In America, especially in the South, we have
churches on every street corner. If you are a Redneck, and you are not at a
NASCAR race, you WILL be in church. Or else your mama will whup you with a fly
swatter. You don't have to believe. You just have to go. We have a saying,
"The undertaker always attends the biggest church." When he goes, he
sees potential customers. I suppose it's the same way for insurance salesmen
and the mayor, too. In black churches, it's an opportunity to wear fancy hats.
I love attending black churches. They know how to do church! (It is ironic to
me that the most segregated place in America is church on Sunday. Shame on us!)
All the churches in Hartsville are coordinated,
to allow Mr. B's and Yogi Bear Honey Fried Chicken to serve the whole
population, while avoiding those awful long lines. The Methodists get out
first. If you are not out of a Methodist church by 12:00:25, you must be the
preacher. George Atkins used to stand up at 12PM, whether the preacher was done
or not. Sometimes the new guys needed a little training. Presbyterians follow
about 8 minutes later, just so they can say they aren't Methodists. Southern Baptists are a little more disorganized. The
ones in the back row closely resemble Methodists. Altar call attendees usually
ate a big breakfast, so they can leave the church later, without too many
hunger pangs. Then comes the Assemblies of God, Freewill Baptists and Church of
God. They have to pick up all the bodies off the floor, which takes awhile.
They are out the door about 1:15. Right about 2:30, the black churches come up
for air. They have clapped, swayed, sung and prayed all morning and into
the afternoon. I have profound respect for black churches and the sacrifice
they make every Sunday, to allow white churches the opportunity to eat first. It
is a true demonstration of humility and grace. To be sure, they will be at the
front of the buffet line in heaven.
I am a washed in the blood, sprinkled AND
dipped, once saved always saved, Christ follower. I have been since my
sophomore year at Clemson. My life was radically transformed one night after a
Fellowship of Christian Athletes meeting.
This was a difficult and painful transition for
me. I realized that I would have to walk away from many friends, good friends,
because I was too weak to be around them. They weren't bad people, but they
were practicing a lifestyle that I needed to leave behind. It was my problem,
not theirs. Although salvation is a free gift, the subsequent life does come at
a cost. That is when I realized church was something very different than my experiences growing up. It is more than a prelude to lunch.
My Christian walk has ebbed and flowed over the
past 25 years. I have been a Bible-thumper. I have been a backslider. I have
been conservative, liberal and moderate, sometimes all at the same time. I am a
mess, but God loves me anyway. Thank you God!
The lifestyle here in Spain is nice. The people
are kind and basically moral. They don't want to hurt anybody. Spaniards love
their families and their friends. In this respect, they are just like most Americans, most people all over the world, really. There doesn't seem to be much interest,
however, in having a personal relationship with God. He is relegated to
festivals and cathedrals, but not very present in homes or daily life. He is
more like Santa Claus. Fun once a year, but every week gets a little stale. Every day? Well that's getting into meddlin'.
Our family attended a small Southern Baptist church last night. It was in Murcia. Susan had been searching online for a place to worship and had narrowed down to a couple of choices. One day last week, I was getting gas for the car. There are no self-serve pumps here. You have to wait for an attendant. I struck up a conversation with the guy, and somehow we got on the subject of church. He must have brought it up. When I asked him where he attended, it was the same church that Susan had found online. Weird. This was the third gas station I visited that day. The other two were either closed or only had diesel. Weird. His name is Danilo. Weird. The pastor of the church is from Texas. Weird. Is God trying to get my attention or something?
Back at Thornwell Elementary School, we had a huge playground. We could run for days. There were shady spots and jungle gyms and a baseball diamond. It was big. Alongside the playground was a line of railroad tracks that led into Sonoco, the paper mill. All the boys used to gather around one spot in the fence that didn't reach all the way to the ground. You could easily scootch under it and go down to the railroad tracks. We had all that playground, yet we wanted to go play on the tracks. Every now and then a teacher would come along and shoo us in the right direction, thus avoiding any ugly confrontations with a freight train full of pulp wood. That is kind of the way God works in my life. He lets me live my life, until I walk up on the fence. Then he pulls me back over to where it's safe. He's been tugging for a while now, and although I don't always like it, I am thankful for His care over me. This Redneck needs a Savior. Not a Santa Claus.
En la escuela primaria, tendría un patio de
recreo muy grande, con lugares con sombre y lugares para correr y lugares para
jugar. A lo largo de la zona de juegos, en
el otro lado de una cerca, había una vía para ferrocarril. Los chicos les
gustaba jugar allí. A veces una profesora venía y los decía a jugar en otros
lugares donde estaba a salvo. Dios trabaja en mi vida como un profesor en mi escuela.
Cuando me alejo, se traslada a un lugar seguro. Ha estado tirando desde hace un
tiempo, y aunque no siempre me gusta, estoy agradecido por su atención sobre
mí. Este Garrulo necesita un Salvador. No un Papa Noel.
En América,
especialmente en el sur, tenemos iglesias en cada esquina. Si estas un
Garrulo, o Redneck, y no está en una carrera de NASCAR, sin duda se encuentra
en la iglesia. Si no, su madre le azotar con su palo. No necesitas a creer.
Solamente va. Tenemos un frase, “El empresario de pompas fúnebres va a la
iglesia más grande.” Cuando va a la iglesia, él va para futuros clientes. En Estados Unidos las iglesias están separado
por raza. Iglesia el domingo es el lugar mas separado en América. Esto es una
vergüenza para nosotros. Los gentes negros saben como hacer iglesia.
Todos las
iglesias de la ciudad en la que nací son protestantes y cada iglesia es poco
diferente en la forma de hacer iglesia. Cada congregación termina sus servicios
en momentos diferente. Eso es bueno porque después los servicios, todos comen
en los restaurantes. Por lo tanto, no hay largas colas para el almuerzo. A veces el congregación están pensado a
comer, y no escuchan el sermón. Para muchos, la iglesia no es más que una
formalidad. Van a iglesia sólo para ser vistos por otras personas.
Para mi, la
iglesia es un parte de mi vida. Es más que un preludio de almorzar. Yo soy un
seguidor de Cristo, lavado en la sangre de Jesucristo, bautizados en el
Espíritu Santo. Me transformé completamente cuando fui en universidad. Mi
caminar con Cristo ha ido y venido en los últimos 25 años. Ha sido un radical,
un reincidente, un conservador, un liberal y un moderada. A veces al mismo
tiempo. Soy un lío pero Dios me ama. ¡Gracias Dios!
La moda de vida
aquí en España es muy simpática. La gente es amable y básicamente moral. No
quieren hacer daño a nadie. Españoles aman sus familias y amigos. En esto
respeta, son como Americanos, de verdad como la gente en todo mundo. No parece ser
mucho interés en una relación personal con Jesucristo, sin embargo. Dios es
relegado a festivales y catedrales pero no está presente en las vida cotidiana.
Él es mas que Papa Noel. Divertido una vez al año pero cada semana es poco
viejo y aburrido. ¿Cada día? Ahora que se está entrometiendo.
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