The First Ladies Club Box Set

by J B Hawker

  “It should be something sort of casual,” Judy suggested. “We don’t want her to feel like she’s on display for our approval…even though I guess she will be.”

  “How about a game night?” offered Peggy Burt.

  In her early sixties, with a burgundy knit dress neatly containing her solid figure and a black and purple feather concoction on her head, Peggy looked every inch the first lady of the Missionary Baptist Church.

  “Like a girls’ night out, you mean?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Exactly. We could all bring snacks and board games to the social hall of one of our churches,” Peggy replied, pulling a notepad and pencil from a large purple patent leather handbag tucked beside her feet.

  “I think we should meet in one of our homes. That’s less formal,” Naidenne suggested.

  “We can come to my place,” Olivette Vernon, the oldest woman in the group offered.

  “Thanks, anyway, Olivette, but your Reformed Church parsonage doesn’t give off quite the right welcoming vibe we want. It’s so dark and damp, especially this time of year,” Judy blurted out.

  “We can have our little party at my place,” Eskaletha interposed, before Judy could offend anyone else. “Our family room is large enough to spread out and set up card tables.”

  “That’s kind of you, Letha. Judy’s right, I’m sure we will all be more comfortable in your home than we would be at my place. Kendall and I have lived in our old house for so long, I forget how it feels to others,” Olivette said, with a sweet smile at Judy.

  Dressed all in beige, her formerly auburn hair faded to nearly the same neutral shade, Olivette resembled a small brown wren as she perched on the edge of her chair.

  “Any place we hold the party would probably be okay with this new lady pastor. Have you seen that apartment those Baptists call a parsonage? I wouldn’t keep a dog there,” Gwennie said.

  “It didn’t seem so bad when we were helping her unpack,” Elizabeth replied.

  “You had to help her unpack? Wasn’t her congregation there to do it?”

  “She was alone when we dropped in, Gwennie, but she may have had help earlier.”

  “I doubt it. They’ve had so many splits in that church, there’s almost no one left, but splinters; just a handful of old people,” Gwennie said.

  “How many times has First Baptist broken up?” Naidenne asked.

  “Where do the members go when they leave?”

  “A big chunk of ‘em started your congregation, years ago. I think that was the first time a large group broke off to form their own church. You’ve been here longer than me, Olivette. Can you remember all the times that a bunch of ‘em have got their knickers in a twist and left to start another church?” Gwennie asked.

  “Well, now, we’ve only been here a bit over thirty years, but I remember when we arrived, we were told the Bannoch Community Fellowship was an offshoot of the First Baptist, as you said. In the fourth or fifth year of our ministry here a big controversy blew up over the ‘welcoming and affirming’ movement, and that caused a large group of First Baptist members to form the Independent Baptist out on Ramparts Beach Road.”

  “Isn’t Community Baptist one of theirs, too?” Peggy asked.

  “That’s right! That happened after Ken and I came to Bannoch,” Judy agreed.

  “The latest brouhaha started a little over a year ago when they had that part-time pastor coming from Tillamook. Does anyone know what that was about?” Peggy asked.

  “Rumor is, that guy got a little too frisky with the younger women in the congregation, the few that remained, anyway. I know several young families left. We got one of them at our church,” Gwennie reported.

  “Yes, so did we, at least for a short time, before they moved on to the Community Baptist,” Elizabeth said.

  “Oh, I hate church hoppers!” Judy exclaimed. “Or is the expression ‘church shoppers’? I’m never sure. Either way, folks should be more loyal to their congregation. After all, you only get out of worship as much as you put into it.”

  “We’ve gotten off the subject, ladies,” Eskaletha said. “We need to set a date for our game night. Then we can sign up to bring the games and snacks.”

  After the meeting broke up, Tyrone Evans joined his wife in the Fireside Room as she was tidying up.

  “What world problems did your ladies solve this afternoon, Letha?”

  “Oh, just the usual: world hunger, peace in the Middle East and how to eat whatever we want and still have washboard abs, you big goof. What have you been up to?”

  “I outlined a life-changing sermon guaranteed to bring revival throughout the land, of course.”

  “I wonder if even one of your mighty sermons could inspire the sort of revival that we need to bring peace right in our own little community.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Did you know the new pastor at First Baptist is a woman?”

  “Why, no, but I suppose that congregation is in such dire straits they were pretty desperate.”

  “What a thing to say! Tyrone, I’m surprised at you. Why, your own grandmother was a preaching woman.”

  “That’s different. Women of my grandmama’s day were powerful preachers, not like what’s coming out of seminaries these days: all social justice theology and a chip on the shoulder a mile wide.”

  “Don’t you think you are being awfully unkind and judgmental? I wasn’t too surprised to hear Gwennie Barthlette talking like that, but I am shocked to hear such words coming from you. You’d better give this poor woman the benefit of the doubt and withhold judgment, at least until you’ve met her.”

  “You’re right, as usual. I accept your just rebuke. I don’t like folks to prejudge me, so I guess I’d better extend the same courtesy to this new female pastor. She’s going to need all the help and prayers she can get.”

  “That’s why the First Ladies Club has decided to invite her to a casual get-together, so we can get to know her and welcome her to the community.”

  “I thought your club is just for ministers’ wives,” Tyrone said.

  “It is. But some of the women thought, since Rev. Bishop was once married to a pastor, and as she will need a support group outside her own congregation, we would offer our friendship. There’s some disagreement about inviting her to become a regular member, though.”

  “So, this little get-together will be her test, eh? Like a sorority pledge week?”

  “No. That’s not it at all. We just want to find out if we, and she, are a good fit, sort of. We’re not judging her,” Eskaletha protested, a frown forming between her eyes. “Or at least, I hope we aren’t.”

  Chapter 4

  Merrill stood at her bedroom window contemplating the morning fog cloaking the ocean below and whispered a beloved Psalm to calm her Sunday Sermon jitters.

  This was the Big Day, her first in the pulpit as pastor of the First Baptist Church of Bannoch.

  Instant impressions and snap judgments would be made today which could color her entire pastorate with these people. She didn’t want to let the congregation down, nor herself and certainly not the Lord.

  Turning to inspect herself in her grandmother’s cheval mirror, Merrill observed an average-looking middle-aged woman in a neat periwinkle blue wool skirt suit, over a soft white blouse with a standup collar. A two-inch long antique gold cross hung from a matching chain around her neck.

  Reaching up to tuck a lock of her hair back into the antique carved ivory clasp at the nape of her neck, and finger-combing her wispy bangs, she nodded at her reflection, deciding she would do.

  Worship service fashions for clergywomen could be tricky.

  Many of her peers adopted pastoral robes in the pulpit to avoid the issue, although some Baptist congregations frowned upon clerical robes as “high church” trappings. Still, it was important to look like the pastor, without seeming to be impersonating a man.

  Merrill was unashamedly feminine, but she could not afford to seem frivolous, o
r to give the occasion less dignity than it deserved.

  She loved a quote by C.S. Lewis, “Above all, you must be rid of the hideous idea, fruit of a widespread inferiority complex, that pomp, on the proper occasions, has any connection with vanity or self-conceit…The modern habit of doing ceremonial things unceremoniously is no proof of humility; rather it proves the offender’s inability to forget himself in the rite, and his readiness to spoil for everyone else the proper pleasure of ritual.”

  Merrill kept this in mind when she selected her pastoral wardrobe, opting for classically tailored suits, the skirts cut in simple lines, worn with white or pastel blouses whose stand-up necklines evoked a clerical collar, and plain mid-heel pumps.

  Her mother’s modest gold cross was her only jewelry. She felt this ensemble was formal enough to respect her position, yet feminine enough to respect her womanliness.

  She hoped her new congregation would agree.

  With a last look in the mirror to straighten her skirt, she went downstairs.

  Too nervous to eat a full breakfast, Merrill grabbed a yogurt cup from the fridge and snatched a spoon from the drying rack on the counter before unlocking her private door into the church building.

  As she walked down the long, dark corridor to her office, she thought about the adjacent empty sanctuary with the sun shining through its stained-glass windows onto the honey gold hand-carved woodwork, dusty and unused week after week. She was determined to do something about that before very long.

  In her office, she reviewed her sermon notes and mindlessly spooned yogurt into her mouth, miming the words and gesticulating as she read. Seeing a dollop of yogurt land on her desk, she quickly finished the last few bites and tossed the carton into the trash, chastising herself for her carelessness.

  She didn’t want to appear before her new congregation wearing her breakfast.

  A glance at the clock on her desk told her she couldn’t delay any longer.

  Offering up another prayer for God’s inspiration, she locked her office door, exited the double doors at the front of the church and headed across the parking lot to the church annex where the social hall and Sunday school rooms were located.

  Noting how few cars were in the parking lot gave Merrill a sinking feeling.

  “Where two or three gather, God is there,” she reminded herself, determined not to be discouraged by a small turnout on her first Sunday.

  She was trying to remember which of the many doors on the annex opened into the Social Hall, when she was grabbed from behind and swung around in a big hug.

  “Pastor Merrill! You look great. You must be over that nasty cold you had,” Peri Bostwich enthused, releasing her and holding her at arms’ length. “Doesn’t she look spiffy, Gran?”

  A tall, thin woman with finger-waved silver hair, wearing an elegant blue-gray watered silk dress, stood beside Peregrine.

  “How do you do?” the woman murmured with a quizzical expression on her patrician features.

  “Oh, silly me! Gran, this is Dr. Bishop, our new pastor. I told you about her. Pastor Merrill, I’d like you to meet my grandmother, Ariadne Bostwich.”

  “I’m happy to meet you, Mrs. Bostwich. Peri has told me so much about you,” Merrill said.

  “Yes, well… I’m pleased to finally meet you, Dr. Bishop. I was disappointed to miss your candidating weekend. One prefers to have the opportunity to vote on such major decisions of the church.”

  “Your grandson told me you were ill that week,” Merrill responded, ignoring the implied disapproval. “I hope you are fully recovered.”

  “I should think so. That was weeks ago. I would have thought you might have been able to assume your duties here before now. Was there much business for you to finish up at your previous pastorate? I understood you were simply one of several on staff and not the senior pastor.”

  “That’s right. I was the pastor of congregational care.”

  “A suitable role for a clergywoman,” Mrs. Bostwich approved.

  “Yes, well, I need to meet with the deacons before the service and I wouldn’t want to keep them waiting on my first Sunday,” Merrill said with a smile.

  “Certainly not. Run along,” Mrs. Bostwich dismissed her.

  Turning away, Merrill’s tight smile quickly faded, and she made her way to the Sunday school room where she was to meet the deacons.

  People had been going into the social hall during Merrill’s meeting with Peri and his grandmother.

  Most were taking their places on the metal folding chairs in the large room, but a few headed to the back of the auditorium, past the kitchen and down the hallway to the Sunday school wing.

  Following these and entering a classroom, Merrill found a dozen board members taking their seats around a long table in the middle of the room. She recognized several of the people from her candidating weekend.

  In her Baptist denomination, congregations have full autonomy in the selection of a pastor.

  When a pulpit falls vacant, a search committee is formed. This committee contacts the denomination’s headquarters for the profiles, or résumés, of pastors who are seeking a new post. These are reviewed by the committee.

  When they find someone who seems to fit their needs, the usual process is to send him, or her, a letter to determine if the pastor is interested in being considered by the search committee. If the response is favorable, a telephone interview is scheduled.

  The next step is for the pastoral candidate to preach at a ‘neutral’ pulpit in the region, neither the pastor’s current church nor that of the search committee. The search committee travels to this church to hear the candidate preach, followed by lunch and a brief interview.

  If the search committee approves the candidate at this point, they recommend him (or her) to their congregation and arrange a candidating weekend.

  This is when the pastor and family come to check out the church and community and are evaluated in return. They meet the congregation at a series of potluck meals or home visits, and the pastoral candidate preaches at the Sunday worship service.

  Next, there is a church meeting and church members vote on whether to extend a call. If the vote is favorable, they offer the post.

  A less than unanimously favorable vote can be problematic, if the pastor accepts the call.

  The vote to call Merrill had been a simple majority. When she’d asked if the vote was unanimous, the reply had been, “Not quite.”

  She knew she had people to win over, but not who or how many.

  “Good morning, Dr. Bishop,” Manny Lum, the friendly church moderator, greeted her.

  Manny, a fourth-generation Chinese American, was a retired teacher, in his early sixties.

  Merrill had eaten dinner with Manny and his wife, Muriel, a diminutive woman in her late fifties from Taiwan, when she’d candidated and had liked them immediately.

  Manny pulled out a chair for Merrill, then turned and addressed the board members.

  “I believe you all met Dr. Bishop when she was here a couple of months ago, but she can’t possibly remember all our names, so let’s go around the table and re-introduce ourselves.”

  After the introductions, Manny formally welcomed Merrill and gave her an opportunity to say a few words.

  “I’m so happy to be here with you all. I’m looking forward to getting to know you each better as we serve our Lord together in the years to come.”

  She paused and a couple of men began to push out their chairs to leave.

  “Just one more thing, please,” Merrill said, causing them to sit back down. “It is my practice to meet with the deacons on Sunday mornings before worship to pray for God’s presence, His anointing on me, and for His Spirit to speak through me. So, if you don’t mind, may we stand in a circle?”

  Reluctantly, exchanging wary glances, the group formed a circle and Merrill stepped into its center.

  “Now, if you will each reach out a hand and touch my head, arm or shoulder, we can pray. Would you begin Manny? T
hen just go around the circle as you feel led and I’ll close.”

  Placing a tentative hand on her shoulder, Manny cleared his throat a few times, and then asked for God’s blessing on the new pastor.

  After several moments of silence, the woman on his right added a few words invoking God’s presence, and then all was silent once again.

  Merrill counted to two hundred to give anyone else a chance before wrapping up the prayer by beseeching God for His inspiration, His anointing and asking Him to speak through her to touch and heal hearts.

  “Thank you. I will be in this room fifteen minutes before worship every Sunday from now on and I look forward to a regular time of prayer with you all.”

  As her board of deacons shuffled out, Merrill wondered how many of them would return for prayers the following Sunday.

  Hearing the electronic keyboard mimicking an organ prelude, she squared her shoulders and centered her thoughts on leading the worship service in a manner pleasing to God.

  Breathing a quick, “Showtime, Lord, Thy will be done,” she headed into the social hall and took her seat at the front of the room next to a portable lectern.

  Merrill noted the first rows of chairs in the auditorium remained empty, in typical Baptist fashion, while the next three rows were almost full, and a few people were scattered in the back two rows.

  She estimated an attendance of about forty souls. It was a good turnout for the current size of the congregation and Merrill was encouraged by this show of support, even though she guessed some of those in attendance were here to give her this one chance to impress them or they would never be back.

  After a church splits or fires a pastor, the clergyperson who comes next must deal with many members who remain emotionally attached to the previous pastor. These can be difficult to win over. Then, too, some in Merrill’s congregation would be the ones who had spearheaded the ouster of their last minister. At least a few of this group would be slightly drunk from the power they wielded, making them very critical and demanding. These, too, would be making snap judgments and lists of what they liked and what they would change.