Perhaps a hundred people made their way to the little church on Dorchester Street halfway between Sedgefield Road and Poindexter Drive, all on the south side of Charlotte.
It was a diverse bunch, age wise, and this surprised me. We arrived just before things began. I liked the friendly feel of things as we made our way through the casual gathering on the front lawn and steps of the church.
We sat on the third row because I wanted to take pictures.
After singing an old gospel hymn and several guitar-led contemporary praises, the pastor called to the front my only grandson. Six weeks shy of his sixteenth birthday. Samuel Wyatt Curson.
Sam is as tall as I am, overly sweet and kind, with curly hair and a quick smile. He has spent a lot of time with us over the years, quite a bit before schooling started and after that, many weekends and long stretches of the summers.
He has no idea how much love and joy he has carried for our entire family. He has carried it well and given as much as he has received.
Tom Wesley Stinson is the pastor, and Sedgefield United Methodist Church is his parish. He is from Lexington, a graduate of Centre College and also Duke Divinity School. He is warm, articulate, and knowledgeable in the things of God. We had talked by phone more than once in preparation for this occasion, this Pentecost Sunday 2024.
“Sam showed up one Sunday,” another man explained to me. “He seemed to like the outdoor things, picnics and such.”
That was last fall, and soon Sam was walking the two blocks from the apartment he shares with his hard-working mother. He did not speak to me about what he was doing until after the first of this year.
“You want me to pick you up for the weekend?” I asked on the phone months ago, anticipating the two-hour drive on Friday. “Yes,” he said, “but I have to be back for confirmation class.”
I was surprised.
“Tell me about that,” I said. And he did, all about the eight-week class for those who want to be confirmed into the church. “We meet after church,” he said, “and before youth group.”
The youth group, he explained, draws teenagers from four small congregations that have pooled their resources to employ a youth minister.
It was all news to me, good news, even great news. Not many teenagers, on their own initiative and walking alone, find their way to a strange-at-first church and go back every week, then sign up for confirmation.
The Spirit of God was at work long before last week’s Pentecostal service that brought us all together.
He was sitting across the sanctuary from us and one row up, and occasionally I sneaked a peek down his way. His head was lifted, his mouth wide open, and his whole body was animated by the song he was singing with the congregation. That, also, I had never seen in the Baptist church he attends when spending weekends with me.
Then came the baptism—not the all the way under and up dripping wet as is our custom, but enough of the water and the spirit to make it all holy. He knelt at the rail, bowed his head, and received the water the pastor dabbed on his head full of hair.
“Do you renounce the spiritual forces of wickedness, reject the evil powers of this world, and repent of your sins?”
I do, Sam said strongly.
“Do you accept the freedom and power God gives you to resist evil, injustice, and oppression in whatever forms they present themselves.”
I do.
“Do you confess Jesus Christ as your savior, put your whole trust in his grace, and promise to serve him as your Lord?”
I do, for the third time, and I know it was not just us on row number three but everybody all the way to the back of the sanctuary, the faithful of this small neighborhood church, that could hear his affirmation.
It was the best a grandfather could hope, the answer to years of prayers.
Thank God for this small church down the street, where teenage boys can find a spiritual home and also hear the good word of the gospel.
Pentecost, for sure, at the neighborhood church!
Perhaps a hundred people made their way to the little church on Dorchester Street halfway between Sedgefield Road and Poindexter Drive, all on the south side of Charlotte.
It was a diverse bunch, age wise, and this surprised me. We arrived just before things began. I liked the friendly feel of things as we made our way through the casual gathering on the front lawn and steps of the church.
We sat on the third row because I wanted to take pictures.
After singing an old gospel hymn and several guitar-led contemporary praises, the pastor called to the front my only grandson. Six weeks shy of his sixteenth birthday. Samuel Wyatt Curson.
Sam is as tall as I am, overly sweet and kind, with curly hair and a quick smile. He has spent a lot of time with us over the years, quite a bit before schooling started and after that, many weekends and long stretches of the summers.
He has no idea how much love and joy he has carried for our entire family. He has carried it well and given as much as he has received.
Tom Wesley Stinson is the pastor, and Sedgefield United Methodist Church is his parish. He is from Lexington, a graduate of Centre College and also Duke Divinity School. He is warm, articulate, and knowledgeable in the things of God. We had talked by phone more than once in preparation for this occasion, this Pentecost Sunday 2024.
“Sam showed up one Sunday,” another man explained to me. “He seemed to like the outdoor things, picnics and such.”
That was last fall, and soon Sam was walking the two blocks from the apartment he shares with his hard-working mother. He did not speak to me about what he was doing until after the first of this year.
“You want me to pick you up for the weekend?” I asked on the phone months ago, anticipating the two-hour drive on Friday. “Yes,” he said, “but I have to be back for confirmation class.”
I was surprised.
“Tell me about that,” I said. And he did, all about the eight-week class for those who want to be confirmed into the church. “We meet after church,” he said, “and before youth group.”
The youth group, he explained, draws teenagers from four small congregations that have pooled their resources to employ a youth minister.
It was all news to me, good news, even great news. Not many teenagers, on their own initiative and walking alone, find their way to a strange-at-first church and go back every week, then sign up for confirmation.
The Spirit of God was at work long before last week’s Pentecostal service that brought us all together.
He was sitting across the sanctuary from us and one row up, and occasionally I sneaked a peek down his way. His head was lifted, his mouth wide open, and his whole body was animated by the song he was singing with the congregation. That, also, I had never seen in the Baptist church he attends when spending weekends with me.
Then came the baptism—not the all the way under and up dripping wet as is our custom, but enough of the water and the spirit to make it all holy. He knelt at the rail, bowed his head, and received the water the pastor dabbed on his head full of hair.
“Do you renounce the spiritual forces of wickedness, reject the evil powers of this world, and repent of your sins?”
I do, Sam said strongly.
“Do you accept the freedom and power God gives you to resist evil, injustice, and oppression in whatever forms they present themselves.”
I do.
“Do you confess Jesus Christ as your savior, put your whole trust in his grace, and promise to serve him as your Lord?”
I do, for the third time, and I know it was not just us on row number three but everybody all the way to the back of the sanctuary, the faithful of this small neighborhood church, that could hear his affirmation.
It was the best a grandfather could hope, the answer to years of prayers.
Thank God for this small church down the street, where teenage boys can find a spiritual home and also hear the good word of the gospel.
Pentecost, for sure, at the neighborhood church!
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