Only one July Fourth sticks in my mind.
I was an older teenager and, in the words of the old-school parents so prevalent in my community, I was probably “smelling myself.”
Said another way: I thought I was grown. A man.
This national holiday had been spent at a friend’s house where the grill glowed, beer flowed and the obscene and outrageous could pop off at any minute.
It was heavenly, so unlike my family, which at the time I thought was staid, sterile and devoid of electricity, funk, spontaneity.
Late that afternoon, I pulled into the driveway on my yellow 10-speed. It was revival week at the family church.
For five weeknights, a full-fledged service took place at Jones Temple Baptist Church. The collection plate was passed, somebody prayed, some worshippers gave testimonials, and lost souls were called to the altar.
In the midst of it all, a guest preacher would be on hand for the entire week to deliver nightly sermons.
And if he hailed from Statesboro, Augusta or Savannah — the “big” cities — he was considered a Big Shot.
When I arrived home on this particular Independence Day, Mom and Dad were getting ready to attend that night’s service. To hear the Gospel.
I announced my intentions, that I wouldn’t be joining them in a ritual that every one of my 10 brothers and sisters had endured and suffered through when they were my age.
It was the wrong answer to give after having spent practically the entire day away from home.
“Get dressed,” Dad told me. And that sealed the conversation.
At the time, the only good thing about revival was the out-of-town girls that graced the grounds with their presence. Thursday and Friday night services were especially grand. Attendance soared.
The bigger the crowd, the more teenage females filled the sanctuary.
Thank you, Jesus.
If memory serves me well, it’s been nearly 30 years since I attended a revival at the church that helped raise me. And that makes me wonder: Is the revival of today the same as it was back in the 1970s and early 1980s, back when I was a child and young adult?
Do the senior pastor and guest minister still take catastrophes such as the Gulf oil crisis and use them in fiery sermons as a manipulative tool to admonish parishioners to “get straight” with God?
Today, I will join my brothers Phil, from Chicago, and Lee, from Atlanta, for some rest and relaxation at the family home in Jenkins County.
We’ll immerse ourselves in the kinds of things you do when you vacate to South Georgia: talk, visit folk, barbecue, fish, fry fish and do absolutely zilch.
We also plan to do something else, at least a night or two. Attend church, partake in revival.
Who knows who or what I’ll see, feel or hear in the little country church that helped raise me.
The only certainty is that I plan to share it with you.
Rick Badie, an Opinion columnist, is based in Gwinnett. Reach him at rbadie@ajc.com or 770-263-3875.
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