Editor’s Note: For now over 75 years, Baylor Line has been publishing vivid storytelling from across the Baylor Family. I don’t think our archives full of deep, inspirational features should live solely on shelves, so we are bringing them back to like in BL Classics. From spring 2002, the Rev. Eric H. Hooker speaks about Second Missionary Baptist Church’s history and the effort to create and preserve the church’s first home on M. L. Cooper Drive. Despite these efforts, the church eventually moved to its current home later that year.
On Sunday, the Second Missionary Baptist Church in Waco comes alive. Ushers in white gloves graciously seat chattering families and women in glorious hats. The old hymns – sung without hymnals – ring through the postcard-perfect sanctuary of one of Waco’s oldest African-American churches.
On Sunday, the congregation stands in respect whenever the Bible is read and files quietly down to the altar to pray before the sermon. The rolling basso of the of the Rev. Eric H. Hooker, the church’s sixty-eight-year-old patriarch, guides worshippers through the two-hour service.
On Sunday, the Second Baptist Church continues an unbroken, 122-year-old tradition of ministry and activism that began with covert worship services conducted by slaves. And when the service is over, members of the congregation will personally tell you how glad they are that you worshipped with them and will invite you to return someday soon.
But on Monday, the empty, red-brick church at 1205 M. L. Cooper Drive is silent and simply looks out of place, surrounded by the modern buildings of Baylor University’s campus. Few students even know of the church’s existence. Second Baptist, in fact, is the last remnant of a once-thriving neighborhood that used to border the campus. But one day soon the church might follow its former neighbors, leaving behind the awkward isolation of its historic building for a new home.
founding fathers
On a Monday morning last fall, Rev. Hooker worked the telephone in his wonderfully eclectic office where overstuffed chairs and elaborately stitched cushions vied for attention with strings of tiny Christmas lights. Well-worn books, photographs of church members past and present, pennants, parchment, and tiny ponies crammed the bookshelves. Bowls of candy for the kids sat next to photographs of Martin Luther King Jr. A curtain of ivy covered one window, trailing from a single well-loved plant.
And everywhere were the reminders of Second Baptist’s rich history, memories, and photographs of Hooker’s predecessors in the pulpit.
The pastors of Second Baptist began a precedent of activism that Hooker continues today. He actively serves on fourteen boards and is a past chair of McLennan Community College’s Board of Trustees. He was the first black president of the Downtown Kiwanis, and he has served with distinction of boards ranging from Habitat for Humanity and the Greater Waco Interfaith Conference to the Boy Scouts of America. He’s also a force in his denomination, having taken leadership roles in the State Congress for Christian Workers of Texas, the Missionary General Baptist Convention of Texas, and a host of ministerial associations.
The telephone in his church office rang frequently, and the answering machine recorded messages from across the state – some urgent, some merely old friends wanting an update. But on this Monday, Hooker wanted to talk about the past.
The sounds of nearby construction from Baylor’s now-completed Truett Theological Seminary campus occasionally intruded through his open door – the rumble of heavy machinery, the whine of the saw, the staccato attach of a nail gun. The creation of the seminary’s large new home, located just to the church’s left where Kirk Wilson Elementary School once stood, has hemmed in Second Baptist in all directions. On the church’s right stands the Castellaw Communications Center. Behind it, a parking lot extends toward the heart of campus. Across the street sits a university-owned apartment complex. The church and its next-door parsonage are the last links to the area’s original neighborhood.
“This church grew out of First Missionary Baptist Church,” Hooker said, noting that First Missionary Baptist is now called New Hope Baptist. “The creek that runs through the Baylor campus was not covered as it is now. When that creek overflowed, as it often did, the members around here could not go to worship. So in 1879, way back during segregation, these members decided to band together and organize what was called the Colored Baptist Church.”
Times weren’t always easy. Hooker said the church was put up for auction on the steps of the McLennan County Courthouse in 1901 because of outstanding debts. “A black man named William Graves stepped forth and gave us $581 to pay off that note and save our church,” Hooker said. “Mr. Graves was not a churchgoer. He just thought it was important.”
“On October 21, 2001, we celebrated 122 years of existence here all under the same management – Jesus Christ.” – Rev. Eric H. Hooker
But several of Graves’s descendants later became members of the church, some of them filling the pews today. “Naturally they’re going to worship this place, worship the land on which we built,” Hooker said. “These are people who gave a little money to see this church thrive as it has done in the past and as it is doing now. There are those people who have died and left us in their wills and still have relatives here. All this ingratiates the church into these people’s hearts because their forefathers did something here at Second Baptist Church.”
displacement
Following a devastating fire in 1922, Pastor A. A. Lucas vowed to erect a substantial sanctuary at 1205 Second Street – now M. L Cooper Drive – next to Kirk Watson Elementary School and between Baylor University and the Brazos River. Parishioners spent nearly twenty years paying off the building debt. “Dr. A. A. Lucas was instrumental in building this structure,” said Hooker, who served as assistant secretary under Lucas. “But on October 21, 2001, we celebrated 122 years of existence here all under the same management – Jesus Christ.”
Hooker said the church flourished in the years before World War II. “This is where old black folk congregated and lived in nice homes that they built. The principal, the vice principal, and many of the teachers of the black high school all lived there on Third Street, right in back of the church here. Black folks enjoyed the camaraderie that they had as a neighborhood.”
At the time, Second Baptist was surrounded by several old neighborhoods. Blocks of faculty housing and well-loved boarding houses stood between Baylor and downtown. But the neighborhood declined along the Brazos River during the 1940s and 1950s, with small houses reluctantly giving way to animal rendering plants, automobile body shops, raucous taverns, and vacant buildings.
Nevertheless, Second Baptist continued to flourish. “But when this thing called Urban Renewal came out, things changed,” Hooker said. “They got black folks to move when they built Moody Library. At first, they displaced just a few blacks in this area. But Urban Renewal displaced all the black folks under the guise that they were going to build. better apartments for the poor.”
Hooker said the Urban Renewal program of the early 1960s created an exodus as black families scattered throughout Waco and into the suburbs. The church’s membership took a downturn as a result. “Little by little, the membership became aged and the younger people were not coming to the church,” Hooker said. “The neighborhood had no visibility. Eventually, people could not find the church.”
When Interstate 35 was built in the mid-1960s the remaining neighborhoods by the river and between Baylor and downtown were removed as well. The construction of the Riverside Apartments (later replaced by Baylor Landing apartments) and Castellaw meant that Second Baptist found itself almost completely surrounded. Only the elementary school next door remained along with the church.
During these difficult times, Second Baptist was led by the Rev. M. L. Cooper, who split his time between his slowly dwindling congregation and the nascent Civil Rights movement in Waco. From 1958 until his dramatic death in the pulpit of a heart attack in 1982, Cooper was well regarded by all segments of the community. His dogged pursuit of better race relations in Waco and his commitment to the poor prompted the city council to rename Second Street as M. L. Cooper Drive.
leading the flock
The congregation turned to Eric Hooker, who had grown up only a few blocks away from the church, to shepherd Second Baptist.
The calling was the culmination of a varied career. After working his way through seminary at Virginia Union University – he also has a doctorate from Guadalupe College in Los Gatos, California – Hooker pastored New Mount Zion Baptist Church in Waxahachie and taught at Bishop College while living in Arlington. A few years later, Hooker linked up with Marvin Leath, a Waco politician just starting his campaign for the U.S. House of Representatives.
“Marvin said, ‘If I get to be congressman, I want you to be my right hand,'” Hooker remembered. “Sure enough, after a struggle, we won, and I became his project coordinator. We worked together for fifteen years. I had an office in Washington, D.C., and I’d fly back from D.C. when I’d get ready to preach. I worked for nineteen counties and was able to make an impact, especially in voter registration.”
Meanwhile, Hooker maintained his close friendship with Rev. Cooper, Second Baptist’s beloved pastor. The two often worked together on numerous regional and state boards. After Cooper’s sudden death, the family asked Hooker to conduct the funeral service. Soon afterward, the congregation called him as pastor.
Today, after twenty years of service to Second Baptist, Hooker has given younger staff members a greater role in the worship services. Some Sundays, he doesn’t preach at all. But make no mistake – this is his church. And his standing as its pastor automatically thrust him into a leadership role in Waco’s black community.
“Traditionally, black churches have been in the leadership capacity of our race and for the betterment of humanity,” Hooker said. “How can I lead Second Baptist if I’m not a part of that? The NAACP began in Waco with Rev. Cooper, who was one of its presidents. This church has always been at the forefront of voter registration and getting our members to vote – and to let them know who to vote for. I tell them who I am voting for. I’m the leader of this church from the outhouse to that front door. Nobody can tell me what to preach. Nobody looks over my sermons and says, ‘You can’t say that.’ I say whatever the Holy Spirit directs me to say.”
But even the sheer force of Hooker’s will cannot turn back the clock for his aging parishioners. “That’s the plight of Second Baptist Church now,” Hooker said. “The membership has grown – we have three hundred and something now – but last week I had another funeral. And I find that when young people join a church, they have a heavy debt on them and they’re not as liberal of the tithe. But the older people, even though they’re sick they give the offerings. Those people have been indoctrinated on how to support the church.”
“I’m the leader of this church from the outhouse to that front door. Nobody can tell me what to preach. I say whatever the Holy Spirit directs me to say.” – Rev. Eric H. Hooker
baylor’s offer
When it became clear that Baylor would someday have a need for the land occupied by Second Baptist, university officials initiated negotiations with the church. “We are at the point where we don’t have to sell, but we may buy eight acres on Dallas and East Herring Streets,” Hooker said. “It’s a beautiful spot, a corner lot. We do have a building fund. People give religiously to it. An architect drew up plans for a building that will cost $2.2 million.”
Hooker said that despite several conversations with Baylor officials, an agreement that satisfies the church has yet to be reached. “Slaves and the children of slaves bought this land,” he said. “They brought bricks in, and they worked in the kitchen to build this church. We’ll just stay here until we get ready to move.”
The problem, of course, is one of perception. For Baylor, the small lot bounded on all sides by the university has a specific, easily defined property value. But for members of the church, the lot is holy ground, and holy ground has a value that doesn’t easily translate into dollars.
“The church means everything to me. I grew up in the church, but I didn’t join until 1941. I’ve been worshipping there ever since.” – Pauline Adams
In the middle of the conversation is Ken Simons, Baylor’s assistant vice president for facilities planning and operation. For several years, Simons has had to tread lightly, working to ensure that the university does not come across as a bully.
“There haven’t been any further developments as to acquiring the property,” Simons said. “Baylor’s generous offer of a couple of years ago still stands. I recently wrote a letter to Pastor Hooker, telling him that we would still very much like to work something out, particularly in light of the construction of the new seminary next door and in regards to the various needs we have. At this time, I haven’t heard anything back.”
It is doubtful anyone could value the land and the building as much as the members – past and present – of Second Baptist Church value it. “Our members have an allegiance to this church because their forefathers, their grandmothers, their good friends, and their mothers who are members here,” Hooker said. “A lot of them grew up here. They just feel this is their church, even though they pass by a whole lot of churches to get here. The building represents hard work. A lot of my members have arthritis, and yet they come right on and give their substance and give their service to this church. They were raised to be loyal and faithful.”
A sampling of members found them to be in total accord with their shepherd. “It’s precious to me because it is where I grew up. It’s somethings from my childhood that’s still here,” said Ervie Lee Relerford, a Second Baptist member for fifty-eight years.
Pauline Adams, another longtime member, said, “The church means everything to me. I grew up in the church, but I didn’t join until 1941. I’ve been worshipping there ever since. I participated in everything in the church – and I still do.”
Jesse W. Williams Jr. said that being a member of Second Baptist has been an “inspiration” since he joined in 1942. “I’ve tried to involve myself in as many of the programs at the church as possible,” he said. “Even with the parking problems, we still carry on. I’ve loved the relationships and fellowship with my fellow members as we’ve studied the Bible together. That’s been the best thing for me.”
sacred ground
Perhaps in the future an angel will step forward and write a check, and the congregation of Second Baptist Church will trek across Waco to a beautiful new building. Despite the congregation’s love for its longtime sanctuary, Hooker said he believes nothing fundamental will have changed on that theoretical day of moving. “People sacrificed and gave whole windows to this church building. People sacrificed and bought the bricks,” he said. “Time doesn’t erase that kind of dedication and the spirit that black Americans had and have now. If we move, it’s still going to be the same spirit. It is incumbent upon me to instill in those who become members of this church what has happened before they got here and let them buy into the spirit of this church.”
Hooker said the church’s collective memory is filled with stories that chronicle the sacrifices members made to build Second Baptist. “It was built in a time when Negroes didn’t have good jobs,” he said. “But because of their dedication and the leadership of these pastors, they were able to build a heck of a structure. Think about 1924. This is a heck of a structure – and black people built it?”
Ultimately, in the minds of Rev. Eric Hooker and the ladies in the glorious hats and the elderly black men in neatly pressed suits and the children who dash for Hooker’s office following the service, this is sacred ground. In their minds, Second Baptist isn’t just a building. It’s a willingness of the spirit.
“This church symbolizes suffering and sacrifice,” Hooker said. “It is a symbol of what God has led us to do with nothing, really. Black folks didn’t have anything. And yet, look at the monument that we left.”
The phone continued to ring, the jackhammer continued to pound away at a stubborn piece of pavement, and the outside world intervened once again. Hooker stood to leave, ramrod straight, a splash of gray at the temples. The interview was apparently over. But he lingered over the final handshake, not yet finished.
“My dad, the Rev. Elijah H. Hooker, was a pastor for forty-two years at Mount Calvary Baptist in Hewitt, so I know church work,” he said. “I know what goes into building the church. And because of that, I feel very dedicated and protective of the historical nature of this church, of any black church. But this is not just a black church. This is a red brick church where anybody is welcome to come.”
