"A Hollow Hallelujah" by Karen Beatty

In 1944 my Mamaw wasn’t known as a big talker, but at Sunday services at the Born Again Church of Jesus Christ in Salyersville, Kentucky she was usually the first to raise it. The Holy Spirit never failed to move her, and she was, praise Jesus, wholly sanctified by the Lord.

“Hallelujah, I am so glad that Jesus loves me,” she would begin wailing.

According to my Mother, the next thing you knew, “Mamaw was storming the aisle, speaking in tongues, her red hair flying every which way.”

Though I never met Mamaw Reed, I could picture exactly what Mother meant in this description, because in the 1950’s I often witnessed just such whooping rejoinders and flinging of bodies unto the altar at the beckoning of the Lord, especially during the weeklong tent revival meetings where Mother’s eldest sister, my Aunt Gladys Reed Patrick, was a pastor. At age ten I was entranced when “Sister” Patrick preached to the fine church ladies, who would lift up shaking and moaning—arms extended upward, palms exposed—and cry out to Jesus for salvation and the greater glory. No hip action was permitted among the virtuous, of course, so the gyrations of the ladies were confined to the arms, shoulders and feet.

My Mother said my Mamaw, Sarah Lovely Reed, died of “the consumption”. I never understood exactly what that meant, but apparently Mamaw was all skin and bone when she passed, and it went pretty hard on the young’uns and my Papaw. Papaw had sired nine children with his beloved wife before she died at the age of 39.

Over the years, I gleaned lots of stories about Mamaw Reed. In her lifetime, she enjoyed a reputation for being God-fearing and more than a little touched by the hand of the Lord. Mamaw was known to the neighbors as a healer—one able to lay on hands to dispel illness and bad spirits. (Her gift never seemed to work in her own favor, though, especially regarding Papaw’s alcoholism.) A quiet and humble woman born and reared in Cow Creek Holler, Sarah Lovely Reed was fiercely protective of her kin and kind. According to the historical society, she was part Native American—a direct descendent, through her own mother, of Golden Hawk Sizemore of the Cherokee tribe.

Upon her death there was no doubt that Mamaw Reed was delivered to her rightful place in Glory Land. Mother said the most accurate accolade bestowed upon Mamaw during the eulogy at her church was: Sister Sarah Lovely Reed put her faith in Jesus and sacrificed her life for her children.

Always, the family and the Lord. My mother, Beatrice Reed Beatty, would likewise choose that as the template for her life. For one not so inclined, like me, such sacrifice was a punishing act to follow. Aunt Gladys Patrick repeatedly reminded me, “Jesus is a-waitin’ to save ya, child. Don’t never be a little lost sheep. You just let HIM into your heart and Sweet Daddy God is gonna welcome ye to a better place than this-un.”

As a child from the hollow of the Appalachian Mountains of Kentucky, I felt obligated to embrace fundamentalist beliefs; besides, I desperately wanted to feel the spirit. When I approached adolescence, however, I gave way to my inner skeptic. I wanted to say to Aunt Gladys and others, “I ain’t lost, so how can I be found?” But I never had the nerve. I also secretly wondered if all those so-called holy roller folks really believed, truly felt, religion, or just played at it. According to my observations, being saved didn’t seem to influence people’s behavior. As far as I could tell, there were just as many drunks and sinners at church as in jail. And in my judgment the church people were always being born again, saved again, and falling to their knees in repentance after they had committed their particular transgressions. It seemed to me if they truly had religion, they wouldn’t be acting so badly to begin with.

By the time I was sixteen years old, I had determined to make the most of my earthly days, as I did not seem destined for the rapture and the welcoming gates of Glory Land. Of course, I never discussed such issues with anyone from the hollow, not even my siblings. At the general store in town, I had heard a Baptist elder quote the passages from Deuteronomy about how the wicked ones are dealt with: I will heap mischiefs upon them; I will spend mine arrows upon them. They shall be burnt with hunger, and devoured with burning heat, and with bitter destruction: I will also send the teeth of beasts upon them, with the poison of serpents of the dust. To utter blasphemous thoughts aloud would surely have resulted in the true believers condemning me to the pits of Hell, instead of their allowing me to languish obliviously in earthly sanguinity, along with the other designated “left behinds.”

Certainly, every effort had been expended to set me on the road to salvation. I heard plenty of preaching and praying and praising and supplicating at Aunt Gladys Patrick’s tent revivals, from the Freewill Baptists, and from the Methodists. A few years after Mamaw had passed, Mother had switched over from the Born Again Church of Jesus Christ at Sow Creek to the United Methodist Church in Salyersville proper. Though we lived on the bank of the Licking River, behind the Freewill Baptist Church, Mother resented and snubbed the Baptists, who billed themselves as “the only true believers.” Neither Mother nor Papaw Reed, her Daddy, ranted about being saved or born again, but they were both proud to be counted among the righteous. In their daily routines time was allotted to read the Bible and recite prayers. Still, all that preaching and praying and churching seemed inexplicably lost on me. Getting caught up in a rousing gospel spiritual was the only kind of rapture I could fathom, and I was only able to find God in the silences, never in the talk of prayer.

So, sitting on the steps near the entrance to the Freewill Baptist Church on Sundays, I listened impatiently to the sermon, the call and responses (That’s right; a-men; yes, yes, yes) and the long and tedious prayers. Who on Earth or in Heaven, I wondered, are those people talking to? The preacher demanded, “Do ye realize that you are a sinner? (Yea, Lord) Do ye admit you can’t save yourself? (No, Lord) Do ye believe the Lord Jesus Christ died on the cross (He surely did) and rose again (Yea, Lord)—so that y’all could have salvation?” (Amen!)

Finally, he would wind the sermon down with, “He that believeth not in the Son shall not see life; but the wrath of God abideth on him. (Yes, yes, yes) But, and I say, BUT, if thou shalt confess with thy mouth the Lord Jesus (Jesus!) and shalt believe in thine heart that God hath raised him from the dead (Amen), thou shalt be saved!” (Hallelujah, hallelujah, Amen!)

On the glorious mornings when worshippers, many dressed all in white, came from the Salyersville Old Regular Baptist to join in the Freewill Baptist service, I knew that sooner or later I would surely hear the pastor utter the words I was awaiting: Repent and be baptized, in the name of Jesus Christ, so that your sins may be forgiven.

I raced ahead to the river and watched the parade of parishioners, dressed in their Sunday-go-to-meetin’ finery, exit the church and head toward the river for the baptisms. The men wore ties and dark suits of varied quality, some ill-fitted, and white shirts with a pack of cigarettes protruding from one of the pockets. In flounce-waist dresses and despite their sensible shoes, the women found descending the path to the creek precarious. I giggled as they clutched their men folk, or each other, with one arm, the pocketbook dangling from the other arm like a weighted bracelet. Everyone, men and women, produced a handkerchief to sop up (Lord, have mercy!) sweat or tears. The mood and hymns were solemn at first—some folks even wept—but I knew the air would soon resound with song and rejoicing in the name of the Lord, as the self-anointed only true believers gathered to witness and praise those undergoing the baptismal immersion.

According to the true believers, to fully cleanse the impurities in their pasts, the initiates must submit to having two elders, also dressed in white, totally submerge them under the water for a few seconds. The pastor issued reassurances and referred to the Bible the witnesses, waiting on the banks of the river in supplication: Unless one is born of water and the spirit, he cannot enter the kingdom of God. (John: 3) No matter how many times I observed the baptism ritual I remained astounded that grownups would wade fully clothed into the middle of a river to wash away their sins. My Mother had been baptized in just such a fashion, and she had assured me that, at the time, “The Holy Spirit had hold o’ me, and I warn’t afraid of falling or feeling the cold or the wet.”

When I was still under ten years old, I used to study the baptized initiates intently, in the hopes of capturing some of their piety. (It was obvious that I was not going to find Jesus through my own devices.) Sometimes, when I attended services with Mother at the United Methodist Church, I imitated the posturing of the devout, but I never managed to authentically find the passion for public worship in my heart, mind or soul. I figured that was one of the few turns of nature I had inherited from my Daddy.

On the other hand, if the teaching and preaching were not reaching me, the music certainly was. I always felt connected to the Holy Spirit through gospel music and through Mother’s singing about the Lord and the mountains. “Singing’s twice praying,” she said. Beatrice Reed Beatty had songs for all manner of moods and circumstances. When Mother was feeling playful, she would clap and stomp and warble to us children, “Gimme that old-time religion, it’s good enough for me!” When she was sad or lonely, she would sing a melancholy hymn like: I go to the garden alone, while the dew is still on the roses, and the voice I hear as I tarry there, the Son of God discloses.

In latter years, when Mother seemed more of the spirit world than the earthly one, she relied on the old traditional hymns, the ones with sentiments of affliction like: On a hill far away, stood the old rugged cross, the emblem of suffering and shame. I was appalled by the words, but the music and the spirit were locked into my very soul, and, like Mother, I often sang my sorrow and joy, even if the words were considerably more secular. While I will never enter Glory Land in the fundamentalist sense, I guess I have to conclude that a part of me will surely dwell in the house of the Lord forever.