With seven chuches, Mississippi preacher's ministry is a marathon
Saturday, April 14, 2007 12:22 AM PDT
By Staff
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E-mail this articleVICKSBURG, Miss. -- The Rev. David Brown Jr. preached so passionately that he started to shiver. Sweat flowed down his face as words poured out of him.
The gospel gave way to song. The song gave way to a name, and he let it ring out over the pews with a scream that seemed to echo for an eternity:
JESUS!
"There is no high better than a Jesus high," Brown boomed with a wide grin. "I used to drink that California wine. I used to think I was high. But this Jesus high -- it just gets gooder and gooder."
After such a full-bodied religious workout, it was hard to imagine how anyone could have anything left in the tank -- and Brown, who is 60 and weighs 320 pounds, is neither young nor svelte. But when his 11 a.m. service was finished two hours later, the seasoned country preacher confessed he had held back a bit.
He had many more souls to feed this Sunday, so he had to pace himself. His marathon for Jesus had just begun.
Brown is pastor of seven churches in Louisiana and Mississippi, and he preaches one or two Sundays every month at each. He is one of a dying breed of traveling preachers in the Deep South whose calling is catering to numerous black congregations, many of which date to the plantation era.
His predecessors galloped around on horseback, or rode the rails from town to town, and stayed overnight at deacons' houses. He drives the highways and byways in a 2003 Chevy Impala and stops for meals at Waffle House or Wendy's, then heads home every evening.
Brown shuttles between churches during the week, leading Bible studies and performing funerals. His congregations -- ranging from about 250 to just 30 members -- are within two hours of his small brick home in Monroe, La. He has no salary or health-care package and survives on whatever worshipers donated that week.
"It's a faith walk," Brown said. "Sometimes I can't even pay the light bill. But I still drive out to see the sick, to go to the funerals. I was chosen by the Lord to do this. Preaching is a God-given gift."
It is a way of life that Brown believes might not last beyond his generation. Younger church members are increasingly demanding full-time pastors instead of itinerant preachers and are merging country churches to form midsized congregations. They are also increasingly abandoning the lore-filled worship houses of their forefathers in favor of the megachurches that are homogenizing the American landscape.
"A minister long ago told me: When there are no babies crying in your church, your church is dying," Brown said. "Well, in some of my churches, the people are way beyond the baby-making years."
Bethlehem Missionary Baptist Church was founded in 1866 by former slaves who gathered under a large tree to shout and sing. When the members' traveling pastor died 14 years ago, Brown accepted the call to nourish their spirit. He helped the congregation move from a dilapidated old wood home to a new brick building.
"He's just a God-sent man," said Mattie L. Brown, 78, who has been worshiping at Bethlehem for more than half a century.
But God sends Brown to two other churches on the last Sunday of each month. So after he dried the sweat off his glittering blue suit and briskly downed a lunch of barbecued ribs, black-eyed peas and cornbread in the back of the chapel, he hit the road.
Brown has big brown eyes, gold-crowned teeth and a thin gray goatee that adds a touch of gravitas to his warm, round face. He comes from Sicily Island, a village in Louisiana's Catahoula Parish. He was one of 12 children whose mother cooked for white plantation owners and father worked building highways.
His grandparents served as deacon and deaconess of a country church. They instilled in him a deep love of God and taught him what he calls the ironclad rules of Southern etiquette: Yes, Sir; No, Ma'am; Please; and Thank You.
When he became a man, he got a job at a funeral home and lived above it. One of his former co-workers now owns a funeral home. When the money from circuit preaching doesn't pay the bills, Brown says, he wonders whether he chose the right career. But there was really no choice at all, he quickly adds. God called on him.
He accepted the call 31 years ago and soon got a chance to give a guest sermon, thanks to a network of older traveling preachers that embraced him.
One of Brown's old mentors, the Rev. L.B. Oliver, is still on the traveling circuit nearly half a century after he began spreading the word of God. Oliver, 76, serves as pastor of six churches and is optimistic that a new generation of traveling preachers will emerge.
"The little churches are the heartbeat of America. Without them we would be in trouble," said Oliver, who believes that blacks lose a part of themselves when they leave the churches behind.
Brown is not so sure today's young preachers would make the sacrifice. For years, he has been augmenting his pay by preaching during the week at revivals, where wayward souls are coaxed back to the Lord. He also has been selling cassettes and compact discs of his sermons, and he is planning to start selling DVDs.
Brown said one lesson he learned as a traveling preacher was that a man of God had to tailor the gospel to his audience. "If you can't make your sermon relevant to what's happening now," he said, "you're just reading the Bible."
In Tallulah, La., (population about 9,000) one of the poorest towns in a poverty-stricken state, Brown delivered his second sermon of the day. Some questioned whether a traveling preacher still made sense for a town with so many social problems.
"This is what we have. It may not be what we are totally satisfied with," said Tommy Watson, 45, the church pianist. He argued that if Tallulah's small churches came together, they could get federal funding for faith-based groups and help people better themselves by offering counseling and other community services.
A sheriff's deputy took to the altar to introduce a visiting choir but failed to mention that the guests were prisoners doing time for drug crimes. The choir launched into a halfhearted rendition of "Stand by Me," substituting "darling" with "Jesus" in the chorus. The churchgoers watched passively.
Brown took to the pulpit and made his sermon personal, tailoring it to what he saw as the temptations threatening his audience. He revealed he had a weakness for cheap wine as a young man before he found redemption in Jesus.
"You can get to heaven without a Rolls Royce or a 10-carat diamond ring. Uh-huh, yes you can ... but you can't get to heaven without being born again," he said.
His speech gained rhythm. His sentences turned into song.
"You've got to be able to walk away from that old life," he sang, "and into that new life."
The churchgoers stood to clap and wave their arms. They lined up for communion, wine and bread prepackaged in cellophane-covered containers. Many were smiling.
"You see what our preacher brings us?" Diane Kyle, 46, the church usher, said afterward.
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