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One Sunday morning, when I was about eight years old, my mother informed us boys that our family would be attending a different church that day. Sure enough, in time for Sunday School and then later Worship, we pulled up at the First Baptist Church in my hometown. 

Before we move forward, let’s take a glance backward. I was not born into an everytime-the-doors-were-open family when it came to churchgoing. However, we were an every Sunday go-to-worship family. That much, we did. 

At the small, independent Baptist church I was born into, they taught me that Jesus loved me. That God had created our world. That our Bible was a sacred book full of wondrous stories. They taught me faithfully and well, as much as you can teach a child. 

I have no recollection of a musical instrument in the sanctuary back then. I do have vivid recall of vigorous singing from a shaped-note hymnal. One day, during a song, my mother caught me standing on the pew and making funny faces at the people seated behind us. At least, I thought they were funny. She was somewhat less entertained. 

The pastor preached up a storm there. It was hellfire and brimstone at its very best. In his unction, he must have practically ruined a handkerchief every Sunday. So prolific was the sweat on his brow. 

I would learn later that this church was so conservative it was to the right of the Southern Baptist Convention. Turns out, that wasn’t the problem that caused us to leave at all. 

Now came the day in our household when we made the big switch. Perhaps only a child can stumble onto something profound, completely unwittingly. I remember asking my mother that morning, “Aren’t you going to load up on Kleenex today? Usually, you cry a lot at church.” 

Only as an adult, decades later, would I find out the connection between the tissues and why we were leaving one church for the other. Then, though, my mother only commented that she didn’t think she would need so many. 

On the surface, not much changed. The sign out front at the new church still said “Baptist,” just like the other one. The two churches were actually quite close to each other, such that our route was practically the same. However, now, instead of the Second Baptist Church, we would be at the First. 

On that first visit, we sat on the balcony of the much larger sanctuary. We had such a good view. It turns out that was just so we didn’t sit in anyone’s claimed pew. My parents could scout out the place from the relative safety and anonymity of the balcony. 

There were both piano and organ consoles, and both prominently featured up front. However, as the first hymn fired up, I heard a sound my ears weren’t prepared for. “God Of Our Fathers” was a hymn we hadn’t sung from the shape-note hymnal at Second Baptist. The bright, loud trumpets of the pipe organ on the refrain before each verse heralded a regal style of worship. 

The children’s Sunday School teachers there, too, took up teaching us the names of the books of the Bible. They taught us the great stories of the Testaments, Old and New. They loved us and nurtured us faithfully. Soon, we felt at home, and all agreed we should stay. 

I look back now and realize that more than the shapes of the notes changed, though. To use the professional language of my calling, we had moved from a Sandy Creek tradition church to one in the Charleston tradition of Baptist life. 

Also gone were my mother’s tears on Sundays because she had given up trying to find a way into a tightly controlled family-dominated church, also to use my technical terminology. For those who might not know, a “family” church is one that is usually fairly small and run by branches of essentially one family and their friends. 

For our effort, we now had a church we stood a chance of actually finding a welcomed place within. For our effort, we also found a church with a higher Christology and a healthier internal culture. One that had differences among its members, sure. But a fellowship that valued the sacred community more than it did battling over nuances and smaller things. My parents found a place of healing.

For that, I am grateful to God. I wonder if you have a church like that?

DR. CHARLES QUALLS is senior pastor at Franklin Baptist Church. Contact him at 757-562-5135.