Son of a Preacher Man
For a teenage boy in the ’60s, visiting rural churches with Dad was an education in itself
One of my most vivid memories growing up as a PK (preacher’s kid) in the Maritimes in the 1960s was visiting rural churches, mainly in New Brunswick. At the time, my father, Dr. Harry Renfree, was the “executive minister” of his Baptist denomination for the Atlantic provinces, which in layman’s terms translates as head honcho. Someone who disagreed with him on some issue once called him the pope, but that’s a bit of a stretch.
Part of his responsibilities included visiting or preaching at churches on special occasions such as dedications, anniversaries, ordinations and baptisms. Many of the churches were in rural areas and, if the Sunday round trip was less than a day from our home, he would sometimes take me along.
Some of these visits were to what was called a “field” of churches. The field generally consisted of two to four churches that fell under the responsibility of one pastor. In some cases, the churches would have services on alternate Sundays or, if the field consisted of three churches, a service was held at one church in the morning, another in the afternoon, and a third in the evening. When he visited, Dad and any family members who had come along would be
invited to a meal after the morning service. The hostess would bring out her nicest china and serve up her best meal. It was always a generous feast, and it seemed we would just get the last bite in when it was time to head o to the afternoon service. After that, we went to another home for supper. Again, out came the hostess’s best china and another delicious, full course meal, then o to the evening service. As a growing teenage boy with a bottomless pit for a stomach, I thought it was great. My father on the other hand, although he never complained, certainly must have felt the eects of two large meals—but perhaps it gave him extra fuel for the evening sermon.
Upholding Traditions The two common features I remember most about these rural churches were the pot-bellied stove and the pump organ. Even on a cold winter day, the stove was only lit right before the service began, so it would only warm up to a comfortable level just before the benediction at the end of the service. Perhaps it was done that way on purpose— nobody fell asleep and the preferred seating was somewhere in the middle of the church, where the stove was located, rather than the back pews.
The pump organ is a very interesting instrument. It’s kind of like a giant accordion, only the bellows are generated with the feet instead of the hands. The sound coming forth is dependent on the organist operating the pumps. Varieties of intonation depend on the pressure applied to the pedals. Some of the musicians were very consistent, but others’ techniques were to apply pressure akin to someone hyperventilating.
Occasionally, Dad would be called upon to baptize people. I’m convinced there was one occasion where he thought his own transport to the Promised Land was imminent. Many of the rural churches didn’t have water tanks, so baptisms were done in the ocean or river. On this occasion, the baptism of 17 candidates was to be done in the Saint John River. It was not
too long after spring breakup and the river was flowing quite quickly. At the beginning of the service, Dad walked timidly out to the designated area. The tension in his body was evident. I even began to entertain thoughts of what I could do in a possible rescue scenario. The tension was greatly relieved, fortunately, when two deacons came out, positioning themselves one on either side, to give Dad and the candidates support.
We always got an interesting reception when we’d drive up to a rural church parking lot. Everyone else knew one another very well, as they were longtime friends and neighbours, so we stood out like sore thumbs. The time we stood out the most, though, was the day we drove up in a brand-new Cadillac. This was the kind of car you might expect from a televangelist, but certainly not from the executive minister of a conservative Baptist denomination. The stares were much longer and more intense than usual. All was set straight, however, when Dad gave a detailed explanation from the pulpit of how the car had been borrowed from a personal friend, who owned a GM dealership.
Certain behaviours and lifestyle are indeed expected of a pastor—more so in those days than today. Another example of this occurred when Dad had been invited to a rural church to bring greetings for an anniversary celebration. The church was less than an hour from our home so Mom and Dad, my brother, his stunning-looking girlfriend and I went along. After the service, we attended a reception with refreshments. Our family was seated in a circle along with some congregants enjoying conversation and goodies. To the immediate right of Dad was my brother’s girlfriend, then came my mother, my brother and me. My father was intensely engaged in conversation with someone to his immediate left. Suddenly, a lady appeared and interrupted my father asking, “Where’s your wife?” Dad motioned to his immediate right without looking, but saying, “She’s right here,” and then resumed his conversation with the person to his left. The woman gasped as she looked at my brother’s girlfriend and blurted out, “Oh my goodness! No!”
Although rural churches are in decline, many of the traditions I mentioned still exist in some rural communities in the Maritimes, as well as many other areas of our great country. Go for a visit. It will be well worth your eort. Just don’t drive up in a Cadillac.