The Sunday Sermonette – Chasing Memories.
While motoring west on Hwy 90 a few days ago, a street sign caught my eye: Camellia Street. The name conjured days of long ago. My mind began chasing memories, and I followed. In the distance, I saw a church. And suddenly, I was a child again. It was Sunday morning. Dad parked our 1960 Nash Rambler, and I bounced out of it. Mom took my hand, and together, we walked through the front door of Biloxi’s Trinity Baptist Church.
Walking through that same door over sixty years later, a flood of memories washed over me—singing the great hymns of the Baptist faith, Mom fanning me in the days before air conditioning, Dad nodding during a long sermon, me getting squirmy, and Mom’s raised eyebrow, a silent warning to calm down. But most of all, I remembered the day I was baptized.
J. Hoffman Harris, Trinity’s founding pastor, walked with me into the baptism waters. Towering over me, he smiled. I remember the coolness of the water and the light from a single spotlight that lit the baptism waters, is reflection dancing off the surrounding walls.
“Andy, do you accept Jesus as your Lord and Savior? Will you follow Him for the rest of your life?” I nodded yes. “Then I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Raised to walk in newness of life.” He gently dipped me beneath the water, then lifted me up. I arose with a smile.
Our memories leave vivid footprints in the dusty corridors of our minds. Sadly, Trinity’s current dusty floors and hallways, coupled with the absence of its once vibrant congregation and the echoes of hymns, now only serve as poignant reminders of the passage of time. Regrettably, Trinity has been closed for years, a victim of declining membership due to a radical shift in our country’s religious values.
Seeing the old sanctuary—its original pews jammed together in a logjam of pulpit furniture, boxes filled with yellowing church records, and piles of worn hymnals—brought tears to my eyes. In this hodgepodge of forgotten church life stood the Lord’s Supper Table, scratched and covered with dust. As I turned to leave, Trinity cried out to me. I closed my eyes. Memoires of the old church clung to me as I remembered what it meant to my dear parents. And to me!
Clinging to our past, though, can leave us longing for that which was and can never be again. In our rush to do so, we should never forget the one who infuses our memories with meaning. They were created to remind us who Father God is and what He has done for us.
Our memories are not just fleeting moments but the building blocks of our identity and the foundation of our faith. This faith, this understanding of God’s role in our lives, should give us hope and reassurance as we navigate the complexities of life. This faith assures us that we are never truly alone, even in the face of loss and change.
Wandering through Trinity Baptist Church that afternoon, I thought about the people who had walked its now empty halls with me. I reflected on its many baptisms, soul-stirring sermons, and congregational outreach.
As I drove away, a bittersweet smile crept across my face. For in my heart, I knew that even though Trinity’s earthly doors were forever closed, the names of those saved due to its loving ministry are now written in the Lamb’s Book of Life. And for that, I am thankful.
Ponder this and go forth.
The “new” sanctuary was dedicated in the early 60s. Mom is sitting in the front row
with some rowdy boys. I’m surprised I’m not one of them. LOL. Dad’s a few
rows behind her, awake but anxiously awaiting the final “Amen!” I have no idea where I am, but I remember this day as if
it were yesterday. Suddenly, in the middle of the sermon, a telescopic camera
lens stuck through the baptistery curtains, clicking away. That’s why many of
the congregation are looking upward.
The current sanctuary facing west.
The original pulpit furniture.
