I was just a child, so the accuracy of what I'm saying might be skewed - from a kid's viewpoint, so to speak.
Reverend Lawrence was an evangelist sent by the Southern Baptist Convention to build up their (tent, I think) church in Sunset Park, Wilmington, North Carolina. Even as he preached to the swelling crowd at the revival meetings, he taught us children that a good place to worship was alone at home, without show, no fancy Easter dresses necessary.
The Easter that I was Baptized, immersed in the sweet waters inside an alcove, over the heads of the choir, I forgot to bring dry underwear. Reverend Lawrence laughed. "No one will know but God," he calmed me, "and He doesn't mind. It's just a story to tell to your grandchildren." The brick church had long been built by then and Reverend Lawrence had stayed on with us.
I think of him sometimes when I kneel with my congregation to pray publicly. He taught us children to pray in the closet, the bedroom, on the playground, anywhere that we could be alone and in silence. "Talk to the Lord in privacy," he said.
Reverend Lawrence's, by the way, was not the voice that told me to dress my best in praise and thanksgiving - not only on Easter but every day. That voice belonged to Grandmother.
For several years, I've been a happy participant in what I call the (Episcopal) Week of Sundays - Holy Week. I love my new Tallahassee church. The Southern Baptists have changed and I have changed, as well.
This year, however, I've somehow slipped into my old dictum. I have walked in the garden alone, I have prayed in the closet, I have watched (and sung and hummed) Jesus Christ Superstar, I have listened to the music of the masters, I have trudged the Holy Land not only through the pictures and postings of the Holy Comforter pilgrims but also aided by my childhood dream/poem of being the sister of one of the Disciples and tagging after the Master half in fear and half in exaltation.
When I go to church on Easter morning, I'm going to pray for Reverend Lawrence and thank God for the attitudes of worship and behaviors that he taught me. I've turned down an invitation to a Brunch that morning. Next year I'll be a more active parishioner, perhaps, but next Sunday I want a simple picnic in my garden after church....and "He walks with me and He talks with me and He tells me I am His own; and the joys we share, as we tarry there, none other has ever known."
