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s a sound Methodist, far be it from me to sound critical of more “fundamentalist” denominations and their practices and beliefs. I often point out that this country was founded, not just on the premises espoused by more fundamental groups of freedom “of” religion, but “from” it as well.
No, I’m not encouraging fleeing from any faith. Rather, I’m just not very understanding or accepting of the use of pressure and fear as a tool for lassoing someone into professing faith and joining a church.
Make no mistake, there is or was a very real fear in most people of faith of an eternity in the fires of hell. That alone should not be the reason for confessing one’s sins (as almost every church expects), repenting and embracing Jesus as Savior.
I was taught that those who did not accept Christianity were doomed to eternity in Hell, where the fires were hotter than one could even imagine and never-ending. Pretty scary.
As a youngster of seven, I was assigned to watch my then-youngest brother, not yet a toddler, as he sat in what I called a “jumper” chair playing with a rattle. Mother was outside our country farm home, working in the garden, getting it ready for the approaching spring. She had positioned his chair near the fireplace hearth where a fire was blazing away.
Little Brother was playing with a rattle made, in the days before hard plastic, of a flimsy, thin material known as celluloid. What I knew was that if he dropped it and it rolled into the fire, it was a goner. What I believed was that, if that happened, I was in deep trouble with Mother.
Sure enough, he dropped it and it started rolling across the hearth toward the fire. I grabbed and got it just before it got to the fire but the heat was intense enough that the flimsy celluloid burst into flames as I scooped it up. The flimsy material immediately melted over my left hand, particularly the thumb.
Naturally it hurt; I thought I was in Hell burning for the sin of not saving Little Brother’s rattle.
Mother, alerted by my screams of pain, came rushing into the house and saw what had happened. She did what she knew to do in those World War II days, particularly for someone minus an automobile out in a rural area. “Doctoring” was one of the realms of a farm wife and mother.
She applied a salve/ointment and loose bandages to the hand and fashioned a sling to keep the arm and hand immobile. Mom checked the burns several times a day, changing bandages and applying ointment when needed. We saw a doctor “in town” in a few days and he said she’d done as well as he could have.
It took about six weeks for it to heal enough to be able to use, but left the left thumb pretty nastily scarred. Almost 70 years later, the thumb still looks a little different than the right one, and with a double-thickness nail, unnoticeable unless you point it out to someone.
So, at age 12, when I felt the guilt pangs of sin brought on by the intonations of a revival preacher at our one-room country church, I fled sobbingly down the aisle to confess those sins (without detail, of course) and to pledge my soul to Jesus.
Naturally, I strayed. We all do daily. However, when I did, I’d feel the pain of Hell in my left hand and would realign myself.
As I gained maturity, I understood that we are mere humans and susceptible to sin. Atonement and faith are also ours, but fleeing down an aisle in tears isn’t necessary for forgiveness.
My current church membership allows me to have intellectual and spiritual discussions without being preceded by fears and tears.
After all, religion and faith are a very individual thing.
Willis Webb is a retired community newspaper editor-publisher of more than 50 years experience.
