Fire before the rain: Blaze destroys Immokalee church Sept. 16 but not will to rebuild

The autumn of 2022 has been a test by wind and water for much of hurricane-battered Southwest Florida.

For members of the Lilly Bass Church of God in Unity, however, it is a test by fire.

A predawn blaze Sept. 16 burned out their concrete sugar cube of a church nestled near downtown Immokalee, destroying nearly everything inside. The pews, the hymnals, the sound system that amplified its joyous shouts of praise and its vocals, the musical instruments — all were charred beyond use.

Electrical, said the office of Florida State Fire Marshal. It investigated the aftermath of a  three-hour battle by two fire departments to snuff flames that licked up to the roof, opening its sanctuary to the morning sky.

Devastating, said members of its congregation, many of them long-time members who don't remember another church home.

"When you're coming here so long, to see it burned down, it's just so sad," said Kayla Hall, 31, who has been in the church for 13 years.

As possible, services are under a canopy, a handful of feet away from the scorched sanctuary. Victory in Christ Tabernacle and other churches have offered them early worship times at their buildings, one of many kindnesses in a church community that is close-knit in Immokalee.

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Immokalee church leader was determined

The first stone laid for rebuilding of the Lilly Bass Church is the determination it will happen.

"I'm already walking in the new building," Bishop Remar Scott declared to his congregation, as the folding chairs filled up and a round of amens answered his oratory.

For its small membership — 75 when the building was full — this has been home to their Pentecostal congregation since 1978. Founded by Alabama transplant Rosetta Hooks, and aligned with the Georgia-based Church of God in Unity, it radiates a blend of matriarchal pride and male informality.

Mixed in among knit tops, summer dresses and 5-inch heels are flip-flops and blue or white tees that riff on a street theme: the proclamation “straight outa Lilly Bass.”

Churchgoers call to each other, exchanging hugs and swapping the liveliest stories of their weeks, laughing and chatting before the service.

A keyboardist and drummer noodle with some soft licks, ready to back the singers. They're not members, but like videographer Robert Thomas Jr., who is doing a Facebook Live taping for the church, there's a feeling of kinship.

"Bishop Scott is like a brother to me," declared Thomas, a member of Victory in Christ Tabernacle. "They were in need, so I came to help."

The church also radiates unwavering faith, a reflection of "Mother" Hooks. Scott, her grandson, recalls her and her sister, Naples spiritual icon "Mother" Annie May Perry, as strong believers, determined to share their spiritual gifts.

"My grandmother introduced me to The Man up there," Scott said. She insisted on a building to house the flock, her grandson remembers.

"She used to minister under her carport before there was a church.  My family moved to Fort Myers in 1974, but I remember her talking about pews in the woods. She just wanted a church in Immokalee."

A forested lot Hooks bought, nearly across from her home, was ideal. Its trees provided a canopy of sorts for the congregation until building began.

Sweet potato pie helped fund it

First came the fundraising: donations from the community, a grant from her denomination, abundant sales of of Hooks' homemade candy and sweet potato pies. Then there were the lumber and building supplies that mysteriously appeared on the property.

"She tried to return them. But the lumber company told her 'We see nowhere where any supplies have left our store,'" Scott said. It took several more miracles, but the Lilly Bass Church of God in Unity opened its doors in 1978, and has been ministering ever since.

Scott still chuckles about his grandmother's application to the church headquarters to send them a pastor after the  building was finished. "They told her, 'You're going to be the pastor. You're the best person for it,'" he recalled.

They were right, Dorothy Rhodes affirms. Mother Hooks was powerfully persuasive.

"She kept telling me, 'Come to church, come to church,' and I'm 'Mmmm,'" recalled Rhodes, now 73, rolling her eyes. But she remembers the Sunday she did finally come. She decided to leave, for reasons she doesn't remember. But she fell in the church yard. "Come back, baby, come back," she recalled Hooks exhorting her.

Eventually she did. "I've been here ever since," she said.

Rob Tyler also likes its family feel. "We trust our bishop. We trust the word that he tells us. It's honest. This is a small family. We're just close," explained Tyler, 34, a member since the age of 7.

Scott remembers staying in his grandmother's robins-egg blue home across the street from the church. It was not necessarly in his plans then, but Hooks told him he would take on its pastorate.

Scott answered that call in 1996, and since then been driving from Miami, where he lives, for the service.

Sunday service simple, but filling

The church service is a simple, 60- to 90-minute slice of Sunday. There's prayer, led by Scott and congregational ministers, including Scott's wife, Kamela: "Lord, I ask you as you are rebuilding this church that you also will rebuild every person who is in this church — begin to breathe fresh life, eagles wings on whatever we're going through today."

There's poignant testimony. One member gives thanks for undergoing her last chemotherapy treatment, another for getting her through the hurricane winds when she determined to pick up her granddaughter in Tampa before the storm hit there: "My life could have been lost, but I'm here for another day and want to thank God."

There's singing and Scott's messages on Hebrews 13: verses 1-8 and Psalms 34, verse 1, reminding his flock to "bless the Lord at all times, not just when I'm feeling good."

"Even though the church burned down, I've still got to praise," he reminded them.

There's — haircuts? Gabby Tyler, a member, works in a beauty salon, and four of her friends from salons in the area have volunteered to come give the congregation free trims. So as Cynthia Pray Clinton strode down the aisle of the canopy church that Sunday, singing "Tell me what you know 'bout Jesus, he's all right!", someone in the adjacent tent had to resist singing the response while he was getting a professional fade or a freshened geometric hairline.

Thanks to the generosity of one stylist's father — "He's never been down here as far as I know and he's never met anyone in the church," marveled Scott — there also were hot dogs, chips and drinks for the congregation that day.

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The help from the Immokalee community and its friends has been remarkable to Scott. The latest: a text from Glendale Bible Church, offering sandwiches and drinks for its community cleanup day Nov. 5.

They will need sustenance. Worshippers only had to walk a few steps to see the old building, its pews the charred ribs of a church. There's a tangle of furniture, fabric and books that must go.

Scott said he's blessed to have a couple in the congregation who are a licensed contractor and a roofer to help with plans and permits. There's hope the current walls can be used, and that restrooms can be moved and built out at the rear of the sanctuary, rather than forcing worshippers to come to the front to use the facilities.

"We do have the gofundme page," Scott said. (It can be found under a search for Lilly Bass Church of God.) There's some insurance, but, of course, nowhere near enough to pay for restoration, let alone new, ADA-compliant bathrooms that will change the building's footprint.

Lilly Bass Church is getting some happy assists along its path forward. One came at the regional ushers and choirs fundraising concert last week at First Missionary Baptist Church in Immokalee.

"It's to support the ushers and choirs — maybe they want new uniforms, maybe they want more, you know, this or that. They raised that money. But then, the pastor got up and said, 'We have a brother in this community who has lost his entire church. And we are donating every dime we raise to him.' I didn't even know that was coming," he said, still a bit shocked.

This church raising may not get its funds from sweet potato pies and mystery lumber. But however they can do it, members like Rhodes are anxious to return to their own church:

"I can't wait. If I could snap my fingers and it'd be done, it'd be done."

Harriet Howard Heithaus covers arts and entertainment for the Naples Daily News/naplesnews.com. Reach her at 239-213-6091.

This article originally appeared on Naples Daily News: Immokalee fire destroyed Lilly Bass church but not will to rebuild