The way a tiny flock of aging Baptists see it, if their Riverside Heights church must die, at least it will go with dignity.
By BRADY DENNIS
Published May 14, 2004
[Times photo: Ken Helle]
A recent Sunday service at Tampa Primitive Baptist draws a handful of worshipers, as is usually the case. In the old days, hundreds would pack the sanctuary.
[Times photo: Ken Helle]
The church looks charming, but the former Army chapel -- floated across the Hillsborough River to Riverside Heights -- needs at least $100,000 in repairs, a longtime church member says.
Roy Dennis, in front, and Ray Head sing a hymn. If the church closes, Dennis, 83, will turn to the radio or tapes: “I just can’t (stomach) some of these other churches and the stuff they put out.”
Pastor Don Gilbert leads a tiny Bible study group on a recent Sunday. He has fought the good fight since June 1997.
[Special to the Times]
A 1954 photo shows the congregation on the front lawn. “There was something going on all the time,” said Ann Watton, 68, who joined as a teenager.
On dedication day, Feb. 22, 1948, the food and fellowship flowed. And every Sunday for years thereafter, they would have potluck meals with Southern cooking
[Special to the Times]
RIVERSIDE HEIGHTS - In the musty old sanctuary, the faithful have gathered again.
Only nine have come today, along with the pastor and his wife. Eleven believers, huddled under the sturdy wood beams and surrounded by a score of empty pews.
All their heads have gray hair. All their Bibles are worn. Their voices sound shaky and weak with age.
But they sing, even without music:
This is my Father's world, Oh let me ne'er forget
That though the wrong seems oft so strong,
God is the ruler yet
This is my Father's world, The battle is not done ...
In this place, the pews once overflowed. Children sweated in the balcony and a choir filled the heavy air with hymns.
They are memories now.
Those who remain still hold hope. They still pray. But while the battle is not done, they know that time is running out.
At the corner of Kentucky and Oakdale avenues, a church is dying.
* * *
Don Gilbert, pastor of Tampa Primitive Baptist Church since June 1997, has returned to the pulpit after a week's visit to his native Alabama.
The church pays him only a couple hundred dollars a week. He and his wife, Sherralynn, work full time at the Hillsborough Association for Retarded Citizens. He squeezes in hospital visits and other church obligations whenever he can.
Still, he stands in the pulpit and smiles, glad to be back.
"It's good to be home," he tells them in his slow, Southern drawl. "It is a blessing from God to see y'all here. If you look around, you're going to see ... we have more members gone than we have present."
* * *
Primitive Baptists talk proudly about tradition.
Their services consist of the essentials: preaching, praying and singing.
They offer communion only to the baptized. They have no formal training for pastors, known as elders, trusting instead that the right men will be "called" to ministry.
They believe people are saved only through God's grace; you can't earn your way to heaven through good deeds. And aside from occasional barbecues to try to attract new members, the church doesn't market itself, expecting instead that the spirit of God will draw people to worship.
The label "primitive" became popular during the early 1800s, when the term suggested the idea of originality rather than backwardness.
"The connotation of the word (suggests) people rolling on the ground and speaking in tongues and going wild," said David Keene, a longtime church member and former assistant chief at Tampa Fire Rescue. "It's nothing like that. It's very traditional and old-fashioned."
That same devotion to tradition might be part of what is killing Tampa Primitive Baptist. Simply put, the congregation is stubborn.
The members disdain churches that market themselves and use video screens and full bands during services. They scoff at the hefty salaries paid to slick-haired, polished preachers.
"We do not believe the church of Jesus Christ should change. We believe it should be the way it always has been," Gilbert said. "With other churches, if you get five minutes of Bible, you're doing good."
Longtime church member Roy Dennis, 83, agrees. Should the church close, he can't imagine worshiping any other way.
"I'd listen to the radio or tapes," Dennis said. "But I just can't (stomach) some of these other churches and the stuff they put out. There's no reason for me to go sit and listen to it."
Another Primitive Baptist church in Palma Ceia is thriving because it has what Tampa Primitive does not: youth. The congregation on Kentucky Avenue has grown old, and so has the building around it.
The pastor had a heart attack in 1999. Member Ann Watton has had back trouble. Her husband has suffered from hypertension, stomach problems and now prostate cancer. Others have struggled with diabetes, lupus, Alzheimer's and other ailments.
The building needs at least $100,000 in repairs, Keene estimates.
The electrical system could use updating. The air conditioning doesn't work as it should. The wallpaper is peeling. The paint has chipped. The roof needs replacing. No one volunteers to do the outdoor work anymore, so the church pays a lawn service.
For months, the members have debated what to do. They've considered fighting to keep the church going, selling the property and building a smaller church, or just closing the doors for good.
Many of them seemed resigned to the last option.
"It's painful for all of us. I'm disappointed, but I don't see any alternative," Dennis said. "Would you ride a crippled horse until it fell?"
Others hold out hope, however slight.
"It can't go anywhere but up," said Joyce Lynn, 76, the wife of a former pastor. "Miracles do happen, and we're hoping for one."
Miracles or not, most members say they love the place and won't leave until no choice remains. Their pastor has vowed to fight the good fight with them.
"I'm here," Gilbert said, "unless the Lord just hits me on the head tomorrow."
* * *
Halfway through the service, Brother Roy Dennis rises to collect the offering. But before he does, he walks to the altar, bows his head and prays aloud:
"Most holy and righteous God and our father in heaven, we just deem it a privilege that we have this opportunity once again that we can come to this place ..."
* * *
It wasn't always this way.
Old black and white pictures tell of better times at Tampa Primitive Baptist Church.
In a snapshot from dedication day on Feb. 22, 1948, covered dishes blanket a long row of tables - cakes, pies, homemade bread, pots full of vegetables and meat.
Men in suits and fedoras chat outside the white clapboard building. Women in dresses and flowered hats gather in clusters. Young boys hold paper plates, waiting for permission to eat.
It is an image of a church very much alive.
The building had been constructed as an Army chapel for soldiers stationed at Drew Field, now the site of Tampa International Airport, during World War II.
In 1947, workers uprooted the chapel's framing and arches, carted it east along Buffalo Avenue, now Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, and floated it across the Hillsborough River because no bridge stood nearby at the time.
The new church flourished. Hundreds of worshipers packed the sanctuary. People were baptized in the concrete pool, beneath a mural of the River Jordan. The church became a gathering spot in the neighborhood.
"There was something going on all the time," said Watton, 68, who joined the church as a teenager and saw both of her daughters married there. "If you weren't doing something at church, you were going to check on the church."
Members sent their children to Sunday school, attended morning and evening worship services, and came to Bible study during the week.
"When I was a lad, the place was packed," said Keene, who first came to Tampa Primitive Baptist with his grandparents during the 1950s. At 55, he's among the youngest members and lives next door to the church.
"We had a choir," he said. "Every Sunday we used to have lunch or dinner. People would bring potluck meals. (I remember) sweatin' and singin'. I really remember that old-fashioned Southern cooking."
Gone are the choir and the Sunday school classes and the potluck dinners. Gone are the children, who grew up, married and moved on. Gone are so many of the charter members, either housebound or heavenbound.
These days, there's only one Sunday service, and it rarely draws more than 15 or 20 people. The covered-dish dinners happen only a couple of times times a year. Adult Bible study continues, but on a recent week only three regulars showed up to talk Scripture with the pastor and his wife.
The collection plate on the table held $4.
* * *
It's almost noon, and the service is winding down. Gilbert has preached for half an hour, quoting from the books of Acts, Hebrews, Ephesians and Romans.
The worshipers turn to Page 451 for the last hymn of the day. The church organist moved to an assisted-living home this year, so they sing a cappella, 11 voices straining to fill so much empty space.
