I used to pretend to preach from the pulpit in this replica of the original church.
Primitive Baptists don’t believe in seminary. Instead of young men feeling a call and heading to school, the churches raise leaders from within their own ranks. If a man seems to have an interest in spiritual things, the church begins to give him opportunity to address the congregation. If the membership sees potential, then the prospect is given more opportunity to “exercise his gift.” In the meantime, the pastor acts as a mentor. A sort of Paul and Timothy relationship forms.
I remember when my dad was being tested in this way. I was a young fellow; we were attending Pilgrim Primitive Baptist Church in Elkhart, Texas. Pilgrim Church was constituted in 1833 while Texas was still under Mexican authority. It was, at the time, illegal for a non-Catholic church to be started in Texas. It was not, however, illegal for a church to move to Texas. So Daniel Parker and a handful of others organized the church in Illinois and then travelled by wagon to East Texas. (I was not with them.) Daniel Parker and many of his family members are buried in Pilgrim Cemetery beside the current church.
Elkhart is in East Texas, but not so far east to be in the Piney Woods. The cemetery is full of stately Sweetgums, Magnolias, and other hardwoods and flowering trees. In the spring, when everything’s in bloom, there’s no shortage of hummingbirds or bumblebees. I spent many Sunday afternoons exploring the moss-covered headstones and stalking lizards. As all of the doors and windows in the church were open to catch any passing breeze, I could hear the hymns and preaching from the other side of the cemetery.
All of that to introduce a dream, which is the subject of this rambling, perhaps pointless, post. My dad was in the pulpit. I was sitting in church. It must have been too hot or too cold to be outdoors. Anyway, my dad was describing a dream. He saw a pool. The water was filthy; so filthy that you couldn’t see through it. But in the midst of the pool were fountains from which clear, pure water flowed. (It would be a nice touch to say that there were seven fountains, or twelve, or perhaps four to represent the four gospels, but that would be an embellishment.) And there was a fish. Was he alone? I think he was alone. But whether he was alone or with eleven others, as he swam through the filth, he kept as close to the pure fountains as possible.
This type of dream is coveted by the subjective, spiritualizing Primitive Baptist type. (You can read about my imagery laden dream here.) We love special revelations. We love signs. We love messages. Come to think of it, I’m describing a lot of Christians. Anyway, whether the dream had a point or not, my dad had a point in repeating it. But that point is not as vivid in my memory as the Sweetgum balls or bumblebees, so I’ll let you make your own application. Do you ever feel like the fish?