Life Goes On

by Philip Gulley

  Dr. Pierce and Deena had returned to our Sunday school class, buoying my spirits. And several of the alumni from the Live Free or Die class had stopped attending, which was icing on the cake. The questions I pulled from the hat each Sunday were startling in their boldness, obviously written by someone who didn’t know certain questions shouldn’t be asked. It reminded me how often we in the church ask the same safe questions, give the same pat answers, and then applaud our intellectual vigor.

  My first year of seminary, I met a man who’d retired from there years before. His wife had died and he had nowhere else to go, so he passed his days at the seminary where he’d taught. He set up residence in the student lounge and, in addition to teaching me Ping-Pong, enlightened me on a range of other topics.

  I complained to him one day that my faith had died, how I mourned its passing, that I wasn’t sure what to believe, and if it were up to me, I’d just as soon return to what I had once believed. He laughed, then asked if I had ever heard of Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr.

  “Wasn’t he in those old detective movies?”

  “No, that was Sherlock Holmes. Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr. was on the Supreme Court.”

  “Oh,” I said, wondering what a Supreme Court justice had to do with my problem.

  “Holmes said that the mind, once expanded to the dimensions of larger ideas, never returns to its original size.”

  I thought about that for a moment.

  “You’ve been stretched, Sam. Now you have to fill your mind with a grand vision. That’s why you’re here.”

  So that’s what I did. I read and listened and cleaned the attic of my mind in order to make room for the new. I learned how to interpret the Bible, how to ask questions and think theologically. Unfortunately, I didn’t learn that some churches don’t appreciate grand visions, or higher biblical criticism, or theology, for that matter. Except, of course, the theology they grew up with and prefer to keep, lest new knowledge require a change of heart and mind.

  In my first church, I was counseled to stick to the customary, not rock the boat, and above all not upset a certain Sunday school class, whose members hadn’t had a new thought since 1962 and didn’t want one. Eventually, I returned to the clichés of my childhood faith, put my theology books in storage, and made sure to visit the people in the nursing home. I kept that pattern the twelve years I pastored that church and fell into it again when I returned to Harmony. Sixteen years of letting my mind atrophy like a spent balloon, once stretched but now withered.

  But lately I’ve been leaving church positively buoyant. It’s such an odd sensation I wasn’t sure what to make of it. I thought at first it was the cough medicine I’d been taking, which has a tendency to make me loopy-happy, but it finally occurred to me it was something else entirely, a feeling so foreign to me it took a while to name it. I was optimistic.

  “What’s wrong with you?” my wife asked on a Sunday evening in late February. The boys were in bed and we were sitting in front of the fireplace, watching the sparks jump. “You don’t seem yourself lately. You seem, almost…” She paused to think of the word.

  “Content?” I said.

  “That’s it,” she agreed. “Content.”

  “Everything is going so well. I love our Sunday school class. I never dreamed we’d have a Sunday school class like this.”

  “It has been fun. Deena and Dr. Pierce are wonderful additions.”

  “For the first time, I feel I can invite people to church without being embarrassed,” I said. “Even Dale has settled down.”

  My wife smiled and reached for my hand. “I’m glad things are going better, honey.”

  We stayed up another hour, reading and enjoying the fire, content beyond measure.

  It has been said by old soldiers that it’s the bullet you don’t hear that kills you. My phone rang early the next morning, my day off. It was Bea Majors on a self-appointed inquisition.

  “I heard Dr. Pierce said during Sunday school he didn’t believe in the Virgin Birth of Jesus.”

  “I don’t think he came right out and said it like that, Bea. Why don’t you ask him?”

  “I did. And do you know what he told me?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “He told me he’d learned a long time ago how babies were made.”

  “Bea, what would you like me to do about it? We don’t kill heretics anymore. It’s against the law.”

  “Well, I just want to say I’ve been playing the organ in this church for fifty years, and I’m not sure I can continue to play for a minister who doesn’t believe in the Virgin Birth.”

  “I never said I didn’t believe in the Virgin Birth. It’s Dr. Pierce who doesn’t believe in it.”

  “Oh, so you admit that he doesn’t.”

  Now I was utterly confused. “No, I don’t know that for sure. I just thought we were talking about him, not me.”

  “So how come all of a sudden you want to talk about Dr. Pierce and not yourself. Have you got something to hide, Sam?”

  “Not at all, Bea.”

  “Then maybe you should tell me what you think of the Virgin Birth.”

  “I don’t know what to think of it, quite frankly,” I said.

  “So you don’t believe it either?”

  “I didn’t say that. I said I didn’t know what to think of it.”

  “Sam, maybe you just need to find yourself a new organist. I think maybe I need to go somewhere else to church.”

  “Bea, why don’t I come by your house and we talk. This seems awfully sudden.”

  Bea Majors was the worst organist in the Western world. Why I was talking her into staying was an even greater mystery to me than the Virgin Birth.

  “No, Sam, I’ve made up my mind.”

  “Bea, I wish you’d reconsider.”

  “I don’t think so,” she said rather stiffly. “I’ve given it all the thought I need to. Good-bye.”

  I set the phone down, more than a little troubled.

  It was too much to hope Bea would go quietly into the night. Instead, she began working the phones, notifying the rest of the congregation I didn’t believe in the Virgin Birth and was probably, at that very moment, sacrificing firstborn children on the church altar.

  By suppertime, I’d received half a dozen phone calls from members of the church demanding I explain myself. I held them off by saying, as firmly as I could, that I agreed with the Apostle Paul on the Virgin Birth. That seemed to satisfy them, though I knew if they discovered Paul never mentioned it, I’d be in trouble.

  I wasn’t too worried they would find that out. They’re nice people, but not well versed in Scripture. Many of them have cherished proverbs that they attribute to the Bible.

  “Well, you know what the Bible says about that, when the cat’s away, the mice will play.” Or “Like it says in the Bible, a hog in satin is still a hog.”

  I had stopped correcting them long ago, having learned that people who talk the most about the Bible often know it the least, but resent having it pointed out. So I cultivated the habit of nodding my head in agreement, as if marveling at their exegetical prowess.

  But that didn’t work this time. On Tuesday afternoon, Miriam Hodge stopped by the meetinghouse to tell me three people had phoned her demanding my resignation. Dale and Dolores, who just the week before had been my new best friends, joined forces against me. Although I was heartened to see them united for a common cause, I was somewhat distressed that their common cause was getting me fired.

  “This is so silly,” I said to Miriam. “I never said I didn’t believe in the Virgin Birth. All I did was mention to Bea that I didn’t know what to think of it. That’s all I said.”

  “Sam, this is easily solved. The church newsletter comes out next week. Why don’t you write on the pastor’s page that you believe in the Virgin Birth? That ought to pacify them.”

  I sat quietly, considering her request. “Does this mean you weren’t serious two months ago when you told me I ne
eded to stop trying to make people happy who’ll never be happy anyway?”

  “Did I say that?”

  “Yes. You also said I should stop kowtowing to everyone and I needed to give up the illusion everyone is going to like me.”

  “I said all those things?” Miriam asked.

  “You also told me it was time I grew up.”

  “That was a bad day for me,” Miriam said. “I’m going through the change right now and it’s making me edgy.”

  “No need to apologize, Miriam. You were absolutely right.”

  I stood, walked around my desk to Miriam, put my arm around her shoulder, and walked her to the door. “I appreciate your advice, but I won’t be writing anything in the newsletter. I’m not going to be held hostage by unreasonable people. I’m not sure what I think of the Virgin Birth. I do know I’m not going to say I believe it just to make people happy. If they don’t like it, they can go somewhere else to church.”

  “Fair enough, Sam. But I don’t think they want to go somewhere else. I think they want you to do the going.”

  “I’m willing to take that risk,” I said. “I guess we’re going to have to decide what kind of church we’re going to be, whether we’ll be rigid and hidebound or tolerant and generous in spirit.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right, Sam. But I’m not looking forward to the discussion.”

  “You know, Miriam, it might turn out to be a blessing. We could end up deciding what’s most important to us.”

  “I know that and you know that. What concerns me is that Dale and Bea will decide what’s most important is to have you crucified.”

  I laughed. “At least I’d be in good company.”

  “That you would, Sam. That you would.”

  I thanked her for stopping past and hugged her good-bye.

  I turned to walk into my office.

  “You,” Frank said, perched in his secretary’s chair, peering at me over the top of his bifocals, “are a dead man walking.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean Dale has a bullet with your name on it. You are not long for this world. You’re history. Yesterday’s news. The word at the Coffee Cup this morning is that you’ll be gone by Easter.”

  “Thank you, Frank. Your honesty is certainly an encouragement to me.”

  “Just keeping you informed, that’s all.”

  “That’s very kind of you.”

  “So how come you’re denying the virginity of our Blessed Mother?” he asked.

  “I’ve done no such thing. As far I’m concerned, she’s a fine example of femininity and if I had a daughter, I’d name her Mary. I’m just tired of a few nutty people getting worked up over nothing.”

  “Oh, so now you think the Virgin Mary is nothing.”

  “You know, I could find a new secretary if I had to. One who treats me with a little more respect and doesn’t twist my words.”

  Frank smiled, then leaned back in his chair. “Who’d want this job? The pay’s lousy and you have to put up with crazy people. I’m only sticking around to see how you get out of this.”

  “Your loyalty is touching, Frank.”

  “Well, Sam, you go about your business stirring up trouble, and I’ll watch your backside. Even though it’s not in my job description and I haven’t gotten a raise in three years.”

  “If I survive this, I’ll ask the elders to do something about that.”

  “That’s all right. It’d probably just kick me into a higher tax bracket. Besides, I’m hoping the Lord will let me slip into heaven on your coattails.” He paused for a moment. “Course now that you’ve insulted his mother, those coattails probably aren’t nearly as long.”

  He walked from the office, twitching with laughter.

  I returned to my desk to start work on my sermon. The phone rang. I wasn’t in the mood to be rebuked, so I let the answering machine pick it up. It was my superintendent up in the city, calling to see if what he’d heard from Bea Majors was true, that I had stood in the pulpit and called the Virgin Mary a floozy.

  He’d be driving down to Harmony next week, he said, to meet with the elders and me. He went on, his voice cold and mechanical through the answering machine speaker. “I’ll expect you to say that Mary was a virgin. If you don’t, I’ll have to recommend they let you go.” A sharp click followed, then the room fell silent.

  That’s when I realized this wasn’t going to go away, that my critics had marshaled their forces, and I was soon going to be out the door.

  Twenty-two

  The Last Stand

  Bea 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 san
dwich 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?”