My Spiritual Roots

My roots are embedded deeply in the Methodist Church.

My family and I attended what by now is a well over hundred year old church in the county seat of Bartow. The original building still stands and faces (where else but) Broadway. The architecture is rather non-descript, and not so very different from other churches of that era on the outside, except for a large, stained glass window in the second story which faces the afore mentioned street. Even as a teenager, that multi-colored window, based on Ralph Stuckney’s painting, just drew me in. Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane supplicating before the invisible throne of His Father. (The latter of the two variables, as I have implied, remains invisible, but seems almost as tangible as the first). When I attended First Methodist Church, the city boasted 32 other churches, but from my way of thinking, not one of them offered a more compelling, almost alluring architectural feature than this one. I think I must have almost studied it as I prepared to walk into the vestibule of the sanctuary each Sunday, and no doubt I may have cast a glance over my shoulder on the way out. I just plain loved that picture which this colorful window portrayed.

And I will always remember the heavy wood tones of the sanctuary, and the heavy oaken pews. Like many churches as ancient as this one, two massive chairs sat on the stage, one on the left and one on the right. Though the pastor “owned” the one to my left, and the music director often filled the one on the right, I think it was easy to believe it belonged to Jesus, and ought to have been left vacant. (Perhaps this childhood fascination with those ornate old wooden chairs contributed to my having purchased a somewhat similar one at a second hand store; something from the 19^th Century, arms and back and seat clothed in red velvet, and ornate flowered inlays copiously set into its massive wooden structure).

And the windows, those tall, but not so wide stained glass windows which “ran” both the left and right sides of the sanctuary. While these stationary, and “not designed to be opened” curiosities seemed as non-descript as the building on the outside, they were nothing short of glorious on the inside. Harps and angels and flowers and such things, with red and gold and green accents, whose light seemed almost luminescent and self-contained, and inspired nothing less than abject wonder in me.

And the music. That almost unearthly music. That which I refer to today as, “the High and Mighty Music of the Church.” The hymns of Charles Wesley and Martin Luther, and John Newton, and other such 17^th and 18^th Century poets, (and those who came after them who emulated their style).

“Crown Him With Many Crowns”

“And Can It Be?”

“Amazing Grace”

“Great Is Thy Faithfulness”

Though I cannot recall ever having heard the Gospel message preached here, (but rather a social gospel which admonished us to be kind to our neighbors, give to the poor, forgive those who have wronged us, etc.), and though I don’t believe I ever heard a “call to faith” or invitation to “come down to the altar,” I think I was developing an immature, though progressive attachment to the things of God, and which would discover fruition at some future date uncertain.

I attended Methodist Youth Group in the church annex; which was attached to the sanctuary on one side of a breezeway.  A side door led down two flights of steps and into a basement; something fairly rare for Florida. (Sadly, the annex is in bad disrepair now, and might cost an estimated $1,000,000 to restore. “The jury is still out” in this regard, and to my knowledge, a decision hasn’t been made whether to salvage that old building, or tear it down.) But like my experiences in the sanctuary, I recall youth ministry as more of an opportunity to socialize, than anything more substantial. To be fair, there may have been a spiritual emphasis, perhaps a short devotion, but if so, I have long since forgotten. M.Y.F. began each week with a buffet dinner, and I for one thought it was, (in the language of the astronauts) “A-Okay.” Afterwards we played board and box games.

One year, it may have been ’65 or ’66, our church hired a Scottish couple to be our youth ministers, as the result of an exchange program with the Presbyterian Church in Edinburgh. Along with their luggage, Alex and Marjorie Cairns brought their brogue accent with them, and it was, as they say, charming. (Both of my father’s parents, the McDonald’s and Cone’s, were of Scottish descent, and I have always LOVED that accent, above all others. I was especially fascinated to discover my great great great Grandmother, Mary Stewart Cone, lived on the Isle of Skye, Scotland).

I think the first time I met the Cairns was at a church picnic. The pastor was busy introducing them to several couples, the Flanagan’s, and McConnell’s, and of course, the McDonald’s. Marjorie quipped, “With names like that, it sounds like we’re back in Scotland.”

The youth of our church grew attached to this precious couple, and I especially recall one particular outing in which Marjorie served scones. Now that was novel. What I saw that day was a sort of foreshadowing, for me at least, since for whatever reason I happened to see Alex without a shirt, and there was a significant scar on his chest, as if he’d undergone heart surgery.

In recent years I learned that Alex and Marjorie had divorced, and that Alex subsequently passed away. Very sad, indeed. I had learned to love them.

During the course of three successive years I attended Methodist Youth Camp in Leesburg. As our bus approached the camp entrance, the first thing I noticed was a banner hung above the road with the motto of that year’s camp.

They were terrific slogans:

“Christ Life. Our Code”

“Christ Above All”

“Speak Up For Your Faith”

Unfortunately, I was altogether unaware of Christ’ life, I was untrained in the doctrine surrounding His Lordship, and I possessed no faith to speak up for.

Again, I cannot guarantee that there was not a more overt exposure to the Gospel at my local church, but the foregoing memoir is my own personal recollection. But in spite of anything I have written which could, in some ways, leave a negative connotation of my early church, I am grateful for my spiritual preparation, and my mother’s determination and faithfulness to expose us to the things of God. I think, more so than anything else, the awe-inspiring music drew me in, “would not let me go,” and prepared me for God’s next step on His providential agenda.

 

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "Snapshots From A Life (Not Always So) Well-lived." Vol. 2