Porter Memorial Baptist Church - Oct. 24, 1924-May 25, 2014 - Columbus, GA. |
You walk up the concrete steps between the tall white
columns. You try the door. It doesn’t open. You try again. It is locked.
It’s Sunday morning and the church is locked. You listen at
the door—but you hear no sound. Everything is quiet.
For the first time in ninety years—the doors are locked
tight on Sunday. The Hammond organ is quiet. The piano in the opposite corner makes no
sound.
The pews are empty. Dust gathers on the pulpit and the big
open Bible.
A thin spider web can be seen across the choir chairs.
It’s a Sunday morning and the church is locked.
Even when the depression came—the doors were open. Even when
the wars came—the doors were opened. Even when the tornado came through
toppling trees and blowing away roofs—the church stayed open. And even when the
houses around the mill sold—one by one--the doors stayed open. Later—when the
machines grew silent, and people left the mill, brushing the lint from their
hair for the last time, wondering what they would do—the doors were still
opened.
Yet—today—this Sunday morning—and the church is locked.
Yet all across the land—and even a handful in foreign
countries—lives were changed by that church with the tall white columns and
it’s open Sunday doors. People walked down those aisles and found something to
keep them going on hard mill days. They sang their gospel songs there—mostly by
heart. Even after all these years they believe in that land that is fairer than
day. They believe in standing up for Jesus and coming just as I am and all the
power of Jesus’ name. They prayed a zillion prayers for what—everything. Death,
divorces, betrayals, depressions, whiskey, not enough money—ever, scared of the " Huns and the Japs"—who might just drop a bomb and blow them all away. They prayed for forgiveness and hope and faith and most of
all even love—especially love.
And across the land—and even in a handful of foreign
countries—people do not remember what the preacher’s name was or how long
they were there—or even the faces of most of the people. They remember their
hearts were strangely warmed—enough, just enough to send them back to spinning
frames and hot non-air-conditioned days and nights in the mill. Some don’t go
on Sundays anymore. Yet—even these remember when they heard a word that
stuck—and it has never, ever let them go. And it took—well, mostly it took.
Some remember filing in, not on Sunday but a week-day—when they rolled the
awful casket in and some preacher said, “I am the resurrection and the life...”
They didn’t think they could stand it—but they did.
Most don’t know that
if they came back on a Sunday and walked up the steps between the tall white
columns that the doors would be locked. Yet—what happened there, year after
year, preacher after preacher, collection plate after collection plate—mattered.
It was their lifeline that they sang of so often.
Sanctuary - Porter Memorial Baptist Church, Columbus, GA |
--RogerLovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com
Hi Roger,
ReplyDeleteThank you for expressing your love for this place. Be encouraged! The doors of this church are still opening to the community. There are classes being offered weekly, and a free breakfast and Bible lesson every Sunday. Check it out here: https://www.facebook.com/PorterMemorialChurch?skip_nax_wizard=true&ref_type=logout_gear