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.
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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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