Kentucky Chaplain David Chaltas

As dusk slowly spread its silhouette upon the corners of the old building, the significance of our stay was not apparent. The coal-oil lantern flickered, as the shadows dance on the ceiling and floor. The old piano seemed to possess an eerie sound of stillness. The well-worn altar was silent from years of disuse. The benches were empty except for an occasion man and woman attempting to seek shelter from the pending storm. The floor was scarred with the wear of countless feet shuffling back and forth. The significance of sleeping in the House of Mercy did not soak in on my being; at least not until we retired.

You see, a few of the brave hearts stayed in the Ole Bethesda Church located between Russellville and Morristown, Tennessee, on Saturday night. The church had been built in 1835. It was used as a hospital during the terrible conflict, and the graveyard loomed only a few yards from the back entrance. My mind reflected upon our conversations. I began thinking that this old building had seen more than its share of suffering. The walls that I gazed upon had witnessed the surgeons attempting to save the many wounded brought to her doors. The floor held the wounded and dying, as their blood seeped through the cracks to rest in the soil underneath the church. The windows attempted to contain the shouts and cries of the dying. The original Bible, stained with the blood of men, was on loan for the reenactment of the Battle for Morristown and was at the pulpit.

Suddenly the emotion of it all came over me as I tried to shield my tears from the others sleeping within her walls. It was then that I heard a softer voice. It was then that I was reminded of her name, Bethesda, meaning House of Mercy. I began to think that these men had a roof over their head and were being tended to in God’s house. Angels of mercy in the form of doctors and nurses dressed their wounds. The angel of sorrow was there. Death lingered at the door. Some looked up at the ceiling while others peered at the walls. Others saw the shadows move and screamed in terror, as they were unprepared for the touch of death’s hand. The mortally wounded men saw and inhaled their last breath in God’s house! Most are not afforded that honor. What did those men see during the flickering minutes before they swam to the other shore? What were their thoughts? Did they know that the last moments of their lives would be inside the church? The House of Mercy afforded them a moment to reflect upon their salvation even in their suffering. When and where will you meet your Creator? Are you ready to do so?

But the same church had no doubt seen happier times. I felt the presence of joy, singing, praise and preaching as well. I began to realize that this House of Mercy indeed was a home where people prayed at the altar and came to know their God. It was a place where people prepared to meet their God. It was and is hallowed ground. It was a healing place for the physically injured and the spiritually lost. It was and is God’s house. Bethesda Church, located just outside of Morristown, TN on route 11 North, going towards Russellville, is a safe haven and cries out to be preserved and used once again as a House of Mercy. Her voice of mercy and love is so sweet that the birds hush their singing.

General Stonewall Jackson once stated to his aid Sandy that his religion taught him to feel just as safe in bed as on the battlefield. We all have an appointed time and not knowing when or where should be ever the more reason to be prepared. Won’t you go to a House of Mercy and ask for the forgiveness that He is so willing to give? That house can be a church, a car, a shady spot or in your own living room. Seek Him and He will come to you with the greatest gift: peace.

I Remain Your Obedient Servant, The Old General