In the tapestry of my Southern upbringing, religion was more than a Sunday ritual; it was woven into the very fabric of identity. To dissect a Southerner’s religious roots is to invite an existential exploration. Having navigated these introspective waters myself, I can clearly trace the currents of my own spiritual formation. The most influential figure was my Ninny, a self-proclaimed Methodist whose faith was a vibrant, unconventional blend of Pentecostal fervor, Holiness conviction, and a touch of Church of God spirit. Her religious zeal was matched only by my Papa’s dedication to fine Kentucky bourbon.
My other grandparents represented the more conventional Methodist piety: Sunday services, both morning and evening, punctuated by Wednesday night Bible study. Sunday School was a weekly event, complete with felt Bible figures, offering dimes, a familiar hymn, and a sermon that, while aiming for gentleness, still hinted at the fires of hell and brimstone.
Each Sunday morning, I found myself in the pews of a quaint, traditional Methodist church with Grandmother and Granddaddy. My parents, in their adult years, were more accurately described as Christmas and Easter Methodists, though the potent Southern weapon of maternal guilt could occasionally draw them to Decoration Day or an All-Day Singing. Dressed in lacy socks, black patent shoes, and itchy pinafores, my pigtails pulled so tight they threatened to lift my face, I would squirm on the polished wooden seats. Yet, I knew every hymn by heart, and often drifted to sleep in my grandmother’s lap as the preacher’s sermon, lasting a solid 45 minutes, filled the air.
Contrasting sharply with this formal observance was Ninny’s “church,” a fluid concept that could materialize anytime, anywhere. The rest of my week was spent trailing Ninny like a miniature shadow, attending every revival, gospel preaching, and prayer meeting she could unearth. Our venues ranged from televised sermons by Oral Roberts and Jimmy Swaggart in her living room to makeshift sanctuaries in cold garages, echoing warehouses, and humble one-room schoolhouses. Seated on rusty folding chairs, plush velvet pews, or simple wooden benches, I absorbed the unique soundtrack of my childhood: the rhythmic cadence of glossolalia, punctuated by the fervent cries of “Hallelujah,” “Amen,” and “Thank you, Sweet Jesus!” No two services were ever identical, each guided by the unpredictable currents of “the Spirit,” leading to spontaneous expressions of prayer, shouts of joy, ecstatic dance, or even Shakespearean recitations – all equally cherished when offered in Jesus’ name.
At the tender age of two, the nuances of denominational distinctions were lost on me. This was rarely a problem, until one crisp autumn Sunday when the song leader of Grandmother and Granddaddy’s “respectable” church was absent, reportedly due to a mysterious flu, but more likely a hangover. This absence created a void in the service, leaving the young, earnest, and somewhat green minister in a state of visible unease. He approached the congregation with the nervous hesitancy of a toddler parting from a parent, his voice still prone to cracking. He faced us as if we were a firing squad, his knuckles white as he gripped the lectern. While no tomatoes were thrown, he evoked the image of a vaudeville performer dodging imaginary projectiles. Then, he made a classic rookie mistake. Innocently, he asked if anyone would like to volunteer a song. (It’s fortunate he chose ministry over law, as such ambiguity could have been his professional downfall. In this context, it certainly didn’t serve him well.)
My small, eager fist shot into the air, propelled by a toddler’s dual desires: to bask in the spotlight and to express devotion to Jesus. The minister, it seemed, had made an unspoken assumption, one completely missed by my two-year-old mind. He presumed everyone understood he meant a church song. And to be fair, everyone except me probably did.
Time seemed to slow, becoming thick and viscous. Words hung in the air, slightly distorted. A collective realization washed over the congregation as the minister’s gaze, and then his finger, landed squarely on me. Thankfully, the sheer shock held everyone in their seats, granting me the stage. I seized the moment without hesitation, launching into my performance, standing tall on the pew for optimal visibility. What followed was arguably the finest a cappella rendition of “Delta Dawn” ever witnessed in a worship service. This is less a testament to my nascent vocal talents and more an acknowledgement of the sheer improbability of such an event. In my defense, and perhaps none was needed, the lyric about “mansions in the sky” seamlessly transitioned the song from the country-western realm into the familiar thematic territory of hymns!
I delivered every verse and chorus with gusto, even tackling the bridge and the key change – the full “Delta Dawn” package.
