As Told to Me by Clifford Owens
Sid Oakley
Despite his propensity for becoming overwhelmed by the Holy Ghost and speaking in tongues that only he could interpret, I always thought Brother Stevie Hazlet to be gifted with an astute mind filled with insight into what I would later understand to be the human condition. Not that he was a psychiatrist or anything like that, but he knew what made ladies take notice and men’s blood boil. Later I would realize that sometimes it was the Holy Ghost and sometimes it was baser instincts that provided the inspiration.
Perhaps I was still too young that spring to find it significant that Brother Stevie’s visits with the Spirit often came late on Saturday evenings or on occasion very early Sunday mornings. All I knew for certain was at ten AM each week Brother Stevie would show up with a flower in his lapel, and splashed with cologne ready to preach at the Faith Baptist Church.
Faith Baptist had taken root in a declining neighborhood whose main economic engine was the Richmond County Jail. That being so, it should not be surprising that Faith Baptist boasted a membership larger than its budget. Nowhere was the small budget more obvious than in the sparse facilities for the congregation. The church itself was small to the point that, on cold days, there were three morning services and one evening service each Sunday. Rumor told us that the Episcopalians actually preferred several services, but I can’t testify to this first hand. That’s because my mother had taken great pains to admonish me to never socialize with Episcopalians because as a lot they were bad to drink and way too much like the Catholics.
On warm days, which was most of the time, Sunday services met in a large tent behind the church where later that day a huge covered-dish dinner would be hosted by the Baptist Church Women. When the weather turned cold or stormy, Church met in the building in those three services I mentioned earlier. Those days the Church Women got a day of rest.
Don’t waste time feeling sorry for me or this little church. We had indoor plumbing, gas heat, and plenty of pasteboard fans with pictures of Jesus courtesy of Berryman’s Funeral Home and the Dismal Brothers Brickyard. Besides I could have gone to Calvary Methodist with my mother where, it was rumored, President Eisenhower would occasionally attend when he was in town for a weekend of golf. Some of the other regulars at Faith would have been welcome there as well.
One bright Sunday morning I eased out of bed well before my younger brother, Derek the piss-willy, squirmed himself awake. I eased into the bathroom and soon emerged scrubbed, combed, brushed, and deodorized. A moment later I was out the back door and soon skipping down Fenwick Street on my way to Del Yee’s Market, the only store open in my section of Augusta, Georgia.
Everyone suspected that Del Yee and all his family where Chintoes which we all knew was a Chinese religion that didn’t know Jesus. Del Yee let me work as a stock boy there on Thursday afternoons and Saturday mornings. So as far as I was concerned he was good people and would learn to love Jesus someday. So I felt comfortable waiting there, having a cold drink, and talking with Vesta until time for the service at Faith Baptist.
Vesta was a colored kid about my age and had the delivery job at Del Yee’s. He put in five afternoons and all day Saturday each week. He earned enough money for a brand new Schwinn, but settled for a second hand one. No family had all that much in our part of Augusta, and Vesta’s family had less than most. Always near the foot of the cross, Vesta’s mother wouldn’t let him work on Sundays, or he probably would have had a motor scooter.
“Say the news, Part Time.” Vesta’s face burst into a smile that was all teeth and cheeks when he saw me. “What you been up to since I seen you last – what Wednesday?”
“It was Wednesday,” I said. “All I been up to is putting up stock and wishing on Barbara Jean.”
“That wishing ain’t goan get you to the bigas, Part Time.”
“Yeah, but what’s some guy like me got to offer her? She’s not about to invest in a toe jam kid living across from the county jail.”
“All I know she been right decent to me.” He looked like he was about to bluff at cards, but wasn’t sure how to pull it off. “Maybe I’ll put in a good word for you next time she comes by mama’s to pick up they sewing or laundry.”
“Southern girls always set their minds on exactly the guy that will be worst for them. Least that’s what my mom says.”
“Then she oughta be all over your peaches and cream behind.”
We both burst into laughter and tusseled a bit just like two boys cutting up.
“Guess that’s the kiss of death for me.” I said and pulled away from Vesta’s half -hearted grasp.
“You ain’t the only one.”
The conversation with Vesta was a bit unusual, but this type Sunday morning covert activity was beginning to become a regular pattern of behavior that set me apart from the other kids my age within our telephone free dial area. To my knowledge, and subsequent police records would verify this, I was the only fifteen year-old who actually sneaked out of his home in order to attend Sunday church services.
You should not assume that my parents were heathen. My mom was more Christian than most. She attended Calvary Methodist as had all of the Augusta Watsons before her. She taught Sunday school there and helped out with the Methodist Youth Fellowship or MYF. All this upright Methodist activity considered, it might not be too difficult to understand that she took little pleasure in a son whom she could only view as developing backsliding ways.
There were at the time widespread doubts expressed about my father’s religious affiliation. He claimed total allegiance to a branch of the Methodist Church that only existed in his home state of Arkansas. I don’t remember the name of that particular branch of Methodism, but it evidently did not require its adult male members to attend services. I know this because on the trips we took to Arkansas to visit family never once did my father nor any of his male contemporaries attended services with me, Derek, and the Owens women
On this particular morning, I finished my cold drink, said my so longs to Vesta, got my penny back for the bottle, and set out for Faith Baptist hopefully in time to just coincidentally get a seat next to Debora Jean Troop. Debora Jean was blessed with an early childhood development, perfectly turned ankles, and my steadfast devotion. As fate often dictates for the over anxious suitor, I arrived too early, and Brother Stevie Hazlet put me to work setting up chairs under the tent. By the time the chairs were all in place, Debora Jean was surrounded by her pug-faced brothers and Tommilee Pope who quarterbacked our junior high school team and was also on leave from Calvary Methodist. I was forced to take a seat far too near the front.
When the prayers, the singing, and readings were done, Brother Stevie took his place in front of our congregation. He was all flowered, splashed, and decked out in his dull white linen suit complete with brown and white wingtips rumored to be genuine Florsheims. He gave us a lesson I’ll never forget.
Brother Stevie took his position in front of the group that by now spilled over open sides of the tent. He clasped his hand in front of him with his worn Bible cradled below his generous midsection.
“Lots of people come up to me and say,” Stevie began in a soft voice. “Stevie, what gives you the right to speak for the Lord. What makes you qualified to teach about the Lord or even say the name of Jesus?” Stevie removed the handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. “I suspect some of you have asked the same question. Well, I’m gonna try and give an answer.”
Stevie held his worn Bible high over his head. “I ain’t the first one. I ain’t the first one that’s been asked that question. No sir, I ain’t. Go with me. Go with me back two thousand years. Back, back to the gospel times.”
“Gospel times, Brother Stevie gospel times.” A voice lifted from the crowd about two rows back from where I sat.
“Turn with me to the Gospel of Saint John.” Stevie surveyed the crowd making certain that there were enough Bibles being leafed. “That’s John first chapter, first verse where it says: In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”
He paused and looked out over the crowd perspiration rolled from his forehead and ran down his cheeks. He dabbed at his discomfort with the handkerchief, and it looked certain that this would be one of the rare two rag sermons.
“Now move on down just a little bit to verse six where John tells us . . . And we know we can trust this because it’s Saint John talking here not Stevie Hazlet.”
“Praise the Lord for Saint John the Divine.” It was a different voice, this time a woman’s.
“Now Saint John tells us here in verse six that: There was a man sent from God whose name was John.” He leaned out toward the group. “Who sent him?”
“God,” a chorus of voices said.
“Continuing: He came as a witness to testify to the light. Why did he come?”
“To testify,” the chorus repeated.
“Who sent him?”
“God.”
“Of course we are reading about John the Baptist. You might have noticed by now that Saint John never mentions what university the Baptist attended, nor where he got his degree in theology, or at what seminary he matriculated. No!”
Stevie moved side to side a cat stalking its prey. He turned and walked down the center aisle all the way to the rear of the tent.
“John the Baptist didn’t have a degree from anywhere. He had none of our modern qualifications of a teacher. His only qualification was that he was a man sent from God. Sent to bear witness.” The second handkerchief appeared. “He was John the Baptist. I am Steven the Baptist and I have the exact same qualifications as John the Baptist!”
He was half way back up the aisle by now and he stopped and took a man by the elbow then lifted him from his seat.
“Brother, I’m Steven the Baptist. What’s your name?”
“Roger.”
“Roger what?”
“Roger Michealweight.”
“Wrong Brother! You are Roger the Baptist – a man sent from God!”
“Brother what is your name?” Stevie pulled another man from his seat. “I said, brother what is your name?”
“Yulee, Yulee the Baptist.”
“And right you are brother and a man sent from God.” He let Yulee resume his seat and Stevie took his place in front of the group. “We are each a Baptist, not just in name, but more righteously in calling. God himself calls us all to teach his word to the extent that we know it. We are charged to study the word, to live the word, to become baptized in the Word. And to teach the Word to our lost brothers and sisters as God puts them before us.”
Stevie refolded his handkerchief and dabbed at his neck, forehead, and face. He leaned on the speaker podium to give his breath a chance to catch up with his words. A moment later he bent down and removed from the backside of the podium a one gallon wide mouth dill pickle jar.
“I know our lives get filled with the matters of day-to-day living. I know we have precious little spare time. You dads work too much and too hard. You mothers got the children and the house and the cooking and the chores. You kids got your school and your part time work, maybe sports or music.”
Stevie bent and retrieved a large burlap bag from the podium from which he began to draw fist-sized rocks and place them in the jar.
When the jar was filled to the top and no more rocks would fit inside, he asked, "Is this jar full?" No one responded. “I asked if this jar was full.”
“It looks pretty full to me,” Jessie Hitchcock said.
“Let’s see about that.” Stevie next produced a small bucket of gravel and carefully shook them into the jar so that they worked their way between the big rocks. “So is the jar full now?”
“Recent developments tell us it is not.” Jessie looked around the tent with an apish grin.
Stevie removed a bag of sand and sifted it in among the gravel and big rocks. “Is this jar full, now?”
“No!” A chorus came from the class.
“Y’all are learning I see.” He took a small pitcher of water and poured it over the sand gravel, and rocks until it overflowed onto the podium. “Now that’s what I call a full jar. Who knows the point of this little illustration?”
No one spoke and the silence built until it felt like the weight of it would collapse the tent. Finally when I could stand it no longer, I hopped up from my chair, and almost shouted.
“No matter how busy we are we can always fit something else in.”
Our congregation got even quieter as slowly the others turned to stare at this unexpected source of wisdom. After a time, heads began to nod. People smiled a bit and began to murmur agreement.
“I believe the boy’s got a point,” Jessie said to a chorus of nods.
“Brother Owens has a point alright.” He stared at his handkerchief as if looking for an answer. “It’s just not the point of our illustration. The truth our little demonstration teaches is that if you don’t put your big rocks in first, you will never get them in at all.”
Stevie mopped his forehead again. This could have been the third rag required for this lesson. I was uncertain at best.
“So my question for you today is: What are the big rocks in your life? Are they your children, your home? Your wife? I am not suggesting that Jesus be one of your big rocks. I am demanding it of you as a Christian, as one of those for whom He suffered and died. If Jesus isn’t your biggest rock, you’ll never be able to testify in His name!”
It was just about time to sing Give Me That Old Time Religion when it happened. Although I didn’t realize it at the time, less than two minutes after Brother Stevie’s lesson my childhood came to an end. Some days are memorable, and on that rare occasion we are granted a ‘before or after’ moment. Did an event happen before or after Pearl Harbor? Was that before or after my father’s death? These significant events happen in time, but leave their mark on our memory. Before or After?
“Say boy! What you doing in here?” Stevie’s voice boomed out as his fist crashed down on the podium with enough force to send the dill pickle jar and its contents crashing to the grass floor. “Get yourself away from her.”
I popped up from my chair and faced toward the rear of the tent, but so had everyone else. I stood in the seat of my chair just in time to see Vesta backing away from Debora Jean Troop. Her brothers had been so caught up in Stevie’s show that they must not have seen Vesta slip in the backside of the tent. Now though they had recovered their composure and seemed intent on righting whatever wrong had been done their sister.
Vesta, not being as surprised as the Troop boys, was too quick for them and was out of the tent before they could mount an attack. The last I saw of him that day he was pedaling that Schwinn so fast his black high-topped Keds were a grimy blur in the morning sun.
