Pilgrimage of Joy . . .

MEETIN’ HOUSE RELIGION
by W. Carl Ketcherside

It has long been a thesis of mine that those who are not formally educated tend to preserve the wisdom gained by experience in easily-remembered proverbs. When any situation arises which demands comment, one of these capsules can be prescribed, and it will quickly put life into proper perspective. Our mother, having grown up in an emigrant colony, had a “saying” for every behavioral problem. She even made us clean up the food on our plates by quoting, “Willful waste

makes woeful want.”

Sometimes her proverbs were contradictory, a fact which did not trouble her in the least. If someone we knew moved around from pillar to post and did not hold a job she was ready with “A rolling stone gathers no moss.” But if another was too content to toil away interminably at the same ill-paying task she nailed him with, “A setting hen grows no feathers.” In spite of our poverty and the difficulty of survival she maintained our morale and boosted her own hope by constant repetition of the old cliche, “It’s a long road that has no turn in it.” We had been on the road of life going from bad to worse long enough. So a slight bend in the road came in sight.

Our father, who had tried everything that was honest to eke out a living in Chillicothe, including becoming a “Watkin’s man,” selling household products, had meanwhile been helping rural and village congregations everywhere within range. He received a letter from Pike County, Illinois, asking him to come and conduct a couple of brief meetings and, imbued with a desire to preach the gospel, he went, after arranging with a good storekeeper to supply our needs “on time.” We received enthusiastic letters from him. The meetings were going well. He was baptizing a number of people. He wanted us to see the area.

That is how we happened to move into the rural area in Illinois, called Old Pearl, where I was privileged to attend a one-room country school for a few months. It must have been a growing settlement at one time, but when the railroad went through almost three miles away, a new Pearl sprang up on the Illinois River, and the old one was stopped “dead in its tracks.”

We bought a ten acre orchard and our place was in full view of the schoolhouse and the “church building.” The two of them stood side by side. In every direction, along roads which were dusty in dry weather and “shoemouth deep” in mud in rainy weather, stretched larger farms. The pastures were watered by gently-flowing creeks and the timbered portions were the shelters for every kind of native wild animals.

It was evident, from the very outset, that we were “back home” again. The friendly, helpful and humble people were our kind of folk. In an earlier day, this broad sweep of prairie leading toward the steep bluffs which stood like a frowning fortress above the Illinois River bottom-land, had been inhabited by sturdy Anglo-Saxons with names like Willard, Jackson, Johnson and Calvin, and others betokening the trades of original ancestors, such as Miller, Wheeler, Draper and Waggoner. Generally hard-working, frugal and neighborly they received us with open arms. At the very outset, they had a homemade ice cream party for us to which they brought not only well-filled freezers, but all kinds of food staples — sugar, flour, home-canned vegetables and fruits, smokehouse hams and bacon. We had never seen such a supply of food, and when they all left our mother cried unashamedly, while the rest of us stood and looked at the huge stockpile while still shivering from the ice cream with which they had regaled us.

Every school district in the area had a “Church of Christ.” A few congregations met in the local schoolhouse, but most of them had erected plain structures in which to meet. Older preachers like “Uncle Henry Maynard” and “Uncle George Williams” had taken the plea that one could be a “Christian only” into the region round about, until there was a group of saints meeting about every three to five miles in every direction. Many of the people did not know there was any other kind of “a church.” They supposed that all who were not unbelievers “spoke where the Bible spoke and remained silent where the Bible was silent.” There was no apparent rivalry. When one congregation had a “big meeting” all attended it and the house was filled to overflowing, many of the men having to remain out in the yard and listen to the message through the open windows.

No congregation had a “hired preacher.” The term “local minister” was not in their vocabulary. The “one-man imported pastor system” was regarded as an innovation. It was a departure from the simplicity of the faith. It was not according to the ancient order. Each congregation had elders and no one was appointed to this function who was not “apt to teach.” These men were not ambitious for power and glory. They shared the public edification with any man who was gifted at all. Each Lord’s Day, as Sunday was invariably designated, after the study of the lesson, one of the elders would say, “Is there any brother who has a word of exhortation? If so, an opportunity will now be given for it.” Sometimes three men would speak briefly in turn. If a visiting brother was present he was specifically invited to speak. If no one arose to speak one of the elders was prepared to teach and admonish.

As I look back upon those days there comes to my mind the mental image of toil-worn men sitting on the front porch at dusk, reading the sacred volume. I recall being in homes on cold wintry days where men who had spent hours feeding and doing the chores, now sat down close to the heating-stove to study the Bible, until the warmth stole over their bodies and lulled them to sleep while the book slid gently to the floor. Since I had been completely through the Bible at least twice, when some remote point was “brought up in the meeting” the teacher might refer it to me. Frequently I knew the answer. This did two things. It drew the commendation of the older folk and strengthened the resolution of the males who were my age to beat me up, the age-old and effective recourse of country boys to a “smart city kid.”

A passage from the Roman letter keeps coming to my mind.”I myself am satisfied about you, my brethren, that you yourselves are full of goodness, filled with all knowledge, and able to instruct one another.” I think that may describe the way we were. No one threw his weight around. The brethren were tolerant of one another. When old “Pappy Davis” decided it was not “scriptural” to stand for prayer, no one was upset if he kneeled while we stood. When he was called upon to lead in prayer, the one who was presiding asked us all to kneel.

There was a cooperative spirit. The sisters took a month each in preparing the loaf for the Lord’s Supper, and shared their recipe for making unleavened bread. We used two glasses to pass the fruit of the vine, and during a protracted meeting when a lot of visitors were present we added two more. Near the close of the service, while a hymn was being sung, everyone marched up and “laid by in store” by putting his money on the white linen cloth on the table. Before returning to their seats they shook hands with everyone on the front seat. There was a lack of pride and affection which contributed to the idea that it was a family reunion of the saints of God.

Because we had moved in the middle of the term I finished the year in the little schoolhouse where eight grades were crowded together in one room. There was a “recitation bench” in front and the teacher called each class to come in turn and occupy that seat while its members recited whatever lesson was scheduled. By the time one reached the eighth grade he had heard every textbook reviewed eight times. Although I was destined to attend but a few months, that little school, taught by Lee Carter Maynard, made an indelible impression upon my mind.

Two significant things happened soon after we moved into the new community. The first was that my mother began to attend the meetings of the congregation. I am sure she had been lonely, but here she was accepted, and the genuine concern of the other women made her want to be with them. She told us it represented no change upon her part and that she simply went to be with the rest of the family, but she was talking to herself as much as to us.

The second thing was my decision one Sunday to be baptized into Christ. I was sitting in my accustomed place with the other boys of the community. Nothing unusual was occurring. The songs were not more inspiring. The short talk by one of the elders was a routine one. But there came to me, out of nowhere a feeling of deep depression and remorse that I had not audibly confessed before men my faith in Jesus. Suddenly I knew that he had not just died for sin, but for my sins. There was a tugging at my inward being to enroll in His service. It was as if I were receiving a clear summons to follow His leading.

After the meeting was over I hurried away home. I did not want to talk to anyone. I felt miserable. I could not eat luncheon and as soon as I could steal away I went to one of my favorite spots for meditating, under the shade of one of the apple trees in a remote corner of the orchard. All afternoon I sat there, inwardly presenting the consequences of acceptance or rejection. It was as if two forces inside me were locked in violent struggle. Two voices were calling out of the depths. Finally, I surrendered to the urging of the Spirit, and at once felt an inner peace and quiet I had never before known. It was as if a heavy rock had been lifted off my being. That night, unaware that I was barefoot and dressed in bib overalls, I confessed to the little group of humble farm-folk that I believed with all my heart that Jesus was the Christ, the Son of God.

One week from that time, on a sundrenched Sunday afternoon, we gathered at the old swimming-hole in the creek which flowed through John Willard’s pasture. The cows which were lying in the shade of the sycamore trees continued to chew their cuds placidly, undisturbed by this unusual intrusion. The little group of onlookers who had assembled sang the words “Shall we gather at the river?” One of the elders, a neighbor whom all of us loved, Jesse Jackson, led me into the stream with the silvery minnows darting this way and that, and immersed me into that glorious relationship involving the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.

My mother was there, and I suspect her mind went back to the time when she dressed my baby form in the long white christening-dress and carried me so far as to have me christened by the Missouri Synod Lutheran clergyman. But she merely wiped away her tears, and hugged my wet body without saying anything. We climbed into the big wagon in which we were to ride back home, and my wet clothing felt good as the sun’s rays beat down upon us. But it was the cool, refreshing feeling inside of me which meant the most. What a thrill to be one spirit with the Lord!