Usually on Monday night, when our church is closed to the public, I’ll come in after work to take care of some administrative tasks.
And some days I’ll turn on a few lights in the sanctuary and just stare into that big dimly lit room. It’s 57 degrees warm in there, and I’ll try to imagine the people who have sat in those well worn pews for 91 years. I’ll think about how they must have struggled to pay a pastor during the great depression. How they must have feared World War II. I wonder what their prayer meetings must have been like during those times.
That big dimly lit sanctuary.
I think about how those faithful Baptists weathered the shifting sands of culture and the artificial glories of the 20th century. I think about the theological battles they fought in simplicity and faithfulness, and the ugly business meetings they must have endured when times were tough.
I think about James M. Post who died in 1928, three years after the church moved into this building. This church was largely his labor of love more than anyone else’s. I wonder how many choir cantatas, vacation bible schools, singspirations, church dinners, ordinations, revival meetings, funerals, weddings, and communions this humble building has endured.
I wonder what kind of coffee they drank as they discussed pearl Harbor or removing the word “Catholic” from the Apostles Creed.
Then I turn off the lights and quietly exit that dim cold room, imbued with renewed love for God’s preservation of His people.
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