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I grew up in a small town in
East Texas, where my family attended the largest Baptist church in town. Our town had a population of only 10,000 or so, and it felt like we had at least that many churches. Most were Baptist, but a fair share of Methodist, Bible churches, and at least one congregation for each of the other major denominations.

As a young boy growing up in the late 60’s, my small town still lived in a post-World War II culture, one where life seemed so very distant from the cultural upheaval we heard on the nightly news. Now, that didn’t mean we failed to keep up with the latest fashion. I still remember those strange clothes. But the leaders around me, the ones who governed the town, still wore the values—and the scars—gathered from a world war.   

It was here that my Dad faithfully taught Sunday School, became a Deacon and then later head of the Deacons. My mother volunteered to help in the nursery every Sunday. I rarely saw her in the worship service.  Church was very much a part of my life, the spiritual layer of a multi-layered cake which included family, school, and, at that time, a fascination with airplanes.

But I also found church to be a very human place, a place where all of the men of the church took a smoking break between Sunday School and the worship service, and a rumor that they had accidently set the church lawn on fire at least once.

Of course, it’s no secret that the church in a small town in the late sixties was as much about social life as it was spiritual life. And, there was the “our club is better than your club” attitude. For the longest time, I worried my Methodist friends might end up in hell. I didn’t realize at the time that, as Norman Maclean once wrote, “Methodists are just Baptists who can read.”

I also remember church politics. Youth often perceive more truth than we give them credit.  When tryouts rolled around for a new, special church music group (called the Maranatha Singers, if you can believe it), I had to audition.  Now, I can play the guitar a little—but when it comes to a voice…well, let’s just say I’m not gifted. Yet, somehow, I received a place in the special choir. But as much as I wanted to claim I won the position because of my voice, I knew deep inside that it had nothing to do with my talent—it was because of my parents, who were leaders in the church and were heavy tithers.  

So there were flaws. As I entered high school, the flaws troubled me more and more, even made me angry at times. But I must admit, even with all of the flaws, that church in that small town was a place of wonder for me.  It was a place of mystery, a place where I found God. I can still remember specific events in my young life where I felt God’s presence, felt his love for me. Those are special to me.   

So overall, my first church experience was a good one. Would I attend that church now?  No way. It’d drive me crazy. But I would be untruthful if I said it didn’t hold a special place in my heart.

Yet. once I graduated from high school, I knew I wanted something more out of church. So it was that in my freshman year in college, I started searching. That’s what so great about the college experience, isn’t it? I desired to go to a new level, and once in college, I could go for it. That’s when I stumbled into my next major church experience.

More a comin’…