First Methodist Church

To revisit South Church street which seems to have vanished as surely as the lost city of Atlantis begin where the street began, at First Methodist Church, an outstanding landmark of Murfreesboro when I grew up there. This majestic church divided the city South and North. The street running South of the church was South Church street and the street North of the church was North Church street. Newcomers to Murfreesboro may wonder how these streets got their names because the congregation has now moved several miles from the center of town and become one of the Mega churches dotting the state. Though the original sturdy, church building still stands, it now houses Insurance companies and is dwarfed by highrise buildings surrounding it.

The church in my childhood was a very prominent influence, not only in the town but on me personally. It seems as if I always went to Sunday school, at least as far back as I can remember. Every Saturday night Daddy would polish my sister’s and my shoes (black, patent leather Mary Janes). Then the next morning as we set off for Sunday school Daddy would give us each a penny to put in the offering plate.

I loved Sunday school. The childrens building was separate and just before you entered, there was a large goldfish pond. Inside it was built on the Akron Plan—a large assembly room with small rooms off to the side for different age levels. All children began together in the Assembly room where we loudly sang “This is my Father’s World” and “For the Beauty of the Earth” and took up the offering. Then with only 15 minutes left, we went with our teacher to our own room to hear a Bible story. We must have had wonderful teachers because I remember listening wide-eyed as Daniel was thrown in the lion’s den or baby Moses set adrift in a basket in the Nile River.

As a teenager Sunday school was equally important. I don’t remember much content there but I do remember how all of us would rush between Sunday school and church to Buchannan and Tarpley Drug store to be joined by youth from near-by Presbyterian and Baptist churches—to see and be seen. In church we had a special teen section where we all sat together, passing notes and flirting. The boys all wore coats and ties and the girls wore dresses, often with hats and gloves. On Sunday evenings we had Methodist Youth Fellowship which I remember most for its monthly hayrides. Summer church camp at Beersheba, an old hotel high in the mountains of East Tennessee, was a special week for our youth. I remember again lots of singing, twilight vespers and talks from missionaries from exotic places unknown to us.

The Methodist church was the place I had my senior organ recital as part of my graduation from college. Some musicians but mostly relatives and friends of Mother, filled the church. There was one terrible moment when thunder knocked out the power and the organ whizzed to a stop. My teacher jumped up and pushed some button to get it going again and everyone in the audience began laughing as they realized I had been playing Bach’s choral “O Lord to whom should I complain.”

The church was the place that housed my Mother’s funeral and less than a year later, the funeral of my beloved sister. It would have pleased Mother that looking down on her coffin was the large stained glass window in tones and shades of gold That window had an interesting history. It had been sent from Belgium in 1893 to the World Exposition in Chicago. A Mr. Ransom attended the exposition and was impressed with the beauty of the window. When he learned that the Belgium government planned to sell the window to the highest bidder as it was too costly to ship back to Belgium, Mr. Ransom made an offer and it was accepted. He had the window shipped to Murfreesboro and installed in his home. When the home was demolished in 1960, torn down and replaces with an office building, Mother was involved with saving the window and having it placed in the church. Through the years it had remained in perfect condition without a single scratch or chip.

The window seems to be lost now like so much history—vanished in the onrush of progress.