Closing the Doors

 

I had already heard the news that the Mt. Zion AME Church in our town was closing.  Over the past few years, the numbers in those historic pews had been dwindling and just the stubborn fortitude of a few faithful people kept the bills paid.  Last week, there it was, on the front page of the local newspaper, the official word.

I only attended the AME Church occasionally, but every time I went, it was a blessing.  My first memory of the church was when I was about 12 years old.  They were having some sort of special afternoon, maybe Friend’s Day or something like that.  My daddy had been invited to sing and I was roped in to playing the piano for him.  Not that I was a great pianist, or even an adequate one, but I was all he had that day, and I had become fairly competent at “How Great Thou Art,” which was what he usually chose to sing.  So away we went. 

It was the first time in my memory I had been to an African American Church, and it was the first time I ever remember hearing a member of a congregation say “Amen” during the message.  It startled me enough that I looked around at the gentlemen just behind us and was amazed that a grownup was talking out loud during church.  I soon found out that it was accepted and expected in that place!  I don’t remember anything about the sermon, and I really don’t remember anything notable about my playing.  I suppose I must have managed without too big a mess or I would have remembered that.  I was too taken aback with the idea of speaking out loud in church.  I do remember that we had some of the best food in the world afterwards, the first instance of several fine meals in the side room of the old building.

Years later, I remember hearing some inspiring music in that church, and I remember some wonderful programs for Black History Month and Martin Luther King, Jr’s birthday.  I learned a little about the history of the church and got to know the people who went there.  I learned that the people of that congregation never missed an opportunity to celebrate something – whether a holiday or just a day they felt like celebrating.  I even learned to join the rest of the congregation in an “amen” or two.

  They always had a meal afterwards, and as time passed, they began occasionally serving lunch there on Fridays, raising money to help keep the church going.  Fried chicken, macaroni (and not the kind out of a box), green beans, fried fish and hush puppies, slaw, corn, potato salad, turnip greens, cornbread and the most amazing cakes and pies I ever tasted – these dishes were served up by the smiling ladies of the church and we ate on long tables covered with checked table cloths, drinking tea sweet enough to make you teeth hurt and agonizing over which dessert to choose.

When I started working at the historical society office, I delved into the history of the Mt. Zion AME Church.  I found a treasure trove of old newspaper articles from a Nashville newspaper run by the black community.  Those articles featured a lot of news about the happenings in the black churches of our town, and told the stories of a devastating tornado that destroyed all three of the black churches on the street, along with the black schools.  I read about the efforts to raise money to rebuild those churches and how the black and white community came together to restore their places of worship and their schools, which at that time were closely connected to the churches.  I found out that the original church that stood on that lot went back to at least the 1880’s and that the “new” church was built in 1910, less than a year after the tornado.  I also discovered that the church held the first black schools in town and a Knights of Pythias Lodge.  The church has a bell tower and a huge bell.  I don't remember ever hearing the bell, but I'm told it used to be ring out through the town every Sunday morning, calling the people to sing and praise God.  And they knew how to sing and praise God!

I always hate it when history is not respected – when historic buildings disappear.  But even more, I hate it when institutions like that beautiful church on Columbia Avenue close their doors for the last time. I hate it for the few remaining members of the church, I hate it for all the people in town who never had the opportunity to attend a service there, and I hate it for those of us who were always made to feel loved and welcomed there.