That Old Church

After too long an absence, here is another photo taken and story written by my brother, Jim King. It comes from his book, Abandoned Arkansas. His notes on the photo follow the story.

Copyright 2008, from Abandoned Arkansas, by Jim King

That Old Church

Oh, yes, Lord. I know that church.
You’ve seen it? Now what would possess you to stop and look at it? It’s almost falling down. You took pictures of it? Land sakes.
I figure nobody even sees it nowadays. It’s almost been swallowed by the earth by now.
Now, mind you, we had some mighty good times inside. There was a big congregation there about fifty years ago, and if you passed on a Wednesday night, you’d know how big it was from the sound of the choir practicing. Oh, I really enjoyed those choir practices; they were far better than the actual Sunday choirs. I declare that anybody who left that building after practice was smiling and joking and full of God’s laughter.
You know that God laughs, don’t you, young man? Lord, he does it all the time. It’s how he copes with us.
My Daddy helped to build that church back in the teens, and I guess I never expected it would ever be empty.
But times change. I don’t think God does, but people sure do.
After Brother Benjamin passed, there was no one to fill the void. He had helped build that church, and anyone who came after was just tryin’ to hoe a dry row, if you get my meaning.

Oh, there were sparks, and a few of the preachers lit a bit of a fire. Especially Brother Meaning. That was back in the sixties, when we all listened better than now.
But the generations that started it all died out about the same time, and their kids - I’m one, you know - kept up the vision. But times change, and the congregation did, too. We all got a little older, and most of us got more cynical.
It’s got hard for most people to believe in anything anymore.
When I started going there, the pews were filled an hour before the sermon began, and it was standing room only in the nave. Then people began to pass on, and it was very few of their kids that came in behind.
I watched as the congregation shrank, and it just made my heart cry. Others felt the same way, but there were just too few of us to make a difference.
I don’t remember the name of the last pastor; he wasn’t there for more than a few months. But he was the one who told us the doors would be closing in three weeks. Three weeks!
I know there were only four of us, but you shouldn’t do your congregation that way. Visiting preacher or no.
We never went back after that. And look at our church now.
God is in your heart, young man. And if he isn’t, there’s not a grand cathedral or tabernacle that can put him there.

He’s here in this room with us right now.
What’s more, he’s in that old church still.
Go there. You’ll see.


from Jim's notes:
Many of my friends have chided me for this story.
“How can you write a story of a church from a Christian point of view when you’re an atheist?”
Just because I don’t believe in God doesn’t mean that I don’t appreciate points of view from those that do.
I’d like to think others would do the same for me.
It’s one of my favorite stories. I had no idea what I would write as I started, hoping inspiration would come during the process. In fact, I had no intention of using the picture at all, as I had many more abandoned churches with more, uh, picturesqueness. But the story flowed, and I can’t deny there was some influence from outside.
It’s called a muse.
The church is in Phillips County.

Changes of the Ages

Here's the second in a series of photos and stories submitted by my brother, Jim King. Excerpted from his upcoming book, tentatively titled Abandoned Arkansas. His notes on the photo follow the story.

Copyright 2008, from Abandoned Arkansas, by Jim King

CHANGES OF THE AGES

They’re coming. I can feel it.

I’ve been here for what seems like a thousand years.

People came in to sing, people came in to talk. People listened, people cried. I don’t really get much credit. I am, after all, only a building.

But people change. They go through periods of enthusiasm, darkness, mirth, dearth. Death. Birth. Mirthdeathdearthbirth.

I like the way those words sound together.

I’ve been listening to people’s words since I was built. Born.

Whatever.

People talk a lot and I see the results. Mostly I’m not impressed.

They call me a house of God.

Pshaw!

What do these people know of God?

What do they know of anything but themselves? All they do is tell each other what they can and can’t do, why they’re right, what will happen when they’re wrong.

That they do it without my consent isn’t surprising.

House of God.

What a lie.

I am a building, simple as that. What they say means nothing without something behind it.

Faith? Oh, that’s useful, to an extent.

Godliness?

Oh, please. God has a hard enough time adhering to their principles.

How about Truth? Fairness? Understanding of others?

I see and hear little of that.

And now it comes to this.

I’ve heard the talk. I’m not stupid, you know.

You should know. You taught me to listen. And if you had the ear, you’d know that you’ve taught me to talk.

So Now I’m Talking.

Open me back up. For almost twenty years I’ve been closed, silent, alone. I have so much to tell. Even if you don’t hear me directly.

I’ll be destroyed next week. That I know. The highway has to be widened, and where my congregation parked is now only a way station for those machines that will take my life.

I expect to live again. I will rise in the minds of those who would preserve the ideals of fairness. Of Goodness. Of Truth.

I only wish I could be there to laugh about our triumph with you.

I fully expect to meet those that hear me on the other side.


from Jim's notes:
The church is in Sweet Home in Montgomery County. I took the photo with and without the road grader (I merely changed my position), and had been looking for abandoned churches that day. I had no intention to use the photo with the tractor, but upon seeing the photo for the first time, had the virtual apple hit me on the head. Don’t worry; the church is in no danger and is apparently being cared for, though no services are presently being held.

The Blue, Hempstead County

Copyright 2008, from Abandoned Arkansas, by Jim King

You see the old church, and you think nothing of it. At first.

‘Did I see what I thought I saw?’ you say to yourself, and without thinking at all, you turn down the side street that leads to the parking lot.

Parking lot is a grand term for this field. No one has parked here for years.

No congregation, anyway.

The weeds brush your thighs as you walk across what was once a churchyard. You feel the soft sound and think, ‘Ahhh.’

What you saw, what drew you to it in the first place, isn’t the lines. It isn’t the Greek Revival austerity, the twin doorways, the perfectly preserved windows. It isn’t the massive belfry. It isn’t the wonderful location, set in the crook of the road, where you’d have to slow down just enough to want to visit the building.

What you saw was a wink of cobalt. A blue so intense, yet so elusive, that you had to know what made it happen.

And once alongside the church, you see.

God, but you want to be in there. (You chuckle at the inside joke. God indeed).

It’s not the draw of the church, and it’s not your desire to worship. You’ve been an atheist all your life, and the Christian Church holds nothing for you.

But this. Oh, this.

It’s the blue. It’s The Blue.

The windows are finely filigreed with lead and dark glass, and though some is of other colors, The Blue rules all.

You walk up to the one of the windows, and you see what made you come here.

The light comes from the windows on the other side, and though it comes from blue, and so loses much of its intensity, there is no doubt in your mind that the blue coming from the window colors your face. You feel it. You know it’s there. And the contentedness it projects makes you wonder.

Did the people inside experience this?

You feel bad for those that haven’t, and probably never will.

Some atheist you are.

from Jim's notes:
The church was in Columbus, in Hempstead County. A friend told me about Columbus, and I included it in my tour of southwest Arkansas, where I was nearly overwhelmed with the fecundity of abandonment. I’ve included no less than six stories inspired by stores, schools, homes, churches, storm cellars, and sheds from the town and its surrounds. Every window in the church was intact at the time of my visit in 2008. It was crushed by a falling tree (probably the one at the right of the photograph) six months after the shot was taken.

Abandoned Arkansas

I'm going to start working into this project some offerings from my brother, Jim King. They are photos and short works of fiction from his upcoming book, "Abandoned Arkansas." The book depicts houses, barns, stores and about anything with four (or fewer) walls. He sent me pictures of seven former churches, their accompanying stories and notes on each. Because in most cases we don't know the names of these former churches, I have substituted the story title. Anyone with information on the history of these buildings is encouraged to weigh in in the comments.

We'll start with..