Can I Get An Amen?

"Of course, I am upset Nora. How could I not be very, very upset?" Estelle was holding her phone with one hand, shaking her head vigorously and holding her other arm straight in the air signaling her "sheer and utter frustration." One thing and one thing only causes Estelle this much strife: The Baptists.

Before I was born, my parents left the Holiness and Pentecostal churches prevalent in the Appalachians for the sophistication and sanity of the Southern Baptists. First Baptist was steadfast in our lives. Wednesday evenings filled our schedules with fellowship dinners, Royal Ambassadors and choir rehearsals. Sundays brought Sunday School felt board stories, robust and hearty hymn singing and a Georgian-inspired sanctuary where morning light glistened on the pastor whose close resemblance to Christopher Plummer's Captain von Trapp made the sermons equally eloquent and romantic.

Summers were no respite for our work as Southern Baptists with church picnics and pig pickin's, building houses for the poor, canning food with widows and the firm grasp of Vacation Bible School, that bastion of Bible story boot camp and macaroni art. Church was life and life was church. This became evident at the Country Club pool, the summer oasis for many members of the Women's Missionary Union and their offspring. Once, confusing Sunday's sermon about Peter's lack of faith contributing to his potential drowning and the previous night's bedtime story, The Little Engine That Could, I stood on the edge of the kiddy pool with water barely at my ankles, clad in floral swim trunks and orange inflatable floaties, earnestly praying, "I think I can, I think I can, I think I can." Each time as I stepped out on the pool water, it was the floaties that sustained my buoyancy, not my faith. Soon other children abandoned their ritual of Marco Polo for a game of Peter on the Water. Religiously, these were the salad years. Then, the 1970s ended.

The 1980s brought many ill-conceived changes for the Baptists and borrowing from Toole's post-suicidal novel, Estelle began referring to the Southern Baptist Convention as the "Confederates and Dummies." Gone from the pulpit was the allegory and eloquence of Reverend Captain von Trapp and in this vacuum the formulaic, three-point tirades of "the new preacher" did not fill the void. Singing all stanzas of the hymns slowly vanished and sparse choruses accompanied by the hand waving of new congregants arose amongst the flock. Estelle and other members of the Women's Missionary Union ignored the encouragement to abandon their efforts with the local needs of migrant men for hulling coconuts as primitive banks to be used for the annual Lottie Moon offering for foreign missions.

Estelle's first descent was in reaction to four words heralded from the pulpit: "She was a hooker." Autumn had ushered in the falling of leaves and the social standing of Mary Magdalene. "It's in the true word of God for all to read and behold," the preacher's rant continued. Estelle's body stiffened and her face became terse with The Look. I feared that she would secretly stretch her arm and miraculously reach "the new preacher" from her perch on the front row and grab his abounding flesh twisting with a retributive and stinging pinch.

After the service when socializing had ceased, the car door closed with the simultaneous explosion of "Where did that jackass go to seminary and what kind of person uses the word 'hooker' in mixed company?" The showdown began. "Truth be told Mary Magdalene supported that whole lot. Is that where he's getting that garbage? Oh, just because she could afford to carry a bagful of boys that wouldn't work she is a hooker? Believe you me, I know hookers and I know my Bible. Mary Magdalene was most certainly NOT a 'hooker?'" The last word mocked the slow and wide Texan accent of the minister. "By Crackies," the audible warning that Estelle was fired up filled the car. "I've heard more sensible preaching out of the Merita bread truck."

There was no retreat in this crusade as made evident by the following Sunday's church announcements. This week for "the new preacher" did not bode well for Estelle when in his call for deacon nominations, he stated , "Before we nominate let us pray and ponder on the words found in First Timothy. 'Let the deacons be the husbands of one wife, ruling their children and their own houses well.' These are the true qualifications for the men representing our church." In one simple didactic prayer, and following the new fundamentalist surge, women deacons were obliterated at First Baptist.

Poised for retaliation, Estelle had predicted such a move and was ready for action. During the prayer, I kept my eyes open enough to view Estelle and her fury. Her pen was drawn and attacking the five slots on the deacon nomination ballad. As the congregants prayed she caught eyes with several other of her sister-friends, signaling a coup. I watched her pen as she scribed:

1. Betty Jean Smith

2. Rosemary Jackson

3. Emily Anne Garret

4. Barbara Lunsford

5. ESTELLE

The prayer concluded with the congregation's "amen" having a slight feminist tone.

Conrad Garett called Estelle midweek with shocking news from the deacon's meeting. "He_did_what?" Estelle continued, "Well that jackrabbit." Although securing ample votes from the congregation, Estelle and her fellow suffragists had been excluded and discarded from the nominations. Shockingly, their names only found solace in the bottom of the choir room trash can. "What? The new preacher just threw them out?" Her inquiry of Conrad Garret was short and her gaze void and quiet. There was no news to joyfully sound.

Checking her lipstick in the mirror of the foyer, Estelle delicately filled the lining with an appropriate fall shade of plum. "Where are you off to?" My dad was not prepared for Estelle's stoic response, "I made an appointment with the new preacher. It's about time we had a talk." The meticulous application of plum was the soldier preparing her weapon for battle. Silence lingered and my dad understood there was no chance for armistice. He stuttered, "Well . . .uh . . .I'll pray."

Sitting in the pastoral study, ankles crossed and hands resting in her lap, Estelle listened as the new preacher explained his Biblical stance on the subjugation of women. To these upstart Baptists, the women of the Bible were only vessels for reproduction, conniving adulterers, or prostitutes. Her rebuttal of biblical heroines continually being dismissed by the south Texan, Estelle resigned her battle knowing to save her strength for the war.

She grabbed her pocketbook and firmly stood, her pants suit was well tailored and graceful. She straightened her coat and then met the eyes of the minister. "There is one more thing. A few Sundays ago you referred to Mary Magdalene as 'a hooker.' You were wrong. She was a strong woman who offered not only her financial support but her love to Jesus and the church. Young man, I know many women, including me, who have given their money and support to the church and that new children's building is proof of it. I assure you we are not prostitutes unless you have a new definition of the word. And if that is the case, what does it say about men like you who take our money?"

These were the last words exchanged between the minister and the congregant.

The new preacher left the mountains for the more docile landscape of south Georgia and Estelle's attendance is now elsewhere. The Episcopal church is more welcoming to women and she will snidely offer that "Baptist is what you are when you struggle. Episcopalian is what you are when you've made it in the world." Yet, she misses the hymn singing and the eloquence of a well-delivered allegory coupled with the emotions and passions of Baptistry. There was a reason Lot's nameless wife looked back.

Estelle's voice was pitched high and loud, "That was Nora Ridges from First Baptist and you will not believe what she had the nerve to ask me." I was still and silent being careful not to provide further agitation. "She wanted to know if she could cancel my subscription to 'Road on the Journey,' you know, that devotional I still get because your dad and I don't go to church there that much and it would save the church eighteen dollars a year." Nora had clearly crossed a line with her mention of monetary savings and my mother's attendance record. "Eighteen dollars! Eight_teen_dol_lars! Well, I just told her. Is First Baptist that hard up for money? Good Lord Jesus on the cross, I still pay my tithes to them and donate money for their building fund and they can't spend eighteen dollars on my spiritual well-being! That is the love of Christ in action." There was silence and then a sigh, "Those Baptists get me riled up."

The next Sunday found me at the breakfast table reading the paper when Estelle waltzed by calling for my dad to start the car. "Oh, I am going to First Baptist this morning. It is deacon nomination Sunday." Annually, Estelle attends deacon nomination armed with her Bible, her pen and the names of five godly women; it is an event that she never misses.

Although her nominations are never allowed on the ballot at First Baptist, she continues to volunteer with the local migrant and immigrant populations, she takes care of her elderly parents and the elderly parents of her friends, she visits the hospitals and donates clothes that would be the envy of the Junior League to the battered women. All of this and she is still the wife of one husband, ruling her children and houses well. Yet, for the Baptists, she is missing a pivotal chromosomal letter and is therefore left out of the deacon pool. I think they are the ones missing out.