Let the Good Times Roll!
By Gary Freeman
[Page 186] |
"A Frug and a Prayer: To prove that teenagers can worship God in their own language, the Rev. Dr. Frederick M. Meek, senior pastor of the Old South (Congregational) Church in Boston, last week encouraged 1100 youngsters to praise the Lord with a rock 'n' roll beat.
"A procession of boys and girls placed a Bible, bread and Coke, pool cue and ball on the communion table-- to symbolize religion, eating and playing. Then a dozen teenagers, some in shorts, took to the church aisles to frug and watusi." From Newsweek magazine. May 9, 1966, quoted in Christian Chronicle, July 15, 1966.
Allow me to introduce myself. I am the Reverend Kingston Cabot Witherspoon IV, until recently the rector of one of the oldest oldline, mainline, traditional churches in our fair city. We keep our memberships at an even 300 and they are so greatly coveted, I might add, that we have a waiting list of over 1000. Of the applications we receive for the waiting list we are able to accept about one in ten. Our 300 members are among the most distinguished, influential people in the state. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending upon one's view, our youngest member is fifty-three years old.
It occurred to me recently that we were not reaching our fine, spirited young people in this city. "What can we do?" I asked myself one morning as I distractedly ate my poached egg and perused the New York Times. "What can we do to communicate with these energetic young teenagers?" And then the answer came, a kind of Damascus Road revelation, if I may be so bold. We must let them speak to us and to God in their own language! So we sent invitations to all the young people in the city and I was ecstatic when hundreds showed up on the appointed Friday night.
A fine young man approached me (he was apparently their spokesman). He was dressed in a black vinyl jacket, orange and yellow plaid slacks with bell bottoms and his hair was worn shoulder length. A modern young David, I thought to myself. "Okay, where's the bash, daddy?" he asked.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Where's the bash, man? You know, the action, the movement, the gas, the happening. Now do you dig?"
"Oh, I see. You want to know where the service will be held! This is the place. We want you to have your own worship service and to express that worship in your own distinctive language and in your own way of life. The worship will be entirely in your own control."
"Ain't you even gonna lay the goodies on us, daddy?"
"Lay the what?"
"The goodies, cat. You know, the sermon bit."
"Oh, the sermon! No, I'm not. I'm not going to preach to you. You will direct your own response and in your own way. You will choose your own worship idiom."
"All righty, daddy, if you really mean that, flake off."
"Did you say 'flake off'?"
"Yeah, man. Buzz off. Cool it!"
I took it that the young man desired that I should retire to a discreet place where I could observe without inhibiting them, the young dears, so I retreated to a dark corner of the sanctuary where I could not be seen. The next thing I knew a transistor radio, turned up as loud as it would go, was blaring out some kind of atavistic jungle music. The lyrics were particularly difficult to distinguish but I recognized certain words and phrases like, "Daddy, daddy, daddy, let the good times roll, yeah! yeah! yeah!" and so on in a similar vein. By this time 500 young boys and girls were doing this wild, tribal dance, which I discovered later was called, appropriately enough, the watusi.
[Page 187] |
When I came to, some of them were still gyrating while others were necking in the pews. A procession of boys and girls made their way to the communion table where they placed LSD and marijuana, beer and pretzels, and a switchblade knife, to symbolize religion, eating and drinking, and playing. It was at this time (I think I shall never forget it) that the bishop walked in.
Explanations were to no avail. I tried to explain about letting them worship in their own idiom, but the bishop was implacable. That was two weeks ago. Today I have a job as a service station attendant. It is one of the oldest oldline, mainline, traditional service stations in the area. I really don't mind the job at all. I feel I need time to think things over.
Editor's Note. Gary Freeman works with the Church of Christ, 3425 Mayfield Road, Cleveland Heights, Ohio, and the above is from the bulletin of the congregation for July 17, 1966.