Cities are bustling, small towns are bustling. Six days out of seven, in the small town where I live, you can hear the low rumble of lumber trucks hopscotching over the holes in the county road. Not yet Steady since then invoice Clinton was governor. Chug-a-chug Georgia Pacific Railroad mark 6 At the end of the day, the sawmill’s whistle sounds. we In the mornings and afternoons there is a murmur of voices as the camp cook calls the people to breakfast and lunch, but on Sundays the murmur changes to hymns, and the only sound that can be heard in the town centre is the sound of bells ringing from somewhere above the Methodist church.
You can throw a brick on Main Street at 11 a.m. on a Sunday morning and not worry about the sound of breaking glass. It’s unlikely to hit anything except a stray dog or an unbeliever, both of whom know it’s not wise to be wandering around such a place at such an hour.
Even if you’ve been away from church for a quarter of a century, you’re likely to walk through the church doors and see the same old hymnbook peeking out from behind the same well-worn church pews that were there when you left.
Not everyone here goes to church, but everyone Have A church. There are as many chairs, cushioned and unpadded, as there are people in the town. There’s a place for everyone. Even atheists have been baptized once or twice.
Our town, like most in the South, offers religions like a buffet bar: Baptists, Methodists, and Christian churches for the working class; Catholics and Lutherans for the immigrants; Presbyterians and Episcopalians for the very rich and deeply in debt; and 50 varieties of Pentecostals for those who believe inspiration is 75% effort. On Sundays, the Lord makes the rounds and makes himself at home with them all. This is not surprising, since they have all built their homes for Him.
Some are the size of factories, others the size of a double-wide trailer. A few are red brick buildings with electronic signs, and old men in golf carts provide shuttle service from the car park. But most are modest white buildings, held together by ten-pence nails and prayers. Over the years, many are as ragged as old beggars, the paint peeling like dead skin, but somewhere there is a cross to end all argument, dispel all doubt. This is the Lord’s house indeed. World without end, amen.
The churches here contain few architectural masterpieces, but believers will remember that God has been pleased to take up residence there for a long time. tentAnd when the Lord got tired of “living under the veil,” he said to the prophet, “Thus says the Lord of hosts: Consider your ways. Go up into the mountain, bring wood, and build me a house, and I will enjoy it.” The church in my area is well-built, with at least a sturdy roof, walls, and windows that don’t leak much. So what if it has shifted and tilted a little over the years? Glory is heavy, and people need to be careful to meet God. moved.
Most of our churches probably boast stained glass, even if they only have windows the size of dinner plates. Some have carpeting, others rough-hewn wooden floors. Most have wooden altars called “mourners’ benches,” whose tops are now worn like pigs’ belly after generations of sinners have knelt there begging for a second chance.
Even if you’ve been away from church for a quarter of a century, when you walk through the doors of a church, you’ll probably see the same old hymnbook peeking out from behind the same worn church pews as when you left. And the same old lady with the same old cat-eye glasses is playing the same old organ. At first glance, you might think many of the other familiar faces are gone, but no. They’re still there. They’ve just moved to the back and are praying quietly to the sun and the flowers overhead.
I grew up in these churches, crawled up the choir rows and toddled down the ragged aisles. I spent many a Sunday dodging funeral fans and hellfire and damnation. I was suckled in church weeping rooms, taught in Sunday school classes, fed in church meetinghouses, whipped in bathrooms and wept before the altar. I carved my initials into the backs of church pews and wrote my name on the membership rolls dozens of times, but these churches left a greater impact on me than I ever gave them.
I’m not claiming that a small church in a small town is better or holier than a city cathedral — I’ve worshiped in big churches in big cities and I’ve never been disappointed by the service or the atmosphere — but somehow, with no wide corridors to hide in, no empty corners to get lost in, no wandering crowds to disappear into, and with only knotty pine and white paint between me and the Almighty, I can’t help but feel a little closer to heaven.
“Surely goodness and mercy will pursue me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” —Psalm 23:6
Editor’s note: This article was originally published on Substack.
“No Jesuit Trick” is an anonymous Anglican Southerner who wrote, “PoiemaA Substack newsletter that ponders goodness, truth, and beauty while poking the zeitgeist with a sharp stick.
