Memories and Sacred Spaces
When I was 14 years old, I became a member of the First Baptist Church of Rhodhiss, N.C.
I was baptized by immersion into the chilly waters of the small metal pool that had welcomed thousands of people before me into Christian communion. As the pastor quoted scripture, I caught a glimpse of rust stains around the drain at the bottom of the pool. An oil painting of a river bank covered the wall behind me. It had once been the pride of the Sanctuary. Only a faint glimmer of its former exuberance remained. The artist’s work was faded and cracked. Years of dust had accumulated on the thickest brush strokes, and the canvas was peeling on all four corners. The state of the painting, and the whole baptismal array, dismayed many. For me, it revealed the tattered elegance of a space worn out by faithful service.