Q. Why don’t Baptists make love standing up?
A. Because someone will think they’re dancing. We were taught that sin was all around us, and temptations were to be expected and overcome. We focused on the outward sins—drinking, smoking, swearing, playing cards (though an exception was made for Rook, because the game didn’t use regular playing cards), gambling, dancing (including square dancing), going to movies, listening to rock music, having long hair (guys) or wearing short skirts (girls). And of course, sex before or outside marriage was verboten; Christians have always been obsessed about sex. (Drugs had not yet become a big issue, or we would have heard about them, too.) The only sin on the list remotely appealing to me was going to movies, which I had done with my parents occasionally. The last movie I remember having seen in a theater was Father Goose, with Cary Grant and Leslie Caron. After I came home from church and announced I would no longer attend movies, I was bound to honor that commitment. When The Sound of Music hit the big screen, I was desperate to see it, and so asked my father, who was not a churchgoer, if we could go as a family. He refused, saying that if I didn’t have the courage of my convictions, he would have them for me. I did not go inside a theater again until I’d left the Baptists; a friend took me to see Forrest Gump. Yes, gentle reader—that’s a thirty-year gap. Eventually the college where I worked and where I was bound contractually to the same rules loosened enough to allow us to watch movies on VHS, which meant waiting only six months to see a movie on a small screen. This loosening bothered my black-and-white mind. If we couldn’t go to movies, even Disney movies, because someone might see us and be offended (we were very big on not offending unbelievers and thereby casting a stumbling block to their salvation), how did that differ from going into a video rental place? And if we didn’t want to support the godless Hollywood lifestyles, how would we not be supporting them if we rented a video? I would have done well in the Inquisition.
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A few romances within the youth group occurred, though most of them didn’t lead to marriage. To me, we were just a bunch of puppies playing. I remember arriving home after a youth group activity late one night, looking beyond disheveled. My father’s temper flared at what he thought had been sexual game playing. But we were just having tickle fights in the back of our youth group leaders’ station wagon. I had no idea we were just finding an acceptable outlet for our sex drives. One of the families of our youth group members had an above-ground swimming pool. On hot summer nights after Sunday evening church, we’d gather there and play ball games. One of the guys kept tossing the ball out of the pool so that he and his girlfriend could offer to go find it. Another guy, serious, athletic, griped about this, and we joked that he was the only one who thought we were really playing ball. Marrying young was not unusual; in the late sixties, young women still got married right after high school. We even had one girl who with her parents’ permission and delight, married at sixteen. We thought she was crazy. We watched couples a few years older than we were date and break up or date and marry and then break up. We all had our crushes and unrequited passions. Even in our breakups, however, we quoted Scripture. One of the guys who’d been dumped by a girl with a pixie haircut said insultingly, “You know in Corinthians it says a woman’s hair is her glory? Well, she doesn’t have any.” We teens all sat together in several front pews near the organ. One pastor told us that we should always keep the space of a Bible between us. Knowing that his intent was a Bible flat on the pew, we placed the Book on its spine, separating us by a single inch rather than the six inches he prescribed. Photo by Humble Lamb on Unsplash In the foyer of my Baptist church, there was a tract rack, which we pronounced trackrack. The tracts were about the size of an index card when folded, giving four “pages” for text, or perhaps just a teaser title on the first page, with three pages of content. Our church’s name, address and phone number were printed on the back in case the recipient wanted to know more or to visit. The tracts were a means of witnessing to our faith. We placed a great deal of emphasis on the need to witness, which was agony for shy girls like me. Instead of trying to lead people to Christ using the Romans Road or the Wordless Book, we could leave a tract at a restaurant wrapped around our tip, or hand it to the guy who filled our gas tank. (Those were the days!) We kept some in our wallets so we could leave them behind in public restrooms—this was especially favored on family vacations—and let the Spirit direct who would find it. We might enclose one in a letter or card; although most tracts were about how to be saved, some were messages of encouragement. Here’s the one tract I remember: "Others May, You Cannot." It was a recitation of all the relatively harmless things people did that you, as the most dedicated of Christians, could not do. While these things were not sin, they were a waste of your time or energy, and because God had chosen you for something special, you could not do those things. I have no memory of what the things were, only that they would not make me a better Christian. The tract was exactly what a teenager like me—bright, sensitive, convinced of her own specialness for so many reasons—did not need. It stroked my already abundant ego and pride. I was better than "they" were, those others, whoever they might be. As someone who thought she'd been called for full-time Christian service, I could not do those innocent but time-wasting things. It took decades to get over that idea. For my Baptists, New Year’s Eve was not about Dick Clark and the ball dropping in Times Square. No, the evening of December 31st was to be spent at church, from 9:00 p.m. to midnight. It was a time for renewed dedication, for watching for what the Lord would do in the new year. This was not a three-hour church service, however. Although we began in church, during the second hour, we went downstairs to the Fellowship Hall. It was a large area with folding doors of heavy brown plastic stretching from floor to ceiling; these could be pulled closed to create Sunday School classrooms. On special occasions, such as wedding receptions or watch night services, the folding doors were opened. No one makes better pastries and cookies than Hungarians. It’s something about recipes that have been handed down and brought to the new world, about butter and sugar combining. My church included several Hungarian families, most of them interrelated. Perhaps the women worked together; perhaps they competed. But along with sandwich fixings, there were platters of sweets. We teens filled our plates and went to sit on the steps that led to the pastor’s study, just off the cloak room. The steps on the other side of the hall, near the Sunday School superintendent’s office, led to the baptistery. The staircases were dark, secret, private—all the things teens wanted, though as far as I know, no untoward behavior ever occurred. At some point in the evening, we watched a film. It might be a black-and-white Moody Science film, with a balding man in a lab with test tubes explaining some mystery of life to us. Later, when apocalyptic films were made, we might see the Christian version of a horror film. Or we might view a film like “Worlds Apart,” featuring a dramatic conversion and music by John W. Peterson, a favorite composer. But the point of the service was to be on our knees, praying, when the new year arrived. So after we ate, we replicated our usual Wednesday night prayer meeting, back upstairs in the sanctuary. Knees on linoleum, elbows on the pew we’d just vacated. Someone, probably the pastor, kept an eye on the clock, so that he was the one praying as midnight arrived at last. The final prayer concluded, we rose and wished each other a happy new year. No shouting, no party horns or hats, no champagne, no kissing. Solemnly, soberly, we greeted the new year. |
Baptist GirlI was a conservative Baptist girl who grew up to become a career Christian, working first in a Baptist school and then in a Baptist college. For about three decades, it was very good until it wasn’t, and I had to leave. But the Baptists formed me. This is my homage to the good times and good people of the world I left, finally, at forty-three, when I became an Episcopalian. These are my memories; others might disagree with my recollections. So be it. Archives
January 2024
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