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.
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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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