The rest of the church was bright and sparkling.
That was due to a massive refurbishing effort.
But off in the corner, towards the front of the church, there remained what to many might
be considered an eye sore.
It was an old, scarred, beaten and battered pew. the veteran of many a worship and
praise session. Wads of hardened gum pockmarked its underside. Carved
initials, cracks and crevices were visible for all and any to see.
It indeed was an old rugged pew but it had a front and center position when I was growing
up in church. It was in the front of the church. And where the rest of the
pews faced forward. This one was positioned giving the people sitting on it a side
view of the pulpit.
It looked like something that was waiting for the trash pile but we fondly called it the
"Amen Bench."
The "Amen Bench" might have seen its better days but it still was pressed into
proud service. It served as the resting place for the elder men of the church.
Those scions of Zion who had seen as many years of service as the rugged pew upon
which they sat. These were not quiet patriarchs. The right preacher could
ignite a spark which threatened to burn down the dry tinder upon which they sat.
When I first remember seeing that pew, and it was the sole survivor of a church seating
arrangement from way before my time, it already was old and precarious.
It grew less stable and more questionable with the passing of time. And as the pew
aged, its resident occupants began to decrease. One by one, the fathers of the
church who regularly graced that particular pew, began to pass away.
My grandfather rode that pew for many years. He left us when I was six. Other
grandfathers and older fathers who had claims to those seats also were called home.
None of the younger males ever were presumptuous enough to claim the open
spaces. So finally the bench had a lone occupant. The lone remaining member of
that pew's rich male history.
I still remember seeing King Bell sitting on that pew. When the spirit hit him, and
things got shaking, I always was concerned that the pew would collapse beneath his
spirit-inspired enthusiasm.
But then came a day, that King Bell too passed away.
Then one Sunday, I noticed the bench had been taken away.
Perhaps it was just as well.
Nobody ever would have claimed a space on that special, tattered and rugged pew.
It had served its sitters well, long and nobly.
It was not destined for another generation of sitters and another generation of sitters
had not proven themselves worthy of its splintery perch.
So with the rich male patriarch tradition of my church, also went its bearer.
The strong God-fearing, older generation of men who were the pillars of the church no
longer were present in the sanctuary nor was the rugged pew that exemplified the rough
hewn but sturdy men it had supported.
