One of the casualties of my meddling was Mrs. Oliver. She had been treasurer for years. Her monthly reports were always on time. Every penny was accounted for. She questioned every expense. Her husband was a good man, but not a member of the church. In fact, he really didn’t care for the church. Everything she did in the church was in spite of him.
In addition to serving as treasurer, she taught the primary Sabbath School class. Her daughter came with her. Her son used to come, but now that he was a teenager, his father said he didn’t have to, so most of the time he didn’t.
For all her hard work Mrs. Oliver never looked happy. When we talked about issues in church board meetings, she participated in a civilized, courteous way, but there was always a severe intensity on her face. She felt the weight of our responsibility as God’s representatives in the last days of earth’s history. She worried that people–not just the general population, but most of the members of our own congregation—would come up short in the judgment. They thought they were okay, but in the judgment they would be sadly disappointed.
Sometimes she complained about the amount of work she was carrying. She wished more people would volunteer. Too few were carrying the work of the church. If people really believed Jesus was coming soon, they would be more serious about their support of the church. They would be more committed.
Our second spring in the parish, when it was time for our annual nominating committee, I was pleased with the prospect of electing a new treasurer. Brother Anthony had moved to the area and joined our church. He was a Jamaican. He was an accountant. And he was cheerful and pleasant. Working with him would be a lot more pleasant than working with Mrs. Oliver. At least he would have a smile on his face.
When I visited Mrs. Oliver and told her the nominating committee was going to give her a break from the work of treasurer, she didn’t say much, but I could see she was not happy. I was surprised. She always looked so burdened. More than occasionally she talked to me about how many hours the work of treasurer entailed. I knew her husband was not happy with the time and energy she devoted to the church. I thought she would be relieved. Instead, she was hurt.
A few weeks after her term of service as treasurer was completed Mrs. Oliver quit attending church. People called her. I ran into her in the grocery store a couple of times. She seemed lighthearted and pleasant. Finally, after four months I visited her at her house. We talked for a while about her kids and her husband. I told her I missed her work as treasurer. I was glad we had taken some of the load off her shoulders, but I missed her reliability and consistency.
She asked about different individuals at church. Then I asked if there was anything new in her life. Her face lit up. She gotten involved with a group working to protect streams and wetlands in Suffolk County. She liked the people. The project was very important. They were going to hold a demonstration in downtown Huntington the next Saturday. I winced. She should be in church on Sabbath, not marching with some environmental group. But I kept my mouth shut and kept listening.
She was devoting hours every week to the work of the group. They had talked to her about becoming treasurer. So much for my plans to ease her load. She was a busy outside the home as she had ever been. But it appeared to me there was one huge difference. She looked happy.
Finally, I screwed up my courage and asked her. “Mrs. Oliver, it seems to me that you are a lot happier now than when you went to church. You seem more at peace. Is that true.”
She hesitated, smiled, then said. “Yes. Yes, I am. I feel more free, more relaxed. Sure, we’re busy. We're already planning another rally downtown next month. The county has to do more restrain development that impacts our streams and wetlands here in Suffolk County. I’m as busy as I ever was. But it’s different. I am happier.”
“So is it a good thing you’re not at church?”
She thought for a minute. “Yes. I hate to say it to you, but yes, I’m doing better now. I’m more at peace.”
What could I say? I could see it in her face. She was visibly happier and more content than she had ever been in the year and a half I had known her as a member of the church. What was it about church culture that made her tight and frowning? Working in an environmental group she was still involved in prodding people to do their duty. I'm sure she was still keenly aware of the lethargy and lack of commitment that characterized far too many people. I sure she could see work that could be accomplished if only everyone would step and do their duty. So why was she so much happier? I suspected it had something to do with our ideas of the close of probation and the need to attain perfection in preparation for the Second Coming. Whatever the cause, the effect was undeniable.
As a Christian evangelist, it was my job to tell people, “Get in here! Come to Jesus . . . by coming here.” My entire training as a minister, in fact, my entire life as a devout Adventist, had been focused on helping people by persuading them of the truth of our doctrines and bringing them into the fellowship of the church. However, as a physician of the soul, I could not ask Mrs. Oliver to return to a place that made her miserable. I was obliged to encourage her in her new life. She was serving humanity. She was healthier psychologically. By every observable measure she was better off out of church than she had been in church.
“Mrs. Oliver,” I told her, “you know it’s my job to bring people into the church. And I hope sometime you’ll find yourself drawn again to our fellowship. But I can see you’re happy. I wish you blessings in your new work.”
To put it mildly my visit with Mrs. Oliver left me deeply perplexed.
As a final note of irony, and perhaps as a divine rebuke of my facile substitution of a faithful, meticulous, if somewhat grumpy, worker with someone more congenial, more cheerful--within six months of Mrs. Oliver's departure, I was the one hurting. Brother Anthony remained cheerful and pleasant. He never questioned a receipt I gave him, never challenged an expenditure proposed in board meetings. But the monthly treasurer’s report came irregularly. Sometimes a week late, then two and three weeks late. Then more than a month late. I began to worry about the accuracy of the reports. I asked the conference to audit our books. But their auditor was too busy. No matter how late the reports, no matter how many times I asked Brother Anthony when we could count on the next report, he remained happy and cheerful. Maybe happiness was overrated?
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Chapter 42 Huntington Conundrum
After a month or two I knew the names of most of the people. I thought I had a feel for the congregations. I decided to focus most of my attention for the next year on Huntington. Based on what the conference president had said, I figured I would get the most results there. I put an advertisement in the local paper for Bible studies. From that ad Karin and I developed a Bible study with four women all in their middle forties. Three of them were wives of airline pilots. We spent months studying basic Bible teachings about prayer and spiritual life and the doctrines of the Adventist church. Only one of them had any trouble accepting the Adventist belief about hell: there is no such thing as eternal torment for the damned. But she finally came around. They agreed with the Adventist interpretation of Bible prophecies about the end of time. They agreed with the Adventist understanding of the Sabbath commandment.
By this time we had been studying together for nine months. It was time to invite them to church, but I hesitated.
The people at Huntington Church were unfailingly respectful to me. In their eyes I was God’s anointed. Several of the folks were positively warm. It was a pleasure to see them, to talk with them. But there was an ill-definable tension in the church. I could feel it when I walked in the door, a palpable alienation or hostility. I didn't understand it. Board meetings were civil. People did their jobs. The church was functioning. Something was wrong, but I didn't know what.
There were some obvious problems. At the weekly potluck meals, there was not enough food for everyone. Within a few months of our arrival, the church ladies decided serve the food instead of allowing people to serve themselves. They struggled to stretch the available food to feed all the hungry mouths. For awhile Karin tried making multiple dishes of food trying to fill gap between supply and demand. Her mother wisely put a stop to that. “It is not your job to feed the church,” she said.
I was appalled by the tension I could feel at meal time, but the church seemed used to it. They just managed.
I was puzzled by some of the ethnic realities. While the majority of the church was West Indian, none of the church offices was held by West Indians.
The Chinese family had their own lives independent of the church. They attended church faithfully. They supported the church generously with their money. But they were not part of the main network of relationships. Karin and I enjoyed a natural affinity with them as outsiders.
Actually, there were two main networks–the West Indians and the Acosta Family. Mr. Robinson seemed to be the most influential person in the West Indian network. He had six kids and most of the other kids in the church were connected to the family through friendships. In church two of the most influential people were Mr. and Mrs. Tobias. They were the oldest Jamaicans. Crusty and confident. They seemed to embody the authoritarian, frowning Adventism I remembered from boarding high school. It didn’t seem to me that people liked them. But the West Indians would not buck them when it came time to make decisions in church board meetings. They were “authorities.”
The senior Acosta had been the second elder in Huntington for a long time. When Mr. Dennis died, it was assumed he would move into the head elder slot. However, he seemed to me to play a very minor role in the church. He was not regarded as a leader or counselor. He was a nice guy who had been honored with the title elder, but he had no clout and hardly any influence that I could tell. So I suggested electing a West Indian as head elder.
There was vigorous opposition from the West Indians. They did not want to attend a Black church. If the head elder was a West Indian, then White people would be less likely to attend the church. So they wanted a White person as head elder to help keep the church from becoming all Black.
The most prominent African American in the church, Charlie Nelson, wanted a Black church. It would be far more effective reaching out to other African Americans he believed. The West Indians did not appreciate his emphasis on Black culture. And the Acosta clan was deeply offended that I would question putting Papa in as the next head elder.
As a young firebrand I was oblivious to the violence I was inflicting on the congregation by my insistence on driving them into the future I believed was their destiny. The primary effect of my driving was to heighten tensions that had been carefully restrained.
The church had delicately balanced their image of themselves as a community church in a suburban society that was overwhelmingly White with the reality of their increasingly West Indian membership. My pushing for formal West Indian leadership in the congregation forced people to think more pointedly about ethnic identity. And as they did so, they did not find a new, sweeter harmony. They were driven apart.
The Acosta family now felt unappreciated. Charlie was more bothered by the failure of the church to effectively minister to “his people after the flesh.” The West Indians became more aware of their own divisions, Jamaicans versus Barbadians versus Trinidadians. The Whites were made more aware of their shrinking, minority status. Huntington Church was not the happy church described by the conference president. After a year of my zealous meddling, it was worse.
I finally invited my Bible study ladies to church. They visited a few times, then did not come back. When I called they were happy to talk, but they were not interested in becoming part of this congregation.
By this time we had been studying together for nine months. It was time to invite them to church, but I hesitated.
The people at Huntington Church were unfailingly respectful to me. In their eyes I was God’s anointed. Several of the folks were positively warm. It was a pleasure to see them, to talk with them. But there was an ill-definable tension in the church. I could feel it when I walked in the door, a palpable alienation or hostility. I didn't understand it. Board meetings were civil. People did their jobs. The church was functioning. Something was wrong, but I didn't know what.
There were some obvious problems. At the weekly potluck meals, there was not enough food for everyone. Within a few months of our arrival, the church ladies decided serve the food instead of allowing people to serve themselves. They struggled to stretch the available food to feed all the hungry mouths. For awhile Karin tried making multiple dishes of food trying to fill gap between supply and demand. Her mother wisely put a stop to that. “It is not your job to feed the church,” she said.
I was appalled by the tension I could feel at meal time, but the church seemed used to it. They just managed.
I was puzzled by some of the ethnic realities. While the majority of the church was West Indian, none of the church offices was held by West Indians.
The Chinese family had their own lives independent of the church. They attended church faithfully. They supported the church generously with their money. But they were not part of the main network of relationships. Karin and I enjoyed a natural affinity with them as outsiders.
Actually, there were two main networks–the West Indians and the Acosta Family. Mr. Robinson seemed to be the most influential person in the West Indian network. He had six kids and most of the other kids in the church were connected to the family through friendships. In church two of the most influential people were Mr. and Mrs. Tobias. They were the oldest Jamaicans. Crusty and confident. They seemed to embody the authoritarian, frowning Adventism I remembered from boarding high school. It didn’t seem to me that people liked them. But the West Indians would not buck them when it came time to make decisions in church board meetings. They were “authorities.”
The senior Acosta had been the second elder in Huntington for a long time. When Mr. Dennis died, it was assumed he would move into the head elder slot. However, he seemed to me to play a very minor role in the church. He was not regarded as a leader or counselor. He was a nice guy who had been honored with the title elder, but he had no clout and hardly any influence that I could tell. So I suggested electing a West Indian as head elder.
There was vigorous opposition from the West Indians. They did not want to attend a Black church. If the head elder was a West Indian, then White people would be less likely to attend the church. So they wanted a White person as head elder to help keep the church from becoming all Black.
The most prominent African American in the church, Charlie Nelson, wanted a Black church. It would be far more effective reaching out to other African Americans he believed. The West Indians did not appreciate his emphasis on Black culture. And the Acosta clan was deeply offended that I would question putting Papa in as the next head elder.
As a young firebrand I was oblivious to the violence I was inflicting on the congregation by my insistence on driving them into the future I believed was their destiny. The primary effect of my driving was to heighten tensions that had been carefully restrained.
The church had delicately balanced their image of themselves as a community church in a suburban society that was overwhelmingly White with the reality of their increasingly West Indian membership. My pushing for formal West Indian leadership in the congregation forced people to think more pointedly about ethnic identity. And as they did so, they did not find a new, sweeter harmony. They were driven apart.
The Acosta family now felt unappreciated. Charlie was more bothered by the failure of the church to effectively minister to “his people after the flesh.” The West Indians became more aware of their own divisions, Jamaicans versus Barbadians versus Trinidadians. The Whites were made more aware of their shrinking, minority status. Huntington Church was not the happy church described by the conference president. After a year of my zealous meddling, it was worse.
I finally invited my Bible study ladies to church. They visited a few times, then did not come back. When I called they were happy to talk, but they were not interested in becoming part of this congregation.
Chapter 41 The New Parish
We moved into the parsonage. The interior was in not much better shape than the exterior we had seen on our first trip to Huntington, tired orange shag carpet throughout, walls in need of paint, the bathroom needing repairs. Karin immediately began planning improvements.
The day after we moved into the house, I drove down to Babylon to check out the church building. Mabel Smalling lived in a large, old house next door. It was owned by the church. The ground floor and basement served as a clothing distribution center. The second and third floors had two apartments. Mabel lived in the top apartment.
She showed me around. The concrete on the front steps, a steep, full flight of a dozen steps, was crumbling. Inside, the sanctuary featured Massive, dark beams above white walls. The windows along the side were unremarkable stained glass. At the front of the room, the platform was in a kind of alcove with a low ceiling. The carpet was threadbare and needed replacement.
Standing in the center aisle, she told me about the terrible pastor who had preceded me.
“Why, one Sabbath when I got to church,” she said, “the pulpit was missing. When I asked the pastor about it, he said he had moved it! We found out later he had gotten Oliver Spencer (he’s one of the new people) . . . He got Oliver to help him, and they put the pulpit up in the attic! I couldn’t believe it. My husband made that pulpit! We got it back down right away, I tell you. I am so glad you are here. We certainly needed a new pastor!”
We went downstairs to check out the space used for children's Sabbath School and potlucks. The linoleum tiles were broken and peeling off the floor. The men’s room stank. The plaster was cracked.
I liked Mabel. She was energetic, and bright-eyed. To hear her talk, she was a worker.
The Huntington Church was in better shape. It was a classic white rural church, inside a white ceiling made of pressed tin, white walls, frosted glass windows that filled the place with light on sunny days. Up front was a low, open platform.
My first Sabbath as the new preacher in the district, I was introduced in the Huntington Church by the Lay Ministries specialist from the Conference. The congregation was an interesting ethnic mix–about fifty percent from the West Indies, thirty percent Anglos, a few African Americans, several Hispanic families and a large Chinese family. Mr. Dennis, the head elder, was there that first Sabbath. He more than matched his reputation. He was tall and dignified with beckoning charisma.
I could tell this was going to be a fun place to minister.
The next week I was introduced in the Babylon Church by the conference treasurer. The weather was gloomy, but I boldly preached on a Bible passage describing the work of John the Baptist. “And all Judea went out to hear him.” I called the church to a new enthusiasm for serving God. We were going to do such a tremendous work that all of western Suffolk County would be drawn to us. (In the years since Karin has occasionally remarked on her amazement at my grandiosity. Fortunately, at the time, she did not tell me this.)
Huntington's Good People
I began visiting my parishioners. I learned Mr. Dennis was a brother-in-law to Mabel. He had been one of the key leaders of the Huntington Church when it was established twenty-five years earlier after an evangelistic campaign on the North Shore. Everyone in both churches revered him, even Mabel. He was dying of cancer. He had dragged himself out of bed to welcome me that first Sabbath. He was not able to make it again. His was my first funeral.
Mr. Hsu had his own dental appliance manufacturing business. Charlie, an African American was a machinist. Mr. Robinson appeared to be the unofficial leader of the West Indians. He commuted into the city to work. Mr. Johnson was an electronics engineer at Grumman Aerospace. He had built the church sound system, which was state of the art, and was nearly always there to operate it. Usually he was accompanied in the sound booth by one of the Acosta boys. All the kids seemed to like him. He would do anything needed except speak in public or pray out loud in any setting.
The Acosta clan were fascinating. It was three generations. The third generation formed a third of our youth group. The aunts and uncles lived in Huntington and New York City and Puerto Rico. And people seemed to move between these places without anyone thinking much about it. But Huntington, and granddad’s house, was the center.
The Saints of Babylon
The head elder at Babylon was short, five-six or five-seven, and heavy. His hands were hard and massive. His handshakes bone-crushing. He wore a perpetual grin. He hugged men and women indiscriminately. He owned a boat cover business where he worked a hundred hours a week from March through October and sixty hours a week the rest of the year. As I visited others in the church I heard nothing but affection and admiration for Sam.
Hans the second elder was a crusty German engineer. He had no use for anything other than perfect order and the meticulous performance of any assignment. The treasurer was another German, Mrs. Schoeps. She attended fairly regularly when they weren’t traveling. Her husband, who owned a machine shop, attended infrequently. Karin and I were immediately drawn to the Loughlin’s. He was a math professor. She was a nurse. Their four kids were fun. Veronica had a quiet, subtle charm. Her husband wasn’t a member, but her teenage children were in church every week. Jim and Marion were quiet, pleasant people you could trust with your life.
In the Huntington Church, sixty-five percent of the membership was non-white, but all the leading lay officers were White–head elder, head deacon, head deaconness, Sabbath school superintendent, treasurer. In the Babylon Church sixty-percent of the membership was White, but the head elder, head deacon and Sabbath School superintendent were West Indians.
Nothing in seminary could have prepared me to understand the social networks of a small, long-established church. These people had known each other forever. They knew who could do what, who would do what. As pastor, I fit into a predetermined slot in the networks, but the networks functioned quite independently of input from the pastor. I entered the pastorate with visions of revolutionary activity, visions fueled by books and conversations with fellow dreamers in seminary. As I got acquainted with my churches and with Long Island culture, revolution appeared increasingly inappropriate as a goal for ministry.
The day after we moved into the house, I drove down to Babylon to check out the church building. Mabel Smalling lived in a large, old house next door. It was owned by the church. The ground floor and basement served as a clothing distribution center. The second and third floors had two apartments. Mabel lived in the top apartment.
She showed me around. The concrete on the front steps, a steep, full flight of a dozen steps, was crumbling. Inside, the sanctuary featured Massive, dark beams above white walls. The windows along the side were unremarkable stained glass. At the front of the room, the platform was in a kind of alcove with a low ceiling. The carpet was threadbare and needed replacement.
Standing in the center aisle, she told me about the terrible pastor who had preceded me.
“Why, one Sabbath when I got to church,” she said, “the pulpit was missing. When I asked the pastor about it, he said he had moved it! We found out later he had gotten Oliver Spencer (he’s one of the new people) . . . He got Oliver to help him, and they put the pulpit up in the attic! I couldn’t believe it. My husband made that pulpit! We got it back down right away, I tell you. I am so glad you are here. We certainly needed a new pastor!”
We went downstairs to check out the space used for children's Sabbath School and potlucks. The linoleum tiles were broken and peeling off the floor. The men’s room stank. The plaster was cracked.
I liked Mabel. She was energetic, and bright-eyed. To hear her talk, she was a worker.
The Huntington Church was in better shape. It was a classic white rural church, inside a white ceiling made of pressed tin, white walls, frosted glass windows that filled the place with light on sunny days. Up front was a low, open platform.
My first Sabbath as the new preacher in the district, I was introduced in the Huntington Church by the Lay Ministries specialist from the Conference. The congregation was an interesting ethnic mix–about fifty percent from the West Indies, thirty percent Anglos, a few African Americans, several Hispanic families and a large Chinese family. Mr. Dennis, the head elder, was there that first Sabbath. He more than matched his reputation. He was tall and dignified with beckoning charisma.
I could tell this was going to be a fun place to minister.
The next week I was introduced in the Babylon Church by the conference treasurer. The weather was gloomy, but I boldly preached on a Bible passage describing the work of John the Baptist. “And all Judea went out to hear him.” I called the church to a new enthusiasm for serving God. We were going to do such a tremendous work that all of western Suffolk County would be drawn to us. (In the years since Karin has occasionally remarked on her amazement at my grandiosity. Fortunately, at the time, she did not tell me this.)
Huntington's Good People
I began visiting my parishioners. I learned Mr. Dennis was a brother-in-law to Mabel. He had been one of the key leaders of the Huntington Church when it was established twenty-five years earlier after an evangelistic campaign on the North Shore. Everyone in both churches revered him, even Mabel. He was dying of cancer. He had dragged himself out of bed to welcome me that first Sabbath. He was not able to make it again. His was my first funeral.
Mr. Hsu had his own dental appliance manufacturing business. Charlie, an African American was a machinist. Mr. Robinson appeared to be the unofficial leader of the West Indians. He commuted into the city to work. Mr. Johnson was an electronics engineer at Grumman Aerospace. He had built the church sound system, which was state of the art, and was nearly always there to operate it. Usually he was accompanied in the sound booth by one of the Acosta boys. All the kids seemed to like him. He would do anything needed except speak in public or pray out loud in any setting.
The Acosta clan were fascinating. It was three generations. The third generation formed a third of our youth group. The aunts and uncles lived in Huntington and New York City and Puerto Rico. And people seemed to move between these places without anyone thinking much about it. But Huntington, and granddad’s house, was the center.
The Saints of Babylon
The head elder at Babylon was short, five-six or five-seven, and heavy. His hands were hard and massive. His handshakes bone-crushing. He wore a perpetual grin. He hugged men and women indiscriminately. He owned a boat cover business where he worked a hundred hours a week from March through October and sixty hours a week the rest of the year. As I visited others in the church I heard nothing but affection and admiration for Sam.
Hans the second elder was a crusty German engineer. He had no use for anything other than perfect order and the meticulous performance of any assignment. The treasurer was another German, Mrs. Schoeps. She attended fairly regularly when they weren’t traveling. Her husband, who owned a machine shop, attended infrequently. Karin and I were immediately drawn to the Loughlin’s. He was a math professor. She was a nurse. Their four kids were fun. Veronica had a quiet, subtle charm. Her husband wasn’t a member, but her teenage children were in church every week. Jim and Marion were quiet, pleasant people you could trust with your life.
In the Huntington Church, sixty-five percent of the membership was non-white, but all the leading lay officers were White–head elder, head deacon, head deaconness, Sabbath school superintendent, treasurer. In the Babylon Church sixty-percent of the membership was White, but the head elder, head deacon and Sabbath School superintendent were West Indians.
Nothing in seminary could have prepared me to understand the social networks of a small, long-established church. These people had known each other forever. They knew who could do what, who would do what. As pastor, I fit into a predetermined slot in the networks, but the networks functioned quite independently of input from the pastor. I entered the pastorate with visions of revolutionary activity, visions fueled by books and conversations with fellow dreamers in seminary. As I got acquainted with my churches and with Long Island culture, revolution appeared increasingly inappropriate as a goal for ministry.
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