| Author: |
Darlene Shatford |
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Sunday, November 06 2005 @ 02:51 PM EST |
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At the break of dawn every Sunday morning since I can remember, the entire Whitman clan got ready for the 9 am “breaking of bread” service. Sunday mornings came early at our house; however, none of us had been out late, or stayed up late, having a wild time like most of the world did on Saturday nights, because, as my dad would remind us:
“Sunday is the Lord’s day, and we must begin readying ourselves for worship on Sundays by Saturday night.”
My memories of these Sunday morning rituals are vivid. My mom would wake us girls early so we could have time to take out our curlers. When I was really young, my mom loved me in ringlets, perhaps because I was her “baby,” her youngest, her eighth. So every Saturday night, after my bath, she’d roll my hair up in curlers. Although these pink rollers had sponges in the middle of them, designed to make sleeping a little easier, the plastic parts pulled my hair at the scalp as I slept, and detangling my hair upon waking was next to impossible. I absolutely hated having my hair worked over on Sunday mornings. Tears were not uncommon at the breakfast table.
This early education in grooming taught us kids, especially the girls, about the importance of looking our best when attending the “house of the Lord.” While Mom and the girls worked on their hairstyles, and the boys wolfed down their breakfasts, my father paced around the kitchen, in and out of rooms all over the house, checking his watch.
“Keep moving or we’re going to be late,” he ordered.
My mom would gently remind him that we all had plenty of time to get ready. Poor Mom. She was always the last one in the station wagon. I can still see her now, rushing out of the house – a comb and purse in one hand, a number of bags (holding Sunday school teaching material and snacks for between services) in the other, her coat half on and half off, her Sunday shoes still unclasped. As soon as she was able to get herself into the front seat, slightly out of breath in her hurry, Dad would scold her.
“Honey, you really need to manage your mornings a little better. Why are you always the last one out of the house?”
My mom’s response was rarely audible, but sometimes she would respond by changing the subject:
“What a lovely day, isn’t it? This is the day the Lord hath made. We will rejoice and be glad in it.”
My dad could only shut up and drive.
The reason for all of this activity at one of the most ungodly hours of this holy day? Well, we all were going to “break the bread and drink the cup,” attend a service, otherwise known as the Lord’s Supper. I always found this name more than a little bizarre. First of all, the Lord’s SUPPER? This service was certainly not even close to the supper hour – that joyous time of the day on a Sunday came much, much later and consisted of a quiet spread of tea and toast since we were all still stuffed from the roast beef dinner my mom often prepared for lunch. Second, the LORD’S Supper? Why is it HIS? I mean, weren’t we eating his body and drinking his blood? Shouldn’t they call it the “Lord is for Breakfast?” The whole idea was pretty freaky. And, to add to the weirdness, Jesus was referred to as the Lamb, the ultimate sacrifice, whose blood was shed for the sinners of the world; many of the hymns we sang included this gory, violent imagery with the phrases, “washed in the blood of the Lamb,” “his blood will make us clean,” and “there is power in the blood.” I’ll say there’s power. Have you ever tried to get blood out of something? Tried to scrub at a blood stain? So, here we were singing about blood, “the precious blood of the Lamb,” and, apparently, drinking it. As I heard it from some of the other kids around the neighbourhood, services like these were commonly called “communion” services. Most churches had communion once a month and they had these cool little wafers and these cute little cups to drink from, but not our church. We had one loaf of unsliced white bread that Mr. Hartman gently tore open every Sunday, and one big silver goblet with Welch’s grape juice in it that everyone drank from. I mean how weird is that? I remember some of the older ladies in the chapel would use their hankies or Kleenex to wipe off the cup before drinking – very smart. I shudder to think of all the germs that were passed around every Sunday morning.
The 9 am service was unlike many other communion services happening around town in the many “normal” churches where the first services were held at a more reasonable hour, like 11 am. At the Gospel Chapel, the breaking of bread service was unstructured, or at least that was the original intent. Upon reflection in my adult years, I now see how very structured it was in its unstructuredness. For instance, the whole idea of the service was to worship in semi-silence and when “led by the spirit,” share a thought or a hymn or a prayer with the congregation. Those who could share in this service, by standing and praying or requesting a hymn or asking people to turn to a particular scripture verse for a reading, were always and only men. Until I was fourteen, I didn’t know that women were not allowed to speak in any of the services. I just thought they didn’t want to, or were too frazzled like Mom was early Sunday mornings. I found out they could sing the hymns (bless them), but they could not pray in public, speak in public, or share anything in public. In the following service at 11 am, strangely called the “Family Bible Hour” (sounding a little like an old radio show), the same held true, but at 11:30 the children would descend into the basement of the chapel for Sunday school classes, primarily led by women, but with one exception: women Sunday school teachers could not teach boys over the age of twelve. Once the boys reached this age, they had to be taught by a man. Girls could be taught by either men or women, but in all of my eighteen years in the Plymouth Brethren Assembly, I never saw a male Sunday school teacher teach anyone younger than twelve.
Many a Sunday morning, during the Lord’s Supper, my brothers and sisters and I (and sometimes my mom) would fend off sleep. You know, the terrible nodding-off-feeling as sleep overtakes: the eyes close, the head droops, the neck flings back with a jolt. We fought and fought the feeling through the hour-long (often longer) service. We looked forward to the breaking of the bread part because it clearly was a break, even if Mr. Hartman seemed to move in slow motion as he straightened up from his pew, shuffled to the front altar, and prayed an agonizingly long prayer over the sacred loaf. But we did enjoy the singing. Maybe enjoy is too strong of a word for the kind of singing we did, best described as funereal; but when a hymn was requested and we began the song, the break of silence was more than welcomed, it was needed. Around about the time I could talk, I learned how to sing in these services where accompaniment was prohibited for fear it would spoil the spontaneous nature of worship. Our family prided itself on our ability not only to carry a tune (because we could certainly do that) but also to harmonize. I remember singing from the tiny navy blue hymn books that had the musical notes along with the words. My brother taught me to raise my voice when the notes went up on the staff, and to lower my voice when they went down on the staff. I listened closely to my brother’s voice. I needed to please him. Inevitably, he would nudge me if I screwed up on a note, indicating his disapproval. Along with that disapproving nudge, was an assumption, maybe even a belief, that I was capable of better. In a way, Daniel (my elder by a mere sixteen months) pushed me to keep on trying out the harmonies while listening to the melody line, a skill I found useful later in life as a jazz vocalist.
One bright Sunday morning in June, I found myself gazing out the high windows of the chapel into the sky. At peace. Maybe it had to do with the ease with which I groomed myself that morning. I had donned my favourite blue dress with the round white collar and blue string tie, and I was particularly pleased with the way my hair had feathered that morning (I think I had finally figured out how to wiggle the switch in order to warm up the curling iron my sister passed down to me when she got a new one with her own money she earned babysitting Mrs. Freeman’s five kids). I watched how the wind gently swayed the branches of the birch just outside the main sanctuary and thought of God. I thought of how wonderful he must be, how holy, how mighty, and I longed to know him better, to be a better person. I wondered how he viewed me. There was no doubt in my mind that he could see me because I was taught that God watches our every move and he even knows our every thought. Did he think I was looking particularly beautiful today? I sure felt beautiful. I was filled with gratitude for life, for all I had experienced, for all I had yet to experience. At that moment, I picked up my shiny, black leather Bible and paged directly to the Psalms. Even though I couldn’t say I was a brain in school subjects, I’d had quite a thorough education in all things Biblical and knew what books contained what types of writings, who they were written by, and what order they were in. I turned to Psalm 117, one of the smallest Psalms, and read the two verses containing praises to the Lord for his mercy and goodness. Inspired, refreshed, and blessed, I wrote a brief note (notes were allowed if they were comments about the service) and poked my mom next to me, silently indicating she should give the note to my father. Dutifully, Mom passed the note to Dad. Within seconds, he looked over at me and shook his head. I mouthed back:
“Why not?”
He shook his head again and bowed it in silent prayer.
As I reflect upon the note, I remember how heart-felt it really was. I was at the magical age of fourteen; attitudes were shifting and adulthood was just around the corner (I finally got my first period in March – “must be a late-bloomer,” my sister Lydia said) and childhood seemed far behind. The note read:
“Dad, I found a Psalm I’d like to share with the people. Can I please stand up and read it aloud? It’s only 2 verses long, Psalm 117, so I’ll be really quick. I can probably finish before the breaking of the bread starts. I think the Spirit is moving in me. Remember, I’ll be baptized next week, Father’s Day, and so I’ll finally be ready to eat the bread and drink from the cup. Can I please share this Psalm?”
Sometime later in the day – much later, for we had to sit through yet another service, entertain company who came over for roast beef dinner (a single dad and his three bratty kids), clean-up while Dad had a rest, and suffer some quiet time in the living room – I got a chance to talk to Dad about the note.
“Dad, how come I couldn’t share a Psalm at church? I really wanted to speak today.”
“Now, you’re not serious, are you?”
“Dad, I’ve never been more serious in my life, aside from the time Lydia fell down and busted her head open on the fireplace hearth, and I thought she was going to die and Sarah was crying because she said she pushed her, but didn’t mean to hurt her. I thought I might never see Lydia again because you and Mom wouldn’t let me go to the hospital and . . .”
“Okay,” he interrupted, “I think I understand what you are saying. But according to scripture, you, a young woman, cannot stand up and share the Word of God in our assembly.”
“Where does it say that?” I challenged. “You taught me the Bible inside and out and I don’t remember reading anything about that.”
My father heaved a great sigh, sat down, and opened up his Bible. “Here it is. Paul tells us in 1 Corinthians that women must keep silence for it is a shame for them to speak in the church. As you know, I’ve been preaching on God’s Word for many years now, and the people of the assembly honour and respect Paul’s instruction.”
I was stunned. Here sat my own father, reading aloud Paul’s words in the New Testament, words which made me cringe. What kind of Bible-writer was he, anyway? I think Paul was just a little too sure of himself. Just because he was blinded on the way to Damascus, he had his named changed by God, and he saved a bunch of people in the Mediterranean, doesn’t mean he knew everything about what women can or can’t do. Who knows, maybe he had some bad relationships or something and wanted to get back at the women who hurt him. Or maybe he was mad at his mom for giving him the name that God ended up changing anyway. The God I thought I knew would never ask women to shut up. I was taught in Sunday school, and at home, that God loves us all. Everyone. He accepts everyone. Well, everyone who asks Jesus to live in their hearts because if they don’t, they’ll burn in hell for an eternity. But, as Dad taught me that June Sunday, God, just like my dad, had a bunch of conditions to his acceptance and love.
“Why are women and men treated differently? I mean, are you trying to tell me that just because God decided to put me in a girl’s body, I don’t get to speak up in church? I have something to say. I wanted to praise God and to share that with everyone. I wanted people to get excited about God’s greatness, mercy, and faithfulness. What if I have something to say that helps people? Are you still going to tell me that I can’t say things publicly because I have a body that’s getting ready to be a woman?”
My dad didn’t know what to say next. Did my question actually stump him? After some silence, he closed his Bible and said, “Dorcas, dear, the Lord said it, I believe it, and that settles it. The Word of God is true. God told Paul to write these letters to the Corinthians and we must follow the Word. If it helps any, remember that God looks not on our outward appearance, but on the heart. Your commitment to Christ, the work of your heart, will be acknowledged next Sunday, the day of your baptism. Now, why don’t you go and help your mother get the tea ready so we aren’t late for the 7 pm service. And take that red nail polish off your fingernails. How many times do I have to tell you? No girl of mine is going to go around looking like she’s . . . she’s . . . cheap. What are you waiting for? Off you go.”
So, Dad wasn’t going to touch my comments, what I later understood to be, about gender identity and gender expectations. He also wasn’t going to argue with me. He always did this. He won arguments by refusing to acknowledge them or engage in them. I wasn’t allowed to point out the contradictions in his thinking. His interpretations. Obviously, the best way for him to bring up his children was to simply dictate the rules and the “truth.” He prided himself on his literal interpretation of the Bible, his version of the Truth. Follow his rules. No discussion. No alternative interpretation. End of story.
Actually, this isn’t the end of the story. I couldn’t get out from under my father’s oppressive wing until I was nineteen, but I learned a great deal that Sunday of the Psalm. I learned to wait. I learned to be silent, for the time being. I learned to just hang on until the time was right to assert myself. Despite the doctrine, and the Dad, that told me otherwise, I eventually learned that I did have a voice, and it was often quite loud. In fact, my father got to hear it many times, much to his displeasure. But that’s another story.
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draco