I never heard him ask for money for any reason. He wasn't a paid preacher--he was a carpenter and a store-owner. (By the way, he never sold anything he preached against, either: beer, cigarettes, etc.)
The only people I ever saw dozing off during a service were babies and small children. The preacher never had to ask for an "Amen". Sometimes his message zeroed in and he got an "Oh me!" Families sat together in unity. We didn't go for a show; we didn't go to be seen. We went because we wanted to be with others who were like-minded--there to jubilantly worship Jesus.
Nowadays, we've watched so much TV, we watch the church service. We don't want anybody to get too happy--the service might get a little long. We've put God in a box: "OK God, you get 3 hours of my time this morning. Sorry, I've got other plans for tonight." Out of 8,760 hours in the year, we give God 208 and that's if the wet blankets do their job of keeping the wildfires out.
Some folks are so busy church is the only rest they get! Church is not for rest--it's for recharging! Ever try to recharge a battery without plugging it into something?
Whether we ever return to the brush arbors, the tent revivals, the foot washings or the Jericho marches, we desperately need to return to the humility of those attitudes.
All Rights Reserved.
Gone, But Not Forgotten.
You'll love it!
If you have been blessed, give God the Glory!
Please sign our guestbook; let us know you enjoyed
"The Old Ways".
Thank you so much for visiting He Is Able!
ALL material on He Is Able is protected by copyright.
