Teaching Bible School

This article replaces the one I wrote on October 30, which I now deleted. It is from a letter I wrote in 1992 and is more detailed about my trip to Tennessee in 1963.

I remember when I was lot younger and afraid life was passing me by without the benefit of traveling beyond the local environs in rural Montgomery County, PA. I lived on a chicken farm in Franconia Twp. with my parents, two brothers and five sisters and we had our daily routines all set, and at the age of 19 life can get pretty humdrum. I was almost an adult and hadn’t seen the world yet!

Then one day someone asked me if I wanted to teach Bible School in a little Mennonite community church near Knoxville, Tennessee. I was, perhaps, a little reticent about getting involved in something I wasn’t used to, like teaching little kids, but my desire to spread my wings won out and I agreed.

The day came when I made preparations to take the long drive. The plan was to stay the night at the home of the Landes family, some who were leaving for Tennessee and we would take off sometime in the wee hours. I anticipated an interesting trip and I dozed off with the sound of mockingbirds serenading outside in the warm moonlit night.

Very early in the morning we took off—I was the only fellow, as I remember, with three or four girls. We would be picking up another volunteer, John Paul H. near Harrisonburg, VA. I volunteered to drive. Ever since I got my license at the age of 17 I had driven the family car most of the time, putting on thousands of miles and enjoying it. This was now my chance to drive a long, long way.

We were only a few miles on the road when I spotted a possum crossing the road. I was barreling along at 60 mph and didn’t have much time to stop with a fully-loaded car. The possum changed its mind and retreated back across the road, then changed direction again. The last sight of it was he facing me with feet spread and teeth bared for a fight. Discretion dictates a merciful omission of the details of the outcome.

I drove most of the way. I had a splitting headache which felt better while I was driving. The South was intriguing to me. Here I was, a young Yankee, visiting the South for the first time, and I was anticipating a cultural change, something which I looked forward to. As soon as we hit the Mason/Dixon line we were in another world. I believe it was somewhere in Maryland or Virginia where we stopped for breakfast. Everyone within earshot was speaking in a southern accent and, unknown to us, we were being observed. The waitress walked over to the juke box and put in a dime. “You Ain’t Our Kind, But We Love You Anyway” started playing as she took our orders. I wanted to try the grits, “and a Pepsi,” I told her.

“A whut?”

“A Pepsi…you know, a Coke…Pepsi.”

“Oh, a PAYepsi. Awraht, ah gotcha!”

So we dined on some southern vittles; I finished the grits, the Payepsi, and whatever else I ordered, and we were on our way again, deeper into the South. Toward the southern end of Virginia we picked up JP, another candidate to teach Bible school. He was about my age and more reserved than I was—from quite conservative Mennonite stock. A quiet fellow. We roomed together during our stay in Tennessee and I noticed how quiet he always was, while I tossed and turned most of the night. I guess I’m a fidgety guy by nature—always was.

I took notice of some of the trees in Tennessee, which I learned later were mimosa trees. Their delicate feathery flowers had an oriental appearance, and made me more aware that I was far from home—for the first time in my life. I reveled in what was to me an exciting adventure. The weather was quite warm and sunny, and we spent the first day resting. On Monday we would exercise our labor of love in the art of teaching fertile little minds something which might prove valuable to them. It was a rural community with plenty of kids around.

I was assigned to third graders—cute kids. Some were barefooted. They all had a delightful southern accent, and I was quite conscious of the difference between mine and theirs. In fact, my accent was a little distracting to them…and I gradually slipped into their manner of speech and made more progress in teaching them Bible stories. By the end of two weeks I was practically a Confederate.

We didn’t just teach Bible School. On the first weekend we attended a Saturday evening Southern Baptist song service. Being a strait-laced Mennonite and rather wide-eyed about cultural differences, I drank in the feeling of euphoria I felt. The music sounded wonderful and free. Yes, sometimes the music sounded more like a jamboree or hoedown but it was beautiful to me, even when sung in a church. They were all religious songs…sung in country style, complete with guitars and piano.

One of the girls, Betty, had brought her accordion along and over the free time I learned how to play it, to a limited degree. I had played some piano over the years so all I really had to do was to figure out the bass part of the accordion. It didn’t take long. Then on this particular evening we were asked to sing as a Mennonite group. Betty asked if I would play the accordion. I declined. I wasn’t used to playing in front of a group and the skills I learned were too new to stand up under the stress of public scrutiny. So we sang without instrumental music.

During one particular enthusiastic vocal/instrumental number, the song was so uplifting that one rather dignified middle-aged lady jumped up from her seat and in a fit of high emotion, danced around a couple of times, until she apparently realized what she was doing and—sheepishly, I thought—sat down again.

All this was a new experience for me. Here people were not enduring their religion; they were enjoying it. It set me to thinking…and I got to think a lot about some of these things over the next couple of years.

In comparison, we attended a Southern Methodist revival meeting—the following weekend. It was an open-air building in the old camp-meeting style. An American Indian sat on the stage with the evangelist. During one part of the service, he was the focus of some of the bad history between the early settlers and the tribes that were mistreated in their day. The singing was energetic and the hallelujahs and amens ran rampant. This clearly was not a Mennonite revival meeting.

When the evangelist had the pulpit, he didn’t mince words. He spoke straight to the heart of the people. He hit where they were most vulnerable. He was going to win converts tonight.
“You who are holding back from giving you heart to the Lord tonight may truly regret it,” was the gist of part of his message. “The Lord is calling you—heed His call. You may not get another chance. God could surely repay you for not heeding His call…tonight. Those of you who have children, take heed. That innocent little baby sitting on your lap could be snatched from you and you would live to regret it for the rest of your life. You could have a car accident on the way home, for not heeding His call…tonight.”

The altar call was awash with weeping treble voices. There were also a few men in the throng. One man was on his knees his face to the ground, loudly beseeching the Almighty for mercy.
I was rather dumbstruck, puzzled, and a little angry. There seemed to be something a little diabolical in all of this. There may be a place to be coerced into a meaningful spirit-filled relationship with God, but not in an emotion-packed arena such as this seemed to be. But I added this to the list of rounded experiences as a young man trying to find a clear road in life.
I love peace and quiet. I’m a country-boy at heart, and perhaps always will be. One Friday night we camped in a field under the stars. I had never slept outdoors before. Someone gave me a sleeping bag and we were scattered in a field wherein grazed and horse and her colt. They paid us no mind. Around us were steep hills typical of the Tennessee countryside. Throughout the night I watched the stars slowly drift toward the west. Mockingbirds (the state bird of Tennessee) warbled and sang in the late-night jamboree of their own. I slept fitfully, as I often do in new surroundings. I dozed off and awakened as the eastern sky started to lighten. I dozed off again, until I was suddenly awakened by a firm tug on the top of my head, pulling my hair. Startled, I rolled around to see what it was—in time to watch the colt scamper off. I guess he now knows what Brilcreme tastes like.

One neighbor lady often visited the house where we stayed. She always had something in her mouth, her lower lip bulging. Curious, I asked one of my friends what she was chewing on. “Snuff,” I was told. “She’s chewing snuff. It is quite common.”

I borrowed a bicycle and toured the rural neighborhood. The houses were few and far between and at one house where were people in rocking chairs on the porch. I waved a greeting and one of them called out, “Yu frum Paynsyllvaynia?”

I said, “Yes, how did you know?”

“Bah yor aksaynt,” was the reply.

I hadn’t said a word to them before, so I realized that the whole neighborhood had us pegged. We were Yankees in Confederate hillbilly country. We had been cautioned: Don’t you surprise anybody in these hills, they’re likely to shoot first and ask questions later.

The second week went like the first in the two-week Bible school. I got more comfortable teaching those darling kids. And I even got to lead the whole group in singing. I had learned how to handle a pitch-pipe adequately, although I had difficulty naming the keys of a sing.

During one weekend we traveled down to the southern corner of Tennessee to Chattanooga, of Civil War fame. High atop a bluff we could see Moccasin Bend far below. (Some years later I saw it from an airliner traveling from Alabama to Pennsylvania.)

We picked up a brochure that advertised Ruby Falls. “The highest underground waterfall in the country,” it said. Of course, since we were right nearby, we just had to go see it. We waited in a long line to be taken below-ground by elevator. We paid about $3.00 each for a ticket. While we waited I noticed that when the elevator brought tourists to the top, they were all laughing and smiling, and apparently having a great time. You couldn’t help but notice it, since it happened every time.

We were finally in front of the line and then taken below-ground. A guide gave us a little history of the area and a lay of the cavern. We walked back about a quarter-mile to the falls, stopping to gaze at the stalactites and stalagmites and other odd stone formations along the way.

The falls were a disappointment, however. We didn’t expect Niagara Falls but the pitifully small stream cascading down from 180 feet did not give one any great feeling of wonderment. We ambled back to the elevator in silence.

On the elevator again, we were still rather subdued…until just before we reached the top, when our guide cracked a joke. It was our turn to laugh and smile, apparently having a great time as we exited the elevator.

It took a couple weeks to change back to my normal accent. I was a little embarrassed when I had to give a little talk at the youth meeting at the Bridgeport (PA) Mennonite Church which I regularly attended. It was difficult losing what I had consciously tried to gain for convenience, and now found that it was an oddity in a Pennsylvania Dutch setting. No one objected, however. In fact, some said they liked it. But it gradually faded way into distant memory.

That trip was an eye-opener for me. I had been a little unsettled, as many teenagers are, but this opened my eyes to a broader view, a less confining view. I realized that there are good people outside of my own restricted environment. I became more tolerant of other views. And through subsequent informal discussions with fellow members of the church who had changing views, I felt more free to eventually leave the environment I was in an spread my wings even more. And it felt good to leave the nest gracefully.

I realize anew how much a broader perspective I have than many of those I meet. I don’t know if it’s all good. There are some experiences that one doesn’t like to reminisce over. It taints man’s faith in his fellow man sometimes. But I value the perspective I have gained, for it gives me a better understanding of why people are the way they are.

This was written years ago when I had just left the Mennonite Church and joined a group whose emphasis was in glorifying God through a music ministry. Music was a big part of our endeavors and we had public concerts twice a year for almost 20 years. During that time young people were trained in instrumental and vocal music and we eventually had a 60-voice choir, children’s choir singing in several languages, and a full orchestra. Good things take time.