Note: This an excerpt from an article I wrote several years ago. I have timed this to be posted as close as possible to 9:50pm on August 31st. Tonight is the 128th anniversary of the great Charleston earthquake, which struck at that time. It is sometimes difficult to comprehend that the small, seemingly insignificant events of life can be inexorably bound to those monumental occurrences that leave permanent marks in the collective memory we call history. Consider, for example, the convergence of events that took place in the hot, humid darkness on the night of August 31, 1886. The event that is recorded in history was a powerful earthquake. The seismic history of the southeastern United States is dominated by the 1886 earthquake that occurred in the Coastal Plain near Charleston, South Carolina. It was one of the largest historic earthquakes in eastern North America, and by far the largest earthquake in the southeastern United States. A major shock, lasting less than one minute, resulted in about sixty deaths and extensive damage to the city of Charleston. The impact was felt as far away as the state of Wisconsin and the island of Cuba. Were it not for one newspaper article, however, the second occurrence would have likely not been remembered today. The article in the Florence Morning News, written sometime around 1959 by James A. Rogers, reveals a fascinating glimpse into an incident that involved an unidentified Free Will Baptist church, a Methodist minister, a revival meeting that ran late into the night, and the great Charleston earthquake. All of this was seen through the eyes of a thirteen year old boy who there on that fateful night. The irony of all this is that the consequences of the first event, which is recorded in history, were temporary, while the consequences of the second event, which have been practically forgotten, have eternal implications. The article reads: “St. Paul Methodist Church near Coward had its beginning in an earthquake. At least, that’s the story told by T. E. Matthews of Florence, an 86 year-old retired railroad man. It was August 1886, the year and month of the “big shake”, and T. E. Matthews was a 13 year-old boy. The Rev. Daniel Durant, a Methodist minister, had secured permission from the Rev. Bob Gause, a Free-will Baptist, to hold a meeting in Gause’s church. There were few churches and religion wasn’t prospering. The area around Coward, then in Williamsburg County, was thinly settled and big tracts of land were the rule. During the searing days of August, with the crops laid by and the farm population enjoying a breather, the Methodist Durant approached the Free- Will Baptist Gause requesting permission to do some preaching in the Baptist meeting house. It was granted. Things weren’t going so well on the night of August 31 when Preacher Durant called for prayer. The audience was as cold as a frozen cube. The altar call went unheeded. The preacher’s words flew back in his face like shafts of steel. It was then that the “big shake” came, right in the middle of his prayer. It was first a small tremor, then it came like roaring thunder. In the fervor of his prayer, the preacher had warmed to the occasion. Tears trickled down his face out of compassionate concern for lost souls. The floor of the church heaved slightly and the walls jerked sharply. The preacher felt the Spirit working. “Shake ‘em again, Lord” he shouted. “Shake ‘em again.” From the deep bowels of the earth, the thunder rolled upward. The meeting house shook and swayed. The congregation went through the windows and doors in terrified flight. They’d never known such quick and devastating answer to a prayer. It had come like the crack of doom. That was the real beginning of the revival. All else had been prelude. After that, there was hardly kneeling room at the altar. Confessions were loud and sincere. Young and old presented themselves for church membership, including 13 year-old T. E. Matthews. Sometime after that the Free-Will Baptist church was torn down and St. Paul Methodists built themselves a church. It still stands today, its hand-dressed lumber as sound and solid as the confessions that followed the crack of doom on that fearful August night in 1886. That’s the story told me by the 13 year-old boy who is now 86.”
Posted on: Mon, 01 Sep 2014 01:51:48 +0000
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