My Dad grew up in a hardcore dust-bowl Baptist family and was a very spiritual man. Growing up we'd only go to church a handful of times per year, mostly on the holidays to appease my mother who was much more involved in the local church than my father ever was.
He'd read us stuff out of the bible every Sunday at breakfast, we'd talk about it, etc... When I got older I asked him why we don't go to church every Sunday, and he told me that there isn't anything that a pastor can tell you that isn't already in the book, and there's no reason to feel like you have to go to someone else's house & give them money to hear about it lol. He'd say that God's everywhere, you can find him on the golf course.
Later I heard other stories from him about his childhood growing up & how the local Baptist minister always had the nicest car & nicest house compared to everyone else in rural Oklahoma. That stuck with him apparently.
I attended a Baptist church that had no building to worship in. The congregation would rent this one building known as "the Grange" on Sundays. The pastor and his wife were young, in their very early 30's, and had an infant daughter. He preached "If I can't back what I say by showing it to you in the Bible, then don't believe it". He and his family were simple folks, as were many in the congregation.
Eventually, we were able to buy an old shop that was once used to do commercial truck repair. It was basically an old wooden barn, and everything smelled of diesel and gasoline. There was also a small 1960's single-wide mobile home on site, which became the pastor's home. Through months of hard work, we were able to convert the shop into a very simple and humble church. You could still tell what the building was in its former life, especially in the summer's heat, when the petroleum products would once again permeate the air inside. lol We had a few pews, and lots of folding chairs and wooden benches. Like I said, a very humble church.
There were folks who lived in the mountains who were dirt poor. We bought an old Dodge Maxi-van, and my uncle's shop donated the parts and labor into making it safe and reliable. We'd make a run up into the little town up there (I can't remember the name, at the moment), and transport anyone who wanted to attend services. I remember stories of rocks being thrown at the van during some of the trips by folks who didn't want "outsiders" in their area. But we did have our regulars from that area. One young couple ended up getting married at our church. Another gentleman, a tall, thin, elderly roughneck simply known as Jim, gave up a life of hard drinking and general mayhem, and became one of the most beloved members of the church. When he passed away, he left behind many, many friends. That church was family to many of us...
Sorry for rambling on. It was all such an incredibly wonderful part of my life, I found myself wandering down memory lane, there. I love the story you shared about your dad,
@qslim. I can fully appreciate his way of looking at it all. Thanks for sharing.
