Perhaps nowhere is a religious meeting made more of than in the hill
country of the South. There are reasons _and_ reasons for the fact. Take a
real, genuine Methodist or Baptist matron, or brother, of fifty, and they
love Christ and His cause, and do not fail to associate their love for Him
and the work with the gathering in His name. If it be possible, they will
be in attendance when "the parson" comes round. The girls love to go; some
because they, too, are learning to love the service of the Master, some
because they have no other so good opportunity to see and be seen, and
others because everybody else goes. Where the girls and young ladies are
sure to be, there the boys and young men are apt to be; and so it comes
that when the meeting, especially the "big meeting," is to be held, the
people throng. And if you want to see a genuine democracy, untainted by
any kind of aristocracy, you could not find it better illustrated than
among the hills, at meeting time, in some log "church-house." No Sir
Wonderful to claim best pew, no usher to give you the place _he_ chooses.
You come with your wife and, following the custom, she goes to the left,
you to the right. I will not describe the service. The singing varies from
a wonderful chorus of praise that lacks nothing in volume in one
neighborhood, to the nasal-twanged hymn which some incompetent leader
sings almost alone in some other community. The old songs predominate, but
any brisk moving song of work of praise or progress easily becomes a
favorite, when once it has been sung long enough so that the words and
movement are mastered by a few.
You will not be long in any big meeting or revival service before you will
hear:
"Mother has a home, sweet home,
Mother has a home, sweet home,
Mother has a home, sweet home.
Lord, I want to join the angels; beautiful home."
This is varied. Now it is Brother, Father, Preacher, or Sister who has a
home.
You may not know the tune or words, but it will not be long before you are
singing with the rest, if you are a participator or worshiper, and not
that horrid and heartless thing, a critical looker-on.
You know of the hand-shaking? If a sinner seeks to enter the Christian
life, he comes, on invitation of the minister, to shake hands at the close
of, or during, the service. And often service closes with an
all-round-hand-shake. There is a song started, like "Say, Brother, will
you meet me?" or some simple devotional hymn, and all rise and shake hands
all around, singing or praying, or speaking gently one to another.
Ah! many a feud has sunk forever, many an unpleasantness has been
forgotten, many a half-ripe quarrel has been strangled, and many a
friendship has been strengthened and ripened in these services of emotion
and love, those hand-shakings of the Mountaineers. The blessings of the
peacemakers should be his who first introduced the service.
Among other invitation hymns I have heard, I remember vividly:
"Sinner, you are welcome, Yes, Yes, welcome
To the dying lamb."
This, too, is varied. "Seeker," "Brother," "Sister," and "Everybody’s
welcome" being sung.
I could tell of parts I do not like, of excitements the reverse of helpful
to my devotional feelings, and of loudness mistaken for piety or zeal, but
so could others criticise the services at Dr. Cuyler’s or Dr. Storrs’s
church. I prefer to speak of the really good.
May I tell you of a unique service? It was at the Convict Camp, near
Baker’s X Roads, in Cumberland County, Tenn.
No need to ring the bell--the congregation are assembled, and armed guards
are standing by lest someone should escape. Still a bell was tapped.
Silence at once.
"Boys," I said, "when I was here before you kindly asked me to come and
speak to you again. I am here. Before I speak I want to have you sing.
Will you sing?" A moment’s pause, and in the rich tones which the colored
people so often have, there rang out from scores of throats, one of those
weird songs of the race. It was of chariots and heaven, of songs and
praises, and of Jesus the King. I cannot reproduce or describe it. I
prayed for a blessing on our service, and several responded with
apparently as fervent "Amen" as ever came from Camp Meeting or Altar
service. Then I read passages, closing with a part of Romans 6: from the
twenty-third verse. I spoke briefly of "The wages of sin, and of the gift
of God." I almost fear I was harsh. Poor fellows--they were criminals, but
who is not guilty, before God, of violations of Divine law?
As I pleaded for the starting of a better life, as I spoke of their
families, as I said "Some of you will be through with prison life soon,"
as I talked of honesty, sobriety, and purity, there were moist eyes. I
asked for an expression at the close. All who will accept Jesus Christ,
and from this very hour live for Him, and with the strength he gives try
to forget the grievances you have thought to revenge; try to love and
serve one another here, in Christ’s name, and others when released; strive
to do your work faithfully; in short, try to do what you think Christ
would want you to do--first, give me your hand, and then kneel with me in
prayer. Through the chinks and crevices of the stockade a score of men
thrust their hands, eager to respond to the invitation, and many knelt in
prayer.
How much was make-believe? How much was genuine? The Searcher of hearts
alone knows. Sowing by all waters, I am willing to leave results with God.
Another song, and then "Good-bye, boss!" "Good-bye, Captain!" "Come again,
preacher!"
The days were weeks, and then! Criminal carelessness, perhaps. A premature
explosion of dynamite and powder combined on the railroad, and six of
these men had been discharged. Dead! A rough grave beside the track, God
knows the rest. They were convicts, they were blacks, but they were my
brothers and yours, children of one Father.
I was tired that Sunday, but I am glad God let me go and give them another
invitation to the Christ-life. Perhaps in some other time and place I
shall talk over that service among the boys in black at Convict Camp, with
a soul in white over there. Who knows?