Everyone called him Brother Fickett. By 1949, he had been the pastor of the First Baptist Church for next to ever. Before he was called to Galveston, he had been a mining engineer and smelter chemist and Sunday school teacher, all at the same time. Somewhere in there, teaching the word of God had won out over the other two.
What's interesting is that he apparently never earned a degree in divinity, but as a Baylor University alumni, when he applied for and accepted a pastorate at a tiny church in Douglas, Arkansas, Baylor awarded him an honorary doctor of divinity degree. That's when he became formally known as Dr. Harold L. Fickett.
Honorary doctorates for ministers weren't uncommon back then. Across the street from First Baptist at Temple B'nai Israel, Rabbi Henry Cohen's credentials were also an honorary doctorate.
Brother Fickett was a Galvestonian. He had attended Ball High and had been a member of First Baptist as a child. The church had been founded about 1840. All but one of the charter members had been from New Englander.
The first pastor was a fellow named Dr. James Huckins, who was also one of the founders of Baylor University. Rather than use a baptistry in the church building itself to baptize new members, he and the congregation would go down to the beach and hold the service where he'd dunk them in the Gulf.
One of those Dr. Huckins baptized was Gail Borden, the founder of the Borden Milk Co. After that service, Dr. Huckins wrote, "There was to be heard the sound of the ever rolling billows, resembling the distant voice of God. Every heart began to soften and saint and sinner rushed forward to give him (Borden) their hand. Rejoicing, they stood together unable to restrain the feelings of their souls."
When Brother Fickett took over the church in 1929, even though the congregation was over 100-years old, the membership, while very dedicated, was anything but large. By 1949, Brother Fickett had increased the physical plant from three buildings to seven, and the resident membership was 2,200. The Sunday school attendance alone had grown from 442 to 1,000, and he had baptized 1950 people.
And Brother Fickett's church was one of the first to broadcast its Sunday services by radio. He started that in 1937. And First Baptist prided itself on being one of the highest contributors in Texas to the World Emergency Fund. One year they sent over 4,000 pounds of food and clothing for Baptist missionaries to distribute in Europe and China.
But it was in the early 1950s, that Brother Fickett rose to have his finest hour as a persuasive orator. After an influential member of his congregation, a doctor atthe University of Texas Medical Branch, had found his way into the illegal gambling casino and supper club, the Balinese Room. And he had gambled away a bundle/
He came to Brother Fickett and challenged him to be the spokesman for those who wanted the island ridded of sin. After all, the doctor told Brother Fickett, the owners of the Balinese Room had insisted that he stand good for the losses, even after he had explained that for him to pay them would be a sin.
And even though the owners, a family named Maceo, had made substantial donations to First Baptist over the years, Brother Fickett and newspaper man Silas Ragsdale, in tandem, officiously put and kept the "rid the island of sin" idea in the heads of Galvestonians as well as Texans and politicians statewide, causing it to gain and keep enormous momentum. Finally, the death knell was sounded.
While there's no question Brother Fickett and Mr. Ragsdale's hearts were in the right place, the doctor who instigated it all had shown that he was not against what he claimed was the flagitious sin of gambling.
In truth, he was nothing more than a poor sport who wanted to hold the Maceos, and not himself, accountable for his decision to roll the dice, then to roll them again and again until he had lost what old timers have told me was nearly $25,000, all in one night.
I've read some of Brother Fickett's sermons, and there's no question he was good at it. But what he was best at was getting his congregation to sing the Sunday service hymns with great bravura and enthusiasm. When we'd turn north in the old '40 Oldsmobile at 22nd and Broadway on a Spring Sunday, you could hear "The Old Rugged Cross," piano and all, as clear as a bell, from First Baptist, two blocks away.
Copyright 2005 - William S. Cherry All Rights Reserved
Comments (2)Subscribe to CommentsComment