A Passion for the Churches of Atlanta

And marbled clouds go scudding by the many-steepled Atlantan sky. 

One remarkable thing that instantly strikes a Lime Juicer in the USA are the modern sites of communal worship. Nothing medieval here (OF COURSE!?!) or Victorian (NATURALLY!!!) and the peculiar architecture does not exactly bring you down to your knees (WHATTA YA EXPECT?) Yes, naught too old, or of ancient origin, about the religious houses of the US of A. On the whole, they invariably tend to be passionless super-churches, only interested in resolutely putting asses (ARSES) on pews every Sunday service. However, empirical generalizations and superficial impressions aside, I've gently taken a shine to the 20th Century bungalows of my primary area. Indeed, the local churches of Atlanta are even more varied than its visible skyline. Promptly let that serve me as divine inspiration towards properly finishing this blog.

This is my concerned local, the first key step of the journey. Tabernacle Community Baptist Church. Not yet been to a service. Or willingly met its pastor, Reverend Nathaniel Smiley. The congregation, for whom the structure was initially built, is solidly African-American. And, every Sunday, I typically observe punters, modern pilgrims, and elderly schoolmistresses cautiously entering and gently withdrawing its timbered doors on walkers and motorized wheelchairs. Founded in May 1959 by O.L. Parsons as the Cameron Christian Church, it's a holy place on a narrow slope, bang opposite a drunken row of shotgun shacks. Carefully note its rotting, wooden spire tilting slightly north at the heavenly sky. One of these days, I must penetrate the grand interior of this white-bricked bungalow of the dear Lord and snap some adorable pix. One of these days...

Friendship Baptist Church across Memorial Drive is a simple, roomy, clapboard on brick structure with a tin steeple and spindly cross. I've unexpectedly had a dime tour of its innards by Pastor Bobby L. Simmons. Nothing Gothic or gilded about this moral construction. No bells to ring, bat-droppings to mop up or memorial brasses to thoughtfully rub. Unlike the local joint, the established congregation is pink granite and very much Caucasian. One active parishioner often loiters on a bench in nearby Cabbagetown Park. "Are you coming to church this Sunday?" he politely asks, touting for devout worshipers like a parish clerk or a reformed drunk. "Afraid not," meekly follows the return, stepping sprightly on the autumn leaves, "I'm Buddhist." Oh dear dear. I may be in Atlanta, but this is Georgia... I.E. Being Buddhist in this God-Made-State traditionally makes you the social equal of Satan. 

Across the local park in neighboring Cabbagetown, on the pleasant corner of Short and Kirkwood, is the exotically titled Great Mount Hermon Missionary Baptist Church. Unlike the other Baptist churches of the hood, this sacred site has no crucifixes on its shuttered windows or gilded cross on its corrugated spire. Conspicuously absent, too, is the precise date of completed construction. But, judging by the age of the building and notable addition of ribbed windows in the 1970s, this unpretentious spiritual refuge has been serving its flock on the green since the 1950s. (The twirling cast-iron railing on its steps was the giveaway.) Its parishioners tend to be, and you predicted it, elderly and infirm African-American ladies with disapproving faces. This, like my longtime local, makes it rather distinct. Worshipers, priced out by the egregious forces of gentrification, still commute to worship here every honored Sunday. Makes me think about Merry England. Do priced out parishioners return to their old church every Sunday in London Town? I know that confirmed drunkards do habitually the same at the historic pubs of Notting Hill and Ladbroke Grove. Something to ponder next time in church. Or down the local pub. 

Take a look at the dilapidated bus at the back of Emmanuel Spiritual Holy Temple Church on Wylie Street. Next Stop: Jesus. There's something tragic about this noble beast going to rust in a grassy lot. But it's not all doom and gloom and end of days. For this stained-glass barn is home to a funky church band and gospel choir. Founded in 1952 by Reverend Minnie L. Sharlow, like most of the established churches in my local area of operations, its active congregation is African-American, many of whom commute to service every Sunday from elsewhere in the city. But still that bus, sitting peacefully in its lot, left to rust and the fragrant weeds. What was the dismal story there? I must earnestly urge its current minister, Pastor Beverly A. Heard. One day. 

Doubling back, one of the most venerable buildings in the hood, the Immanuel Mission Baptist Church. "Organized and built" in 1902, with medieval battlements, fortified tower, shutters and Teutonic crosses lodged in its stained glass, this is one of my favorite red-bricks in the historic city. 

Opposite, the rather humble and battered bungalow of the Omega Holiness Church on Memorial Drive. This forlorn looking shack of God, Son and Holy Ghost, is popular with the displaced and elderly African-American demographic. I frequently see parishioners standing for the psychedelic MARTA bus in the sleet, snow and pouring rain. (Bus stops typically have no shelter, seats or precise timetable in Atlanta.) One church round the corner is being sold off and reincarnated as hipster office space. I naturally wonder what kind fate will eventually befall the Omega Holiness Church? Oh, God. Not that, I dearly hope.

Until such time, God bless the churches of Atlanta and the rectory bores that gave a trodden space for this foreign sounding knave.