Saturday, July 14, 2018

Reflections of a Southern White Boy

babtists
I was brought up in the Babtist church where, by God (though you are not supposed to take the name of God in vain but the point I am about to make is important so maybe it isn't in vain) you have to be dunked all the way under the water and not just sprinkled like those misled Methodists, though we did associate with them, the Babtists being first in the pecking order, then the Methodists, then a big jump over to the Presbyterians (only because some relatives were there). 
The Holy Rollers were around but were considered a little too emotional, though at a Babtist altar call we could get quite weepy and huggy. The only tongues we Babtists spoke in were Suthern and King James English. 
I didn't know any Catholics and if I did, they did not reveal themselves. Babtists are hardcore Protestants being ready to protest when called for. The Pope was some foreign guy who had nothing to do with us. Mary was definitely not to be worshipped and had to take her place with all the other women at the end of the line behind the men.
Jewish people were loved but only at a distance. I did not know a single one in my little Georgia town. Besides, everyone knew that Jesus was more white than Jewish.
Our backup preacher had a day job as a butcher. He was a good man. I looked forward to his preaching more than I did the main guy who strutted and preened a little too much. 
Most babtists in our group had no college education. Being educated in the Word of God was thought plenty enough. When I decided to go to college, the strut preener preacher told me not to go. I would be changed forever. I went and he was right.
I love my babtist roots. Good people, good hearts. Good singing. Good food. Lots of laughs. And I learned the Bible backward and forward. My heart is smiling still.

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This work by George Breed is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.