Life Goes On (15 page)

B
ea Majors self-imposed exile lasted one week. She was back the next Sunday, poised at the organ, hanging on my every word, ready to drown out any perceived sacrilege with a burst of hymns. A tape recorder sat on the organ, its twin wheels turning silently, gathering proof of my blasphemy.

I didn't speak with her at first, hoping to avoid any unpleasantries, but after worship I thought better of it and approached her. She was standing in a knot of people occasionally pointing in my direction. When I walked over to her, most of them scattered like chickens.

“Don't try to talk me into staying, Sam Gardner. I just came today to get my music. You're in big trouble with the superintendent.”

“I wish you hadn't phoned him, Bea.”

“I bet you do. There's nothing like having a little light cast on your dark deeds.”

“Bea, I never made any disparaging comments about the Virgin Mary from the pulpit. You're telling lies about me, and you need to stop. It's hurtful to my reputation and bad for the church.”

Her chin began to tremble, and she began to weep. People edged closer, staring. Bea's sister, Opal, pointed her finger in my face. “Shame on you, Sam. Attacking an old woman until she cries. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

“Sam's not done anything,” Miriam Hodge said. “And he's absolutely right. Bea has been spreading rumors about him, and it needs to stop. Right now.”

Fern Hampton waded into the fray. “Well, I never thought I'd live to see the day when we'd let someone come between us Friendly Women.”

“That isn't the point, Fern,” Miriam said. “Bea is causing trouble, and it's time we said so. You're an elder in this church, just like me. We have a responsibility to help hold people accountable. It's time we did our job.”

I was going to intervene, but recalled advice my father had given me years before. “Son,” he'd said, “don't ever get between two women in a fight. They'll scratch your eyes out. Just get away as quick as you can.”

So that is what I did.

Miriam phoned me later that day. “Thanks for sticking around, Sam. Your bravery is an inspiration.”

“Sorry, Miriam. I just wasn't ready for that.”

“You'd better get ready. I have a feeling it's going to get a lot worse. Fern and Dale have asked me to call a special meeting of the elders.”

“Are you going to do it?”

“If two elders ask for it, we have to do it.”

I groaned at the thought.

“The thing is, Sam, they want to have it this Tuesday while the superintendent's here, and I can't be there. That's the night of the science fair and Amanda's getting an award. I think they knew that. Fern's the assistant clerk, so she'll be in charge. You're going to have to face them on your own.”

“How about Asa Peacock? Will he be there?”

“No, he and Jessie are out of town visiting their son. Won't be back until Friday.”

“How about Harvey Muldock?”

“He has an Odd Fellows meeting that night.”

The situation was looking grim.

“Don't worry, Sam. They can't fire you without the church's approval. Just go and let them vent their spleens and everything will turn out fine.”

I took the next day off, then spent Tuesday barricaded in my office with Frank guarding the door. At supper, despite an overwhelming desire to vomit, I choked down a sandwich at the urging of my wife.

I arrived at the meetinghouse just in time for the meeting. Dale, Fern, Opal, and the superintendent were arrayed around the folding table down in the basement. Dale began the meeting with a prayer. It turned quickly into an editorial against modernity in general and scientific discovery in particular, which caused certain so-called Christians to abandon the truth of Scripture and fall into depravity.

“Well,” Fern said, when Dale finished praying, “I think we all know why we're here. Sam's gone off the deep end again. Two years
ago he didn't believe in God and now he's denying the Virgin Birth.”

“Don't forget what he did last year,” Dale said. “Had Deena Morrison preach on sexual perversion the Sunday before Christmas.”

Opal shook her head in disgust.

“What have you got to say for yourself, Sam?” the superintendent asked.

I wasn't sure what to say for myself, suspecting that whatever I said would only make things worse. So I remained silent.

“I don't blame you for not speaking,” Opal said. “If it were me, I'd be too ashamed to say anything too.”

“It isn't that,” I said, finally finding my voice. “I just feel as if you've already made up your minds about me and that what I say won't change a thing.”

“So what's this business about you calling the Virgin Mary a floozy?” the superintendent asked.

“I did no such thing. One of our newer attenders simply mentioned in Sunday school that he doubted the Virgin Birth and when Bea asked me about it, I admitted that I wasn't sure what to think of it myself. That's all I said. The next thing I know, it's being blown out of proportion, rumors are flying around, and I'm in hot water.”

“Well, then, this is easily solved,” the superintendent said. “Just stand in the pulpit and say you believe it, and we can put this whole thing behind us and move on. That'd satisfy everyone, wouldn't it?”

Opal nodded her head. “And I think he needs to publicly apologize for causing all this trouble in the first place.”

“It's the least he should do,” Fern said.

“I'm sure Sam is willing to apologize,” the superintendent said. “Aren't you, Sam?”

“I never mind apologizing if I've done something wrong. But I've done nothing wrong.”

“Well, Sam, that isn't quite true,” the superintendent said. “You've questioned a bedrock principle of the church.”

“Don't I have the freedom to do that? We're Quakers, after all. We don't have creeds. Aren't I allowed to express doubts or ask questions?”

“Not if it causes trouble,” Fern said.

“Why does it need to cause trouble?” I asked. “Why can't questions be asked and people reflect on them without getting bent out of shape?”

“Now there's your problem, right there,” Dale said. “We ought not question the Lord. If the Lord said His mother was a virgin, then that's good enough for me.”

“Except the Lord never said it,” I pointed out. “The Church said it about him. But the Church can be wrong. We've been wrong before.”

“This is all very interesting,” the superintendent said. “But I've got a two-hour drive ahead of me and need to get back home. So, Sam, if you could just apologize to these good people for stirring up trouble, we'll put this all behind us.”

I sat quietly for a moment, thinking about what kind of minister I wanted to be, what kind of man I wanted to be.

“I won't do it,” I said quietly. “I've done nothing wrong, and to apologize would be insincere.”

“Well, Sam, I have no choice but to dismiss you.”

Our superintendent had a bad habit of confusing himself with a bishop.

“You can't do that,” I pointed out. “You don't have the authority. Only my congregation can dismiss me.”

“Well, then, I suppose you'll just have to quit.”

“I won't do any such thing.”

“It's clear these people don't want you as their pastor.”

“They represent a vocal minority who wouldn't be happy if Jesus were their pastor.” I said it without thinking, felt bad for an instant, then got over it. “Besides, there are many others in the congregation who value my ministry and tell me so regularly.”

“Well, your supposed supporters aren't here,” Fern said. “If they even exist. And we're the elders. What do the rest of you think?”

“Nothin' personal, Sam,” Dale said. “But I think it's time you went. We need new blood.” He paused. “You know, Sam, sometimes I wonder if the Lord even called you to ministry. You don't seem to have a servant's heart.”

“Did you think that last month when I was cooking your breakfast, washing your underwear, and trying to talk your wife into coming home?”

“What's that got to do with anything?” Dale asked, genuinely perplexed.

“You know what I think?” Opal said. “He's been nothin' but trouble. He doesn't even like organ music. Don't think I haven't noticed you squirm while Bea's playing. Next thing you know, he'll have drums and guitars in here and we'll be singing rock and roll.”

“I'm inclined to agree with them,” Fern said. “Your presence here is divisive. I think it's time you left. Do the rest of you approve?”

“Approve,” they grumbled.

The superintendent glanced at his watch. “Sorry it turned out this way, Sam. Come see me sometime next week, and we'll see if maybe there's another church that'll have you. Though I think maybe you oughta lose that chip on your shoulder so you don't run into this sort of trouble again.”

“I won't be coming by,” I said. “I'm still the pastor of this church. This committee doesn't have the authority to fire me. They must have the approval of the meeting, which they've not done.”

“There you go, quibbling over minor details again,” Fern said. “That's just what we're talking about, Sam. You're always wanting to argue about things.”

“Excuse me, Fern, but this is my livelihood we're talking about here. My children have become accustomed to eating.”

I was starting to get irritated.

“We're not the only ones who don't like you,” Opal said. “Stanley Farlow and his wife are thinking of leaving the church, and Bea's decided not to play the organ anymore.”

There is a God in heaven, I thought to myself.

“If we can't fire you, then maybe you should just quit,” Dale suggested.

“Sometimes that sounds very appealing,” I admitted.

“It's settled then,” Fern said. “Sam has quit. This meeting is adjourned.”

The superintendent rose to his feet and clapped me on the back. “Takes a big man to admit that he's been wrong and to step aside for new leadership.” He turned to Fern. “I'll have some new candidates for you to start interviewing next week. Did I mention my nephew's been looking for a pulpit?”

They walked up the stairs, discussing the nephew's sterling character, while I remained seated, trying to figure out what had just happened. I was beginning to suspect a trap had been set, and I'd blundered into it. For people with a history of integrity, Quakers sure could be sneaky. It occurred to me I should have feigned illness and stayed home.

I wasn't sure whether I was employed or not, but I knew when Fern got home, she'd start working the phone telling people I'd resigned, so I thought I'd beat her to the punch. I walked upstairs to my office and called Miriam Hodge, who answered the phone out of breath. “We just got home, Sam. How'd the meeting go?”

“I think I might have quit, but I'm not sure.”

“What do you mean you're not sure?”

“It all happened so quick. One moment I was the pastor, and the next minute they were talking about hiring the superintendent's nephew.”

“Him? He's a twerp. He's been fired from every church he's ever pastored.”

“According to the superintendent, he's the greatest preacher since the Apostle Paul.”

“Sam, you go on home and don't worry about this. I'll get it taken care of.”

“Thank you, Miriam. Sorry to put you through this.”

“It's not your fault, Sam. Don't give it a thought.”

“Take care, Miriam.”

“You too, Sam. Please know you're in my prayers.”

“Thanks, Miriam. You're in mine.”

I hung up the phone and walked home. A small part of me wanted to phone Miriam and tell her not to bother, that I'd go ahead and resign. I was tired of trying to keep people happy who took joy in being miserable. Tired of sacrificing my integrity on the altar of employment. The Quakers weren't the only game in town. Maybe the Episcopalians needed someone.

“How'd it go?” my wife asked, when I walked in the door.

“Either I was fired or I quit. I'm not sure. The upshot is that the superintendent wants his nephew to become the new pastor.”

“That moron? What does he know about being a pastor?”

“That doesn't seem to be a concern. He apparently believes in the Virgin Birth, which seems to be all that matters these days.”

She shook her head in disgust. “What's happened to Quakerism?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I mean we used to be known as thoughtful people who respected the right of others to think and believe differently. What's happened to us?”

“I guess the fundamentalists have worn us down. I know I'm feeling worn down.”

She glared at me, then stamped her foot, a sure sign I was about to be counseled. “Enough of that talk, Sam Gardner. You need to
gird your loins and fight. They're nothing but bullies, the whole lot of them. Don't let them run you off. And for God's sake, don't let them hijack this beautiful religion.”

“It's not that easy, honey. Quakers also believe in peace. I don't think it's appropriate for me to get caught up in a church fight.”

“That doesn't seem to bother them,” she said.

“That isn't the point. I can't choose how they behave, but I can choose how I'll behave. And I'm going to be kind.”

“Then you're history, “she predicted.

“So be it. At least I'll have my integrity.”

She snorted. “Don't be getting all self-righteous on me, Sam. You have a responsibility to do what's best for the church. You're the pastor. You've been entrusted with leadership. Don't knuckle under.”

“I'm too tired to think about that right now. I'm going to bed.”