Doing Right without Knowing It
Editor’s Note: I had a conversation with the pastor of First Baptist Church in Spartanburg, SC, near Furman University where I was a student in the 1963. He shared with me the “major issue” facing him and his church: What to do when (not if) some black folks showed up on a Sunday morning wanting to attend their church. The deacons decided to welcome those persons in, have the ushers prepped to seat them politely, and carry on with the service…something considered to be a liberal solution. As trivial as this may seem to a college-aged person today, it was a big deal in the South in the 1960s. Many Southern Baptist churches did not resolve the question as this church did. I recently asked my friend, Bill Bruster, to help me find some other stories about how Baptist pastors and churches in the South dealt with Jim Crow, what deacons’ meetings were like when these things were discussed, what we had to be proud of and what we had to be ashamed of. Bill shared the following personal stories. I hope others from that era will do the same.
Pat Anderson, editor.
Doing Right without Knowing It
By Bill Bruster
While a seminary student, I served the First Baptist Church of Hennepin, Oklahoma. The church was a strong village church with an average attendance of just over 100. I was a part-time pastor during the school year and full-time during the summer. The church conducted Sunday school and worship services on Sunday mornings and Baptist Training Union on Sunday night. A wonderful layman led the Wednesday evening prayer meetings during the school year. We had three deacons who were serving “life sentences.”
There was a strong rural black Baptist church just a few miles north of Hennepin. One cold January afternoon, the black pastor came to the parsonage and explained that he had 13 people awaiting baptism. Since they had no baptistery, they normally baptized in a local creek, but the winter had been too cold. Could they use our baptistery? Without thinking about the consequences, I answered, "Of course. When would you like to use it?"
We set a date for a Saturday night and I announced the good news to our congregation the next morning. That very morning, a teenaged boy made a profession of faith in our church. After talking with him and his parents, we set the date for his baptism, which would occur on Sunday after the black church used the baptistery on Saturday night.
Then I got the phone call. The teen`s grandfather was on the other end of the line. "What do you mean letting them black folks use our baptistery? I don`t want my grandson being baptized in water used by a bunch of (and here he used the N word)." I was young, inexperienced, and replied, "Well, it seems you are the one who needs to be baptized." He became irate and promised to report me to the deacons. It then dawned on me: I should have consulted the deacons before granting permission for the black church to use the baptistery. I had granted them permission because it was the right thing to do. I don`t know if he reported me to the deacons or not. They never said a word to me about it and both baptisms proceeded on schedule.
Later, in reflection, I might have done the right thing without knowing it. The Hennepin Church saw as its mission to "help educate young preacher boys.” They expected their seminary pastors to serve three or four years and then to move on. But those deacons were serving for their lifetimes. They were going to live there forever. Maybe it was best that I did not bring them into the decision. They did not have to face their friends, "having granted black folks the right to use the baptistery." And it turned out all right. After I had moved on to another church, that teenaged boy`s grandfather died. The boy’s mom (the grandfather`s daughter), called me and asked me to preach her dad`s funeral. She said, "He always respected you for doing what you thought was right." Maybe I did what was right without even knowing it.
Privileged to Be a Witness
I became pastor of the Central Baptist Church of Bearden, in Knoxville, Tennessee, in February of 1974. After a few months, a wonderful black family began attending our church. After three or four visits, we chatted at the back door after a morning service. John, who was the Air Force recruiter at the University of Tennessee, explained how much they were enjoying the church, and that they would like to join when I felt it would be appropriate. He explained that they did not want to cause any problems for me, as there were no other black folks attending our church. I urged them to join, and assured them they would be welcomed. The church had an after-school tutoring program and there were some black children who had attended in the past.
A few Sundays passed and the black family joined. I normally went to the vestibule during the benediction to greet folks. I decided to stay down front that Sunday, to stand in solidarity with our new members. I had never lived in the South before and was unsure as to how our new members would be received. After all, they were the first to integrate an all-white church.
I was excited to see the large number of people who were standing in line to greet our new members. I stood there proudly observing it all when I felt someone standing at my shoulder. I turned to him, our oldest member at age 94, and greeted him warmly. He said, "Pastor, we made a mistake this morning. God never intended the races to mix." As we talked, our new member, John, had finished being greeted and came over to me, sticking out his hand toward our oldest member, and introducing himself. The stunned elder did not know what to do. He reluctantly shook hands and walked away. To his credit, he never mentioned "the mistake" to me again, nor did I hear that he had talked to others about it.
A couple of years later this elder member was in the hospital for his final stay. I went by to visit with him. He was weak, but still in full control of his mind. After a good visit, he said, "Pastor, would you pray with me and my roommate before you go. He is one of the finest Christians I have ever known and I am sure he would like for you to pray for him as well. Just pull back the curtain so he can pray with us."
As I pulled the curtain, I noticed that his roommate was a black man. We had a wonderful time of prayer with both men praying after I did. I left the hospital on cloud nine. I was so proud of how far my friend had come at his age. I thanked God for the opportunity to be a witness at how God`s grace can help us grow, no matter our age.
A Salute to a Church
The First Baptist Church of Abilene, Texas, is an historic church. It helped birth Hardin- Simmons University, Hendrick Baptist Hospital, and Hendrick Home for Children. The church was among the first, if not the first, church in the Southern Baptist Convention (SBC) to call a woman to serve on the staff, in 1948. When Dr. James Sullivan was pastor, he was asked to lead a committee for the SBC to find a place in the west to establish a Baptist encampment, which became Glorieta Baptist Assembly. First Abilene was among the first churches to build a cabin at Glorieta. This church was first in a great many things, including perhaps being the first to have an elevator in its educational building. In 1967, under the leadership of Dr. Elwin Skiles, the church changed its constitution to include "welcoming all people into membership, regardless of color." But no black folks joined.
In the early 1980`s, under the leadership of Jim Flamming, the church voted to stay downtown, instead of relocating to the burbs. They built a Family Life Center for the community to use which was a first-class facility with skating rink, bowling alley, gym, running track, handball courts, cafe, etc. When I became pastor in 1985, the community indeed did use the building. More than 90% of the usage was by non-church members, primarily black and Hispanic people. Yet there was only one Hispanic man and no black people who were members of the church.
And then a black man began attending. He had a Master`s degree as an electrical engineer and was an executive with a utility company. One day, he called and made an appointment to see me. He arrived at my office with a Caucasian woman, explaining they had been dating and were talking marriage; but he did not want to marry her until she became a Christian. She was now ready to convert and wanted to talk with me about that decision. She committed her life to Christ in my office and they left planning to join the church the following Sunday morning. I was confident the church was ready to be integrated, but I was not sure it was ready for an interracial couple. I spent a restless few days waiting for Sunday. When the day arrived, down the aisle they came. I went to the vestibule during the benediction and the first man out the back door was a 92-year-old retired plumber. When he approached me, he began, "Pastor…" and paused. I thought to myself, "Go on and get out of here; don`t say anything else to me." He began again, "Pastor, come with me." He took me by the hand and led me back to the sanctuary. As he opened the door, he said, "Look at that." He pointed to the crowd waiting in line to welcome our new members. There must have been 300 or 400 people standing in the aisle. Then he said, "Today, we became a real church."
That`s the way it ought to be. I salute First Baptist Church Abilene for doing it right.
A Major Regret
For six years, from 1968-1974, I served the First Baptist Church of Siloam Springs, Arkansas. It is a wonderful church and I loved being their pastor. The population was about 5,000 when we lived there and is now over 15,000. It was a sleepy little town located in Benton County, Arkansas, whose primary claim to fame was being the home of John Brown University. If I heard it once, I heard it a 100 times: "There are no blacks in Benton County." While I never heard it said, I am sure there were no Hispanics either. Because the issue of racial injustice seemed so far removed from us, I seldom mentioned the issue. I did nothing to prepare the church for the future. Because of the dynamic growth in the poultry industry, Benton County, Arkansas, is now home to thousands of Hispanic people. There is very little emphasis being given to reaching these wonderful people and I did nothing to prepare our church to do so. I repent of that.
Bill Bruster
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