Blogging Along the River: Sunday Salvation
As a county kid, I went to Mamie Martin Elementary School through the fifth grade; the city kids attended Brookhaven Elementary. Grades six and seven  were at Lipsey Jr. High, so the students from both elementary schools merged into one group. I immediately decided to cross school district lines and attempt to fit in with the city group. I’m glad I did because I developed some of my dearest friendships during those two years. One thing that bonded us together was a similarity in lifestyles and family values. Most of us attended First Baptist Church, and we ended up in the same Sunday school classes. By the time I entered the sixth grade, the pressure was on to make a public profession of faith. That meant that after the regular church service on Sunday morning, while the hymn of invitation was being sung, you would walk down the aisle and tell the preacher that you wanted to accept Christ as your Lord and Savior and become a member of the church. Friends and family would shed tears of joy, and you would be ensured a place in Heaven. At least, that’s how things seemed to work in my adolescent mind. The next step was baptism.  Dressed in a white robe, the new Christian would step chest deep into the warm water of the baptistry. The preacher would then place his hand on your head, dedicate you to the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, and dip you backwards into the water.  You would emerge a saved person, changed forever. Things were not going as scheduled for me.
I understood the importance of making my public profession of faith, and I had been raised to believe in Jesus, His miracles, His message, His death, burial, and resurrection. My parents waited with obvious anticipation for me to make the big decision. All my friends had been baptized. What was I waiting for? Why hadn’t I walked down that aisle? One reason … fear.  On many occasions I had almost made my move, also stepped out of my comfort zone, but my feet seemed firmly cemented, unable to budge.  During those moments at that point in my twelve years of life, I began to think that maybe the flames of hell wouldn’t be so bad after all! My family had sat on the third row in the church sanctuary for as long as I could remember.  In reality, the distance from our pew to the preacher was only a few yards; but to me, it seemed miles away.  Sunday services would come and go. My parents would look at me with expectant faces, but no decision was in sight. Revivals were a common event in our church, and I had sat through many evangelists’ sermons, all ending with a tear-filled plea for sinners to accept redemption. I didn’t expect the upcoming revival to be any different.Â
The Sunday night service began like so many others. The renowned Reverend R. G. Lee, a man of God admired and revered by all Southern Baptists, was the featured evangelist.  He began to speak in a slow deliberate voice that immediately caught and held my attention. The topic of the sermon was Faith, and he used a small wooden chair to illustrate his point.  Everything he said made sense to me; every point he made touched my heart.  There was no blinding light, no angels singing, no Biblical revelations like I had expected, but I knew without a doubt that I had to walk down that aisle.  I knew that I had to look in the preacher’s eyes and tell him that I believed in everything he had said and everything that Mama and Daddy had been teaching me all my life.  My fingers clinched the pew in front of me in a death grip. I waited until the organist began to play the hymn, “I Surrender All.”  By the end of the first verse, I found myself standing in front of the pulpit, my hands in the hands of R. G. Lee himself.  The walk down the aisle had not been long or frightening. In fact, I had no recollection of actually taking any steps at all.  I felt a peace and a stillness that blocked out the world around me.  I knew I had made the decision at the right time for me, and that I indeed had not made that walk alone. Â
Growing up is not easy, and every day of my life since that Sunday evening has been filled with challenges, many of which I have failed. I’m far from where I should be, but I know for certain where I want to end up. The lessons I learn in life make me who I am; the choices I make often define me; and my faith indeed provides me with a peace that transcends my understanding.
Jennifer Jackson Whittier is a contributing writer for Bluffs & Bayous and lives in Brookhaven, Mississippi.
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